Can I Get An Amen? (16 page)

I gave her a look. She was always so on edge when Luke came to church with us, always staying right next to him, steering him through the crowd after the service and jumping in if she thought the conversation might head in the direction of the personal.
So, do you have a girlfriend?
It was her worst fear to hear those
words come naively from a member of the congregation. I imagined that the Donaldsons’ party would be much the same.

“But we’re not just going to leave Luke sitting at home alone, right? I mean, it sounds like this thing is pretty casual, so it’s not like one extra person would be a big deal.”

My mother stuck the colander in the sink and flipped the water on high. “If Luke would like to join us, then of course he can,” she conceded.

. . .

On Thanksgiving Day, I knew that we all felt Kat’s absence. It was like those first early years after everything happened, when she was out west and never came home, not even for holidays. My mother stayed in the kitchen, listening to worship music and trying to coax herself into the Thanksgiving spirit. She denied all offers of help. “Y’all just stay out of the kitchen. I can certainly fix a dinner for four people by myself.” So, Luke and I sat in the family room while my father watched football. He tried to engage us in the sport, explaining the plays and inserting his commentary, but our remedial comprehension and inane questions seemed only to silence him, so Luke and I ended up flipping through catalogues and dressing ourselves for the lives we didn’t have.

“Luke, if you lived in Maine, you could totally pull off these flannel-lined L.L.Bean jeans.”

“Let me see,” he said, reaching for the catalogue. He glanced quickly at it before handing it back. “No,” he said dismissively, “the cut is funny.”

“The cut is supposed to be funny. They’re supposed to be kind of uncool. It’s the whole so-uncool-it’s-cool thing.”

My father exhaled loudly and pointed to the television screen without shifting his gaze from the action. “See that quarterback?
Grew up in one of the most violent areas of Los Angeles. He was shot in the arm when he was five years old. Then he went on to be the star player at Virginia Tech.” Having begun his career working construction, my father was always impressed by a bootstrap success story. So Luke and I emitted the appropriate
ooh
s and
aah
s and then went back to our stack of shiny catalogues. And my father went back to wishing Gary was seated next to him, sipping beer from a chilled glass and enjoying the bowl of smoked almonds on the coffee table.

After we were called for dinner and had taken our places around the overwhelmingly large table, my father said grace. We all bowed our heads as he thanked the Lord for our blessings. “Thank you, Lord, on this day and every day, for all that you have given to this family. We are humbled by your continued blessings and continued mercy, and we give the glory to you forever, Lord. Amen.”

My mother mumbled her own prayer to herself in tandem, unintelligible except for the periodic
Jesus
. Then platters were passed and plates were filled. Luke made several attempts to jump-start the conversation, with what would normally be hilarious stories about his department’s motley crew of temps, but even my laughter sounded forced.

Luke and I, subconsciously adapting to our parents’ mood, began eating in subdued silence. My mother had an obligatory piece of turkey but sat quietly for most of the meal, staring at her plate. My father piled on the dark meat and doused it generously with gravy. “I don’t know why you kids prefer the breast. Any chef will tell you that the thigh has more flavor.”

I wondered if this was what holidays would be like from now on, without a table full of little children to fuss over, without their turkey to cut and vegetables to coax down. Without anyone
to teach about the wishbone. And since Kat and Luke had no plans to start families anytime soon, the void would be indefinite, quite possibly permanent. It was a loss that my parents never spoke of, especially in front of me, but I saw the look my father would get when casually announcing the pregnancy of a friend’s daughter or the arrival of a colleague’s grandson. I poured myself a big glass of wine from the bottle Luke had brought, hoping that it might lubricate the evening. When I poured a second one, my mother spoke up.

“My goodness, Ellen. It’s not even five o’clock.” We were eating earlier than usual this year; I think we all wanted to get it over with.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I said as I took a sip. I think we were all aware of the irony.

. . .

The Donaldsons’ house was probably technically an estate, with a beautiful large white home set almost half a mile off the road. The property included a series of stables and pastures, sectioned off into paddocks for their massive, regal-looking black horses. “They were traditionally used in wars,” said Ann Donaldson, roughly patting the haunches of a towering male. “There used to be only a handful of breeding stallions left in the world.” The animal stomped his hoof and snorted. I took a step back.

“Ellen, would you like to ride Ludolf?” asked Ann.

“Oh, no, thank you,” I stammered. “He really is beautiful, though.”

“Isn’t he?” gushed my mother. “Such a specimen.”

Meandering over to get a glass of eggnog, I wished that Luke were here. When my parents had invited him, Luke had declined, saying that he wanted to do some reading. “All right, honey,”
Mom said, putting her hand on his cheek. “You stay here and relax. We’ll bring you back something.”

Sidestepping a wobbly-looking woman in riding boots, I made my way into the heated atrium, where the bar had been set up. I hadn’t expected this to be a catered affair, but there were passed hors d’oeuvres as well as a table filled with various stews and sandwiches. The bartender, like the servers, wore a Black Watch plaid wool scarf draped around the neck of his standard tuxedo uniform.

As he handed me my glass of eggnog, I heard a familiar voice next to me. “Do you have any nonalcoholic eggnog?”

It was Parker, rubbing her tight little pregnant belly.

“Hi, Parker.”

“Oh, hiiiiiiii!” she exclaimed, pretending that she hadn’t seen me.

I forced a smile. “So you know the Donaldsons?”

“Oh, yes. Ann and my mother have been friends for years.” She cast her eyes about. “My parents are here somewhere. I know they would love to see you… Oh, there they are!” She pointed in the direction of the patio, where I immediately recognized Mr. and Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Collins was an impeccably dressed blonde who, like a paper doll, had the same dull, aloof expression on her face no matter how her surroundings changed. Mr. Collins was the type of consummate charmer who called waitresses by name, as in, “Sandy, I’ll tell you what I could really use: a Gray Goose martini with three olives. In a rocks glass, please.”

“Oh, great. I’ll have to go say hi.”

“So”—she stuck out her lower lip in a comical little pout and reached out to rub my upper arm—“how are you? How did everything go?”

Of course, I knew that she was asking about the divorce hearing. “Oh, you know, fine,” I said quickly. “So, how was your Thanksgiving?”

“It was
great
,” said Parker, a little too emphatically. “The kids are so cute with the whole Pilgrim thing. They just can’t believe that one of their relatives was on the
Mayflower
. Avery kept asking me, ‘How many greats ago was he? Was he my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather?’ ” As she went through the
greats
, she tilted her head from side to side for effect.

“Oh, how cute,” I said with mock interest.

“Yeah, you know, I really should try to organize a Thanksgiving celebration for the New Jersey chapter of the Mayflower Society—just something for the kids.” She looked like Sally Struthers in a Feed the Children ad. “It’s so important for them to know their history, but I am just so swamped at this time of year. I don’t know how I could fit in one more thing.” Her eyes lit up. “Speaking of, have you had a chance to get to any of the stuff for Philip’s party?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t been in the office all week.”

She made a
yikes
noise. “Gosh, we are really getting down to the wire. I hope the florist can get those green hydrangeas I want.”

Just then, my mother sidled up. “Oh, hey, Parker! How are you, sweetie?”

“Patty!” she said, leaning in for a kiss. “So nice to see you.”

“Where are those beautiful children of yours?”

Parker gave us a conspiratorial look. “Their daddy took them into New York today. God knows how he is going to manage them in the city on Black Friday, but he insisted. I think they were going to do a little Christmas shopping.”

“Oh, how nice!” said my mother, undoubtedly picturing, as I was, Philip leaning over the glass cases at Tiffany’s, three beautifully dressed children at his side. “Do you think Mommy would like it?” he’d ask Avery, holding up a diamond drop necklace.

My mother hooked her arm into mine. “Ellen, honey, can you come here for a minute? There is someone I’d like you to meet.” She turned to Parker. “Parker, if you’ll excuse us for just a second.” And I found myself being whisked in the direction of a tall, skinny blond man with an unflattering gum-to-tooth ratio.

“Christopher,” she said, presenting me proudly, “this is my daughter Ellen.” She smiled and inched me forward. “Ellen, this is Christopher Hapley.”

The man named Christopher extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ellen.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

“Ellen, you may recognize Christopher from church,” said my mother. “He plays the guitar with the worship team and has such a gift for music.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Patty,” joked Christopher, who apparently not only looked like a Sunday school teacher, but had the sense of humor of one, too.

“Well,” said my mother smiling, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

Get acquainted?
My eyes followed her as she walked away, my jaw slack with disbelief.

“So,” said Christopher, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “Patty tells me that you just moved back from Boston.”

“Yup. Several months ago now. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long, but here I am, back in Jersey.” I laughed awkwardly.
“Have you always lived here?” I wanted to appear polite but not overly interested. Friendly but not flirtatious.

“Oh, yeah, I even stayed here for college. I went to Rutgers.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, making my way down the list of friendly small-talk topics. “What did you study?”

“Chemistry. I work over at Merck. What about you?”

“I’m just working at a law firm right now.”

We stood in awkward silence for a moment as I tried to figure out a graceful way to exit the conversation. Christopher was a perfectly nice guy, but my mother’s introduction and clear intentions had made it unbearably awkward.

“Hey, I was wondering,” said Christopher, clearly nervous, “maybe we could get together sometime?”

“Sure,” I said, not overly enthusiastically and glancing toward an inconsequential point in the distance. “Most of my friends don’t live around here anymore, so…”

He beamed. “Great. I have Patty’s number, so I’ll give you a call.” Whether deliberately or inadvertently, he had not picked up on my friendship cues.

“Oh, right.” He must have had occasion to call my mother when organizing the church’s Christmas spectacular.

After saying an uncomfortable good-bye to Christopher, I headed straight for the bar, intent on another glass of eggnog, and was intercepted again by Parker, who had been talking to another woman who was about our age. Parker gave her a quick double kiss, then made a beeline in my direction.

“Ellen!”

“Hi, Parker.” I was heading for that bar like it was an oasis in the desert and didn’t intend to stop walking, but Parker rested her hand on my upper arm, and I halted like a trained show pony.

“So listen. I’m about to run, but I just wanted to let you know…” She leaned toward me and lowered her voice, as if to give the appearance of discretion. “Everyone at Lynn’s women’s group… well”—she bit her lower lip and furrowed her brow—“we’ve all been praying for your parents… and their situation.”

I
spent the rest of the party avoiding any and all conversation as Parker’s comment metastasized in my mind. Working out all its possible meanings, all the things Parker might know that I didn’t, I concentrated on the fact that my mother requested prayer for even the smallest matters.

As we assembled to make our exit and thank our hosts, my father gave Mr. Donaldson a hearty handshake. “Thanks again, Glenn. We’ll see you Sunday.”

Mr. Donaldson, a nebbishy man with bug eyes and a toothy grin, seemed to wince a bit at my father’s grip, which was always firm to the point of being painful. “You bet,” he said. He was the type of ostracized nerd who had gotten the last laugh when he finally cashed in on his intellect after joining the entrepreneurial world, where brains almost always beat out brawn.

My mother clasped hands with Ann and echoed our thanks. “You’ll have to give me the name of the caterers, Ann.”

We walked through a courtyard and out a large metal gate to
the parking area, where the guests’ cars were lined along the perimeter of a long gravel driveway.

“That was a nice party,” said my father. It just seemed like the thing to say, like remarking that a baby was cute or a sunny day beautiful.

My mother looked at him as if he had just emitted a particularly offensive odor. “I thought the food was
terrible
. I think she used Class Act Catering, and I can tell you that everything they served was from Costco, right down to the clam chowder.” My mother never missed an opportunity to point out any area where her taste surpassed that of the blue bloods.

I slid into the backseat of the car. My mother flipped down the sun visor and briefly checked her makeup in the mirror. Her lips were still lined to perfection and lacquered in shiny magenta lipstick. “How was your chat with Christopher?” She said his name like he was a well-known Casanova. “Isn’t he a dear man?”