Engaging Men (31 page)

When the plane touched the ground forty-five minutes later, I realized at least one of my prayers was answered. I took it as a good sign.

I took the sight of the tall, dark-haired woman waving frantically at us from the gate as another.

“Hey, Kayla,” Kirk said as we approached, wrapping her in a hug. “How are you, brat?” he said, stepping back to take her in.

She looked a lot like Kirk—same square face and beautiful brows, same dark hair. But she had about fifty pounds on him. She wasn’t exactly fat—she carried her weight well, probably due to her height (she was almost as tall as Kirk’s six feet), her broad shoulders and her womanly hips. Her eyes were the same silver-gray as Kirk’s, though there was a keenness to them, as if she looked fearlessly into the dirty underbelly of things and might even take a perverse pleasure in the view judging by the way her wide mouth curved into a smile.

“Well, well, well, the girlfriend,” she said, once Kirk had made the introductions. “Nice to meet cha.” Then, before I knew what was happening, I was wrapped in a bone-crunching hug. “I figured I’d pick you up myself and spare you the parents for the car ride,” she said. “Kirk knows how Dad gets when he’s in traffic.” Then, in a deeper voice, which I assumed was supposed to be the voice of Mr. Stevens, she said, “Intolerable!”

“Don’t start, Kayla,” Kirk warned.

“Don’t start? They’ve already started. I got there this morning and received the full rant about the problems with interracial relationships, of all things. Apparently they’d been listening to Dr. Laura again…“ She rolled her eyes, then, turning to me,

she said, “Don’t worry. They’ll be on their best behavior while you’re there. They can’t wait to meet you. I don’t think Kirk’s brought anyone home since…Susan.“

“Yeah,” Kirk said, his expression so grim I wished I could climb back on that plane again.

Because suddenly I was ready to risk a faulty fuel gauge rather than face Kirk’s formidable parents.

Whatever fears Kirk had instilled in me Kayla put to rest with her wry commentary as she negotiated her sturdy Volkswagen Jetta through traffic. The car was apparently another point of contention between Kayla and her parents, who always advocated buying American. I also learned that Kayla had ditched her latest boyfriend (you know, the one who had already met the family), and was having her portrait painted, this time completely nude, by a male friend of hers. “Wait till Mom and Dad find out I spent that much time with Lars naked,” she said with a chuckle that I was beginning to find contagious.

I was starting to think everything might go all right this weekend, until we got off the highway and entered the town limits of Newton. Suddenly we were surrounded by white-picket fences, triple-decker Victorians and some of the lushest landscapes I had ever seen. It was like I had been dropped into a Norman Rockwell painting, which made me vaguely nervous. After all, I never saw anyone quite like me in a Norman Rockwell painting.

And I realized, after we had parked the car and stepped inside one of those white-picketed Victorians, neither had Mr. and Mrs. Stevens.

“You must be Angela!” Mrs. Stevens said after she and Mr. Stevens had embraced Kirk and stood looking at me as if trying to decide whether to hug me, too, or shoo me out of the large foyer. They were younger looking than the late sixties I knew them to be, and taller than I’d imagined, towering over me in nylon sweat suits that looked like they’d been pulled out of the Lands’ End catalog, circa 1986.

“Who does she look like, Phil?” Mrs. Stevens said, turning to her husband. “That actress, you know who I’m talking about.”

“Now how in God’s name would I know who you were talking about?” Mr. Stevens said, looking at his wife incredulously.

“The one that played that abused wife who seduces that poor young boy in that movie…”

“Marisa Tomei?”Kirk asked, looking at me as if trying to decide whether I resembled an abused wife and seductress.

“I get that a lot,” I said, wondering if that was a good thing.

“Isn’t Marisa Tomei Hispanic?” Mr. Stevens said, studying me now with something that looked like suspicion. “I thought you said Angela was Italian!” he practically shouted, turning to his son as if he’d withheld some vital information.

“Marisa Tomei is Italian!” Mrs. Stevens insisted. “You saw My Cousin Vinny, Phil…”

“What, just because she plays an Italian doesn’t mean she’s Italian!” he argued back, somewhat heatedly, considering the subject matter.

Fortunately, I was rescued from the immediate tension that buzzed through air, seemingly since the moment I entered the house, by Kayla, who grabbed my suitcase and shopping bag and said, “C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My” room turned out to be a white-paneled rectangle punctuated by a twin bed complete with frothy pink bedspread that was strewn with at least thirty stuffed animals. According to Kayla, it had been Kate’s room growing up, though I couldn’t imagine that Kate had inhabited this room since the age of seven, judging by the dollhouse that stood in one corner and the white rocking chair occupied by the largest Holly Hobbie doll I had ever seen. Once Kayla had put down my bag and pointed out the bathroom along the hall and the towels that had been laid out on the trunk at the end of the bed, she turned to me and said, “Just a little footnote on the old parents. They were born and bred in Newton—even met at a school dance right in town. In other words, they haven’t seen much of the world.” She paused, as if trying to find words for her thoughts. “Let’s just say that living in their little world has bred in them a certain malignant indifference to anyone who isn’t a part of their own private planet. So try not to take any of their ignorance personally. They mean well,” she said, then frowned. “At least I like to think they mean well…”

I nodded, though her little speech had filled me with foreboding. I understood what she was saying all too well. Wasn’t my own mother guilty of a little small-mindedness? I guess I had just never been on the receiving end.

“C’mon,” she said. “I’m sure Kirk’s got them under control by now.”

Kirk did seem to have them under control by the time we got back downstairs, where we found him sitting across from them in the living room, a pitcher of iced tea and some glasses on the table before him.

“Here they are!” Mrs. Stevens said, jumping up and handing me a glass of iced tea. “Come in, sit. You must be tired from traveling.”

“Thanks,” I said, sitting down on the love seat next to Kirk, with what I hoped was a smile on my face. But the smile froze when I looked up above the sofa where Mr. and Mrs. Stevens sat and saw a framed, poster-size family portrait, with Mr. Stevens seated front and center, his wife and Kayla on one side, and what must have been Kirk’s sister Kate and her husband on the other, along with Kirk and...Susan. At least it looked like the same Susan I had stumbled across in an old photo album in Kirk’s apartment—same lush blond hair and wide blue eyes. Same proud smile. It was her, I realized. What the hell was she doing here?

If Kirk noticed it, he didn’t say a word, only sat quietly while his mother said, “So, Angela, Kirk tells us you’re an actress.”

“Um, yes, yes I am,” I said, getting a grip once again. I suddenly felt like I was on an audition for the role of future daughter-in-law. And the competition was pretty fierce, judging by how warm and cozy Susan looked standing in the loving embrace of the Stevens family.

“Actually, Angela is one of the hosts on Rise and Shine,” Kirk chimed in, as he if he, too, sensed the need to whip out my resume.

“I don’t think I’ve heard of it.” Mrs. Stevens said.

“It’s a children’s exercise program on Channel Fifty-four,” I explained.

“Children’s exercise! What a pissa!” Kayla said, slapping one healthy thigh as she chuckled uproarishly. I would have chuckled right along with her, if I didn’t see the way Mr. Stevens was frowning at his younger daughter.

“Anyway,” Kirk said, carefully steering the conversation back on track, “it looks like a major network might pick up the show.”

“Well, that sounds marvelous,” Mrs. Stevens said. “I happen to think children’s programming is very important. And an exercise program! I imagine that provides a solid discipline. These days children don’t learn a thing about discipline. I mean, look at these kids today. Taking drugs. Bringing guns to school.”

“Yes, I guess it does help the kids form good…habits,” I said, sounding surprisingly like Rena, the Nazi exercise guru of the six-year-old set. And before I knew it, I was waxing poetic about the benefits of exercise, the solid discipline it provided. All under the watchful eye of Susan, who gazed down at me with that indefatigable smile.

In truth, by the time I got through my manifesto on the proper molding of children, I was exhausted. And thoroughly disgusted with myself.

The Stevenses—-at least Mr. and Mrs.—were thoroughly pleased, however, as was Kirk, who was beaming at me proudly. The light in his eyes said I’d just passed some great hurdle. So why did I feel I’d fallen into the ditch on the other side?

Worse, I think I might have dragged someone with me.

“You might have benefited from such a program, Kayla,” Mr. Stevens replied, turning to her just as she was reaching for the bowl of nuts on the coffee table. “I told you we should have encouraged her to play more sports as a child, Carol. Now look at her!”

Though it was only there for the briefest of moments, I saw the hurt in Kayla’s eyes before she belligerently grabbed up a handful of nuts and began tossing them into her mouth one by one, while staring down her father.

“That’s probably where you got that nice shape from, Angela,” Mrs. Stevens said, ignoring her husband’s jab at her parenting skills as she turned to me. “Look at her arms, Phil!”

I glanced apologetically at Kayla, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. Her parents? My painfully toned arms?

Fortunately Kayla didn’t hold it against me. “So I understand you live in the East Village,” she said, once she’d swallowed another fistful of nuts.

“Yes, yes, I do.” Now here was a subject I could get behind. I was proud of my neighborhood, with its cultural diversity and bohemian personality.