Steps
I set off to take my dog out and find that I am walking down a vacant street. I know this street - it's always set me ill at ease. My dog is a few paces ahead of me when I noticed the chill in the air. It's not that the air is cold, as much as it is taut with a tension whose source is undeterminable. My vision is very limited in all directions, as a thick fog has rolled in and settled on this now abandoned feeling road. The mist is toying with my perception of sound and I feel disoriented. Suddenly, my skins puckers and my senses become acute. My eyes are wide and searching, my ears pricked up and scanning to determine what has me ready to fight or flee. And that's when I notice the footsteps, slow and shuffling, but determined.
Messages in a bottle
I live on a desserted island in the middle of an endless ocean. Like most who've ever been marooned, I did little in the way of preparation before I landed here, in total isolation. It's hard to say how long I've been here. Initially, I kept track of the days, but now I find the pursuit futile. As it should happen, isolation is only healthy for most people in small doses.
When time transforms from a scarce resource into a tormentor, one must be crafty. Once you've figured out how to manage the elements, keeping your mind from devouring itself becomes the most important survival skill. I started by exploring the island. What I was looking for, I am not sure, but once I found the expansive, greasy planes of graphite, inspiration struck. The next trick was to learn to make paper, which proved to be challenging, but doable, thanks to some rather fibrous flora I gathered in the jungle. I'd concern myself with finding a bottle later, but for now my goal was to write.
When time transforms from a scarce resource into a tormentor, one must be crafty. Once you've figured out how to manage the elements, keeping your mind from devouring itself becomes the most important survival skill. I started by exploring the island. What I was looking for, I am not sure, but once I found the expansive, greasy planes of graphite, inspiration struck. The next trick was to learn to make paper, which proved to be challenging, but doable, thanks to some rather fibrous flora I gathered in the jungle. I'd concern myself with finding a bottle later, but for now my goal was to write.
Behind the Shed
My grandmother always used to tell me, "Never go behind that shed." When I was too young to question what she told me, I obeyed her. Her caveat gave the building a mysterious, titillating presence. Before breaking the rules was thrilling, the closest I'd come to going behind that shed was stepping inside of it. I remember the first time I went in there like it was yesterday. The inside of the shed was as disheveled as the outside rotten and crumbling. There were tools scattered about that were once made of metal, but were now so oxidized that it looked like they'd disintegrate with a rusty cough if you touched them. The floor was a smooth, compressed dirt that felt almost cold underneath my bare feet. I was initially blinded by the darkness and relieved by the cool air in this tomb-like building. Once my eyes adjusted to the lack of summer sunlight and I took in the state of the place, I grew chilly. The air that was cool and refreshing mere minutes before was now stagnant. It felt wrong being in there, even though I wasn't exactly behind the shed. But the more I went in there, the less daring it seemed. As I grew older, the shed no longer towered ominously above me as it had before and I was more eager to question my grandmother's authority, though I'd not yet disobeyed my grandmother's wishes.
"Nan, how come you always tell me never to go behind that shed? I been inside it before, you know," I reported bravely.
"Oh?" said Nan, half-intrigued, half-unconcerned.
"Uh huh, and it ain't no big deal. It ain't even like it's scary ... well, not anymore." Nan chuckled. "Really, though! Why don't you want me back there?"
"First of all, it isn't a big deal and it isn't scary and I suppose you've got a point, Lita. Regardless, I have very good reasons for forbidding you from going back there," Nan explained, expertly dodging the question.
My annoyance grew exponentially - I hated it when my Nan talked and didn't actually say anything. "Naa-aaan! Come on! Just tell me already," I persisted, determined to get an answer.
"You wouldn't understand, hon. Now go read or play or do something. Nan's gotta hang the laundry and get dinner started." She turned her back and darted out of the room, muttering to herself about the mountain of chores she had left for the day.
I angrily crossed my arms in front of my chest and seethed with the injustice of it all. Why should she withhold information from me just because I'm a little kid. She'd say things like, "Knowledge is power, dear," in one instant and, in the next, she'd blatantly ignoring my questions. Brushing me off like a pest, telling me to go play - it was really the dismissal that I couldn't stand. Fine! She told me to go play, so I might as well go play behind the shed.
I stepped out of my Nan's house and headed for the shed with a purpose I'd never felt before. As I deliberately walked past the entrance of that slipshod shack, I thought about how strong a hold it had over me. This rotten thing, this crumbling boundary. I hesitated as I approached the corner of that tiny building. It marked the border of back-of-the-shed and not-back-of-the-shed territory. I pressed forward, anxious to take that last step, when I heard "Liiiiiiiiita Marie! You get your tiny, willful little behind over here right this instant!" I turned, with my heart in my throat, to see my Nan barreling toward me in a red-faced rage.
"What did I just tell you?! You are not to go back there," she huffed as she swatted my behind. "You march yourself right back into that house and go to your room, young lady! I swear, the NERVE of that child ..." She trailed off in an incomprehensible string of gripes.
I headed back for the house with my heart pounding inside my ears. "The time is not right" I said to myself. "But it will be soon."
"Nan, how come you always tell me never to go behind that shed? I been inside it before, you know," I reported bravely.
"Oh?" said Nan, half-intrigued, half-unconcerned.
"Uh huh, and it ain't no big deal. It ain't even like it's scary ... well, not anymore." Nan chuckled. "Really, though! Why don't you want me back there?"
"First of all, it isn't a big deal and it isn't scary and I suppose you've got a point, Lita. Regardless, I have very good reasons for forbidding you from going back there," Nan explained, expertly dodging the question.
My annoyance grew exponentially - I hated it when my Nan talked and didn't actually say anything. "Naa-aaan! Come on! Just tell me already," I persisted, determined to get an answer.
"You wouldn't understand, hon. Now go read or play or do something. Nan's gotta hang the laundry and get dinner started." She turned her back and darted out of the room, muttering to herself about the mountain of chores she had left for the day.
I angrily crossed my arms in front of my chest and seethed with the injustice of it all. Why should she withhold information from me just because I'm a little kid. She'd say things like, "Knowledge is power, dear," in one instant and, in the next, she'd blatantly ignoring my questions. Brushing me off like a pest, telling me to go play - it was really the dismissal that I couldn't stand. Fine! She told me to go play, so I might as well go play behind the shed.
I stepped out of my Nan's house and headed for the shed with a purpose I'd never felt before. As I deliberately walked past the entrance of that slipshod shack, I thought about how strong a hold it had over me. This rotten thing, this crumbling boundary. I hesitated as I approached the corner of that tiny building. It marked the border of back-of-the-shed and not-back-of-the-shed territory. I pressed forward, anxious to take that last step, when I heard "Liiiiiiiiita Marie! You get your tiny, willful little behind over here right this instant!" I turned, with my heart in my throat, to see my Nan barreling toward me in a red-faced rage.
"What did I just tell you?! You are not to go back there," she huffed as she swatted my behind. "You march yourself right back into that house and go to your room, young lady! I swear, the NERVE of that child ..." She trailed off in an incomprehensible string of gripes.
I headed back for the house with my heart pounding inside my ears. "The time is not right" I said to myself. "But it will be soon."
You Can't Put the Spoon Through It
A new frozen yogurt shop had just opened up but she hadn't noticed it until she was leaving her favorite sushi restaurant next door. After teaching tenth graders all week, she'd look forward to Friday night: the only day of the week when she'd get to wear something besides slacks, drink a little too much, and most importantly, eat food prepared by other people. Her friends suggested to her that she make a bit more effort to "put herself out there" on the weekends, but she was quick to tire on a Friday, and the only thing worse than making no plans that involved drinks with an attractive man was when she'd actually make an effort--including liquid eyeliner--to go out, only to discover that she could not, for whatever reason, get laid, and had not had any contact with a male body since her college boyfriend had decided that he needed to be alone in order to figure out who he was.
Maybe wearing nothing but slacks and orthopedic Sweedish clogs all week had psychological ramifications. Sure, the slacks made her ass appear wider than it really was and the clogs had this elfish, slightly-upturned toebox, but it was important to be physically comfortable when you were on your feet all day. And she'd read an article on the internet about teachers developing back problems as early as age thiry-five, and she wasn't about to develop a full quasimodo stoop--it was bad enough that her upper back was already beginning to reveal that she spend most nights hunched over essays.
She'd had a particularly exhausting week, so she drove to the sushi bar for an early dinner. Behind the sushi bar was a college-aged white guy with black Buddy Holly glasses. She was the only person at the bar.
"Can I get the Quail egg sashimi?" she asked.
"You want it just plain? Or I can do it with the rice? Or wait, I know!" He grinned devilishly. "I can do a Quail egg shot for you. It's Midori and sake with a poached egg."
This goopy combination sounded disgusting to her, but he was speaking in a hushed, eager voice.
"How can I turn that down?"
The shot looked like a sunset, but as she popped the yoke in her teeth, she was reminded of raw cake batter ingredients.
"How'd you like it?" he asked.
"It was okay."
After that, he ignored her. She worked her way through two rolls and large beer, paid the beautiful waitress with the straight teeth, and this was when she saw, upon exiting, the new yogurt place.
The was no one behind the counter, which was lined with bins of toppings such as gummy bears and crumbled candy bars. The soft serve machines whirred: an unsupervised free-for-all of treasures. There was one quiet family, mom, dad, baby, in a booth, and a group of teenaged girls with long hair and Catholic school uniforms. It was self serve and there were sample cups. She tried the no-sugar-added vanilla, the peanut butter, chocolate, country vanilla, cookies and cream, red velvet. Her mouth on that plastic spoon, filling with cold, creamy sugar, then empty and sticky until the next bite. Finally, she grabbed an extra-large cup and layered in every flavor. She worked her way across the parlor and pulled each heavy lever with the deliberation of a trucker shifting gears. For toppings, she chose crumbled Oreos and Reese's pieces, and plunked her cup onto the scale. It was then that a young man in a white chef coat emerged from the stockroom. He had a bald head.
"Is that all for you?" he asked in a kind voice.
"Yep," she said. His voice had been careful, as if he were trying not to upset her. "That's all for me. Do you guys have lids?" She was looking forward to eating on the couch.
"Right here," he said. "But you can't put the spoon through it." He picked up a dome-shaped clear lid that had a round, flat top. It did, in fact, look like you were supposed to put a spoon through it.
"That's odd," she said. She felt herself smile as he handed her the lid. She flipped it over in her hands. Then she took a spoon and pantomimed an attempt to jam it through the lid. She gave a theatrical cry of anguish and soon she had him laughing--a real laugh, she could tell by its deep pitch, and quite a nice set of strong white teeth. She couldn't help laughing, herself. The group of girls threw away their cups and spoons and the family was leaving, too.
He read the scale with an attentiveness more appropriate for a scientific laboratory than a Bosco's yogurt.
"That'll be three fifty."
She placed four one dollar bills on the counter and felt an energy drain from her body. Then she was crying, only a little bit. He pretended not to notice and finished ringing her up. She dumped the change into the tip can without bothering to wipe her face.
"Would you like to sit with me?" she said. She looked at her feet.
"Okay."
The sun had gone down. She chose the booth farthest from the door and slid in. She patted the spot next to her and he sat.
"Want a bite?" she asked, prying the lid off.
"Okay," he said. He surveyed the contents of the cup. "What flavor is this?"
"All of them," she said. There was that deep laugh again. And then they were both laughing between bites, taking turns with the spoon. She found out that he used to be a graduate student in Chemistry but had since dropped out, and he found out that she taught high school, but mostly their mouths were full of yogurt and there was a lot of sighing, mm's, and staring ahead. Then he was feeding her--he'd let her swallow and wait for her to nod before he prepared another bite. On the third bite, she put her fingers around his wrist and soon they were kissing, mouths and hands sticky with sugar, and then was moving over her, her thighs sticking to the booth pad as she slid onto her back. He had to leave her for a minute to lock the door, and she lay there starting up at the shabby ceiling but only for a moment before he climbed back into the booth and she wrapped her legs around him, which took a moment of awkward repositioning. Then there was just the industrial whir of the yogurt machines, and breathing, grabbing, pressing, skin on skin on sticky booth.
She made him stop early and they sat up. He was breathing heavily and slumping against the back of the booth. She could feel a sticky ring of sugar around her mouth, which suddenly felt empty and acutely parched. She reached for the yogurt cup, which was still half full, and brought a spoonful to her lips. It had become a soupy and brown syrup, but she ate it anyway and even tipped the cup to get the last sip. She thought about thanking him, but then decided that would sound desperate. Instead, she said nothing as he did up his pants and got up to unlock the door and busy himself behind the counter.
She chose some Country Vanilla for the road and grabbed a fresh lid without bothered to weigh it.
"You have a good night," she told him, her elbow against the door.
"You too," he said. He had a look of amusement and disbelief.
In the car, she remembered with a little twinge of excitement that a recorded episode of her favorite show was waiting for her at home. With any luck, she could have her second helping on the couch while watching it and then fall asleep as quickly and as hard as it is possible for a person to do so.
Maybe wearing nothing but slacks and orthopedic Sweedish clogs all week had psychological ramifications. Sure, the slacks made her ass appear wider than it really was and the clogs had this elfish, slightly-upturned toebox, but it was important to be physically comfortable when you were on your feet all day. And she'd read an article on the internet about teachers developing back problems as early as age thiry-five, and she wasn't about to develop a full quasimodo stoop--it was bad enough that her upper back was already beginning to reveal that she spend most nights hunched over essays.
She'd had a particularly exhausting week, so she drove to the sushi bar for an early dinner. Behind the sushi bar was a college-aged white guy with black Buddy Holly glasses. She was the only person at the bar.
"Can I get the Quail egg sashimi?" she asked.
"You want it just plain? Or I can do it with the rice? Or wait, I know!" He grinned devilishly. "I can do a Quail egg shot for you. It's Midori and sake with a poached egg."
This goopy combination sounded disgusting to her, but he was speaking in a hushed, eager voice.
"How can I turn that down?"
The shot looked like a sunset, but as she popped the yoke in her teeth, she was reminded of raw cake batter ingredients.
"How'd you like it?" he asked.
"It was okay."
After that, he ignored her. She worked her way through two rolls and large beer, paid the beautiful waitress with the straight teeth, and this was when she saw, upon exiting, the new yogurt place.
The was no one behind the counter, which was lined with bins of toppings such as gummy bears and crumbled candy bars. The soft serve machines whirred: an unsupervised free-for-all of treasures. There was one quiet family, mom, dad, baby, in a booth, and a group of teenaged girls with long hair and Catholic school uniforms. It was self serve and there were sample cups. She tried the no-sugar-added vanilla, the peanut butter, chocolate, country vanilla, cookies and cream, red velvet. Her mouth on that plastic spoon, filling with cold, creamy sugar, then empty and sticky until the next bite. Finally, she grabbed an extra-large cup and layered in every flavor. She worked her way across the parlor and pulled each heavy lever with the deliberation of a trucker shifting gears. For toppings, she chose crumbled Oreos and Reese's pieces, and plunked her cup onto the scale. It was then that a young man in a white chef coat emerged from the stockroom. He had a bald head.
"Is that all for you?" he asked in a kind voice.
"Yep," she said. His voice had been careful, as if he were trying not to upset her. "That's all for me. Do you guys have lids?" She was looking forward to eating on the couch.
"Right here," he said. "But you can't put the spoon through it." He picked up a dome-shaped clear lid that had a round, flat top. It did, in fact, look like you were supposed to put a spoon through it.
"That's odd," she said. She felt herself smile as he handed her the lid. She flipped it over in her hands. Then she took a spoon and pantomimed an attempt to jam it through the lid. She gave a theatrical cry of anguish and soon she had him laughing--a real laugh, she could tell by its deep pitch, and quite a nice set of strong white teeth. She couldn't help laughing, herself. The group of girls threw away their cups and spoons and the family was leaving, too.
He read the scale with an attentiveness more appropriate for a scientific laboratory than a Bosco's yogurt.
"That'll be three fifty."
She placed four one dollar bills on the counter and felt an energy drain from her body. Then she was crying, only a little bit. He pretended not to notice and finished ringing her up. She dumped the change into the tip can without bothering to wipe her face.
"Would you like to sit with me?" she said. She looked at her feet.
"Okay."
The sun had gone down. She chose the booth farthest from the door and slid in. She patted the spot next to her and he sat.
"Want a bite?" she asked, prying the lid off.
"Okay," he said. He surveyed the contents of the cup. "What flavor is this?"
"All of them," she said. There was that deep laugh again. And then they were both laughing between bites, taking turns with the spoon. She found out that he used to be a graduate student in Chemistry but had since dropped out, and he found out that she taught high school, but mostly their mouths were full of yogurt and there was a lot of sighing, mm's, and staring ahead. Then he was feeding her--he'd let her swallow and wait for her to nod before he prepared another bite. On the third bite, she put her fingers around his wrist and soon they were kissing, mouths and hands sticky with sugar, and then was moving over her, her thighs sticking to the booth pad as she slid onto her back. He had to leave her for a minute to lock the door, and she lay there starting up at the shabby ceiling but only for a moment before he climbed back into the booth and she wrapped her legs around him, which took a moment of awkward repositioning. Then there was just the industrial whir of the yogurt machines, and breathing, grabbing, pressing, skin on skin on sticky booth.
She made him stop early and they sat up. He was breathing heavily and slumping against the back of the booth. She could feel a sticky ring of sugar around her mouth, which suddenly felt empty and acutely parched. She reached for the yogurt cup, which was still half full, and brought a spoonful to her lips. It had become a soupy and brown syrup, but she ate it anyway and even tipped the cup to get the last sip. She thought about thanking him, but then decided that would sound desperate. Instead, she said nothing as he did up his pants and got up to unlock the door and busy himself behind the counter.
She chose some Country Vanilla for the road and grabbed a fresh lid without bothered to weigh it.
"You have a good night," she told him, her elbow against the door.
"You too," he said. He had a look of amusement and disbelief.
In the car, she remembered with a little twinge of excitement that a recorded episode of her favorite show was waiting for her at home. With any luck, she could have her second helping on the couch while watching it and then fall asleep as quickly and as hard as it is possible for a person to do so.
Wooo!
Band-aids. Do you rip them off quickly? Deal with the stinging pain in an instant or try to slowly ease the plaster away from your skin. Everyone has their methods. Maybe it's all a matter of preference.
For Robbie, the chance to make a quick and clean break had long since passed. Too many band-aids over one wound. Three months after the engagement announcement -- which, of course, she congratulated through grinning, gritted teeth -- the "Save the Date" card arrived. And with it, a heavy dose of reality.
"I am so fucked."
Back then, there was still some time until the actual wedding date. A lot of time. Twelve whole months full of nothing but time to reflect on the last decade. Fuck, had it been ten years? No matter. This was the inevitable. The thing in the back of her mind that she always knew would eventually come, yet for whatever reason (and heaps of self-delusion) she'd been avoiding.
"Idiot. What were you thinking?"
Twelve whole months later, Robbie stepped out of a taxi, as dusk began to fall. Her heels click-clack-click along the cobblestones as she hurried, late and already a little tipsy, into the reception hall.
"Robbie! I didn't think you'd make it! I didn't see you at the ceremony." Mrs. Bernhard, mother of the groom, greeted her at the entrance.
"Traffic was a killer, but I got here as soon as I could!"
It was a lie, but the best that Robbie could come up with at such a short notice. She made a beeline towards the bar. Too late for liquid courage, she opted for liquid happy. Or, at the very least, made a valiant attempt.
"This could have been my wedding." *gulp gulp* "No, wait...could this have been my wedding?" *gulp* "You never even wanted to get married." *gulp* "He never asked and you were never officially together." *guuuuuulp* The questions swirled around in her thoughts as she started her second glass of wine.
"So very fucked." She chugged the second glass and went back for a third.
Looking across the dance floor, she spied the bride and groom sitting at their table. Even while engaged in conversation with other guests, Robbie is distracted. No one notices. The buffet is opened. Robbie poured herself another glass of wine.
After everyone has eaten, the best man and maid of honor get up to make a toast. A waiter rolls out a projector from the back and - surprise - the toast is now an iMovie clipshow of relationship highlights documenting a thirty-some-odd years of life and ten years of true love blah blah bullshit.
Fifth glass. Robbie was there for it all, but more the crazy parallel universe version of events. The sanitized instant replay burned like salt in a wound.
The train of congratulatory speeches feels endless. The open bar is the only saving grace. After the last speech, a group of waiters and waitresses appeared, clutching clusters of red, heard-shaped helium balloons and began handing them out to guests. The best man announced to the attendees that they should write down a wish, or message, or quote on the little sheet of paper attached to the end of their balloon string. Once everyone is finished, the group is to go outside to release the balloons.
After several minutes of drunken scribbling, the crowd began to file out the doors. Clutching her balloon, Robbie discreetly choked back her tears as the countdown to release began.
The brief message that she wrote replaying in her head over and over like a mantra.
It read:
I used to love you. Now I don't.
The crowd chants in unison, "3-2-1...Woooo!"
And one hundred and eighty red, heart-shaped helium balloons drifted into the sky.
For Robbie, the chance to make a quick and clean break had long since passed. Too many band-aids over one wound. Three months after the engagement announcement -- which, of course, she congratulated through grinning, gritted teeth -- the "Save the Date" card arrived. And with it, a heavy dose of reality.
"I am so fucked."
Back then, there was still some time until the actual wedding date. A lot of time. Twelve whole months full of nothing but time to reflect on the last decade. Fuck, had it been ten years? No matter. This was the inevitable. The thing in the back of her mind that she always knew would eventually come, yet for whatever reason (and heaps of self-delusion) she'd been avoiding.
"Idiot. What were you thinking?"
Twelve whole months later, Robbie stepped out of a taxi, as dusk began to fall. Her heels click-clack-click along the cobblestones as she hurried, late and already a little tipsy, into the reception hall.
"Robbie! I didn't think you'd make it! I didn't see you at the ceremony." Mrs. Bernhard, mother of the groom, greeted her at the entrance.
"Traffic was a killer, but I got here as soon as I could!"
It was a lie, but the best that Robbie could come up with at such a short notice. She made a beeline towards the bar. Too late for liquid courage, she opted for liquid happy. Or, at the very least, made a valiant attempt.
"This could have been my wedding." *gulp gulp* "No, wait...could this have been my wedding?" *gulp* "You never even wanted to get married." *gulp* "He never asked and you were never officially together." *guuuuuulp* The questions swirled around in her thoughts as she started her second glass of wine.
"So very fucked." She chugged the second glass and went back for a third.
Looking across the dance floor, she spied the bride and groom sitting at their table. Even while engaged in conversation with other guests, Robbie is distracted. No one notices. The buffet is opened. Robbie poured herself another glass of wine.
After everyone has eaten, the best man and maid of honor get up to make a toast. A waiter rolls out a projector from the back and - surprise - the toast is now an iMovie clipshow of relationship highlights documenting a thirty-some-odd years of life and ten years of true love blah blah bullshit.
Fifth glass. Robbie was there for it all, but more the crazy parallel universe version of events. The sanitized instant replay burned like salt in a wound.
The train of congratulatory speeches feels endless. The open bar is the only saving grace. After the last speech, a group of waiters and waitresses appeared, clutching clusters of red, heard-shaped helium balloons and began handing them out to guests. The best man announced to the attendees that they should write down a wish, or message, or quote on the little sheet of paper attached to the end of their balloon string. Once everyone is finished, the group is to go outside to release the balloons.
After several minutes of drunken scribbling, the crowd began to file out the doors. Clutching her balloon, Robbie discreetly choked back her tears as the countdown to release began.
The brief message that she wrote replaying in her head over and over like a mantra.
It read:
I used to love you. Now I don't.
The crowd chants in unison, "3-2-1...Woooo!"
And one hundred and eighty red, heart-shaped helium balloons drifted into the sky.
Why'd you have to say that?
Before dinner, my mother-in-law Ellen serves Little Caesar's pizza and cheesy bread to our nephews who are holding their knives and forks expectantly. My brother-in-law Aaron is one of those dads who has apparently decided that kids won't consume anything but chicken nuggets, pizza, goldfish, chocolate milk, and various kinds of juice. Ellen asks each of them what color tupperware cup they'd like.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
Hi're yuuuuu?
Bertie shuffled around the kitchen, stirring, rearranging, slamming cabinet doors shut while she muttered to herself about Lord knows what. In honor of Thanksgiving, three generations of her family had gathered in her cozy, slapshod house and were trying to ignore how awkward it was that they were related. They usually segregated themselves like children at a Middle School dance: boys on this side, girls on the other.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.