Real Life & Liars (12 page)

She’s going to torture me with freshmen until I leave.

“Oh, listen to me! And I said I wouldn’t talk about this at your party. I’m sorry, Mira. Look, just read the memo, I think you’ll see the deal is fair. And is retirement so bad? I mean, you’ll have a new grandchild to spoil!” She throws me a smile and gives me a fingertip wave before gliding back into the throng. How did everyone hear about the grandbaby so fast? Gossip sure flies at a party, especially with booze to grease the wheels.

I’ve already read the memo, actually, to make sure the retirement deal includes some kind of health coverage, which it thankfully does. But if I take it, what will I do with my time, while I wait around for my body to rot from the inside out?

I check my purse for that joint, as a surging anxiety builds in my chest. Nothing doing, because here comes Max, smiling with arms outstretched.

CLAMBERING INSIDE THE ESCALADE IS LIKE CLIMBING INTO A
preheated oven. Katya cranks the ignition and turns on the air-conditioning full blast, though at first only hot air belches out of the vents.

Irina winces away from the hot air as she snaps on her seat belt. Katya sees her so differently, now. She sneaks glances at her baby sister’s waist to look for signs of a pregnant pooch. Irina’s listlessness and lack of appetite make more sense.

Though her shotgun wedding still seems ridiculous because who, in 2007, would be holding the shotgun?

“Are you OK?” she asks, solely out of sisterly concern.

“Shut up.”

Kat clenches her jaw to keep from spewing out any number of profanity-laden retorts. Irina has always been this way with her, angry before Kat even has a chance to articulate her own emotions. Convicted before she even commits the crime, half the time
she goes ahead and says whatever it is Irina is angry at her about, because well, why not?

Just get through the party, she tells herself. Get through the weekend, send her some baby clothes, and stay out of it.

Katya taps her steering wheel, peering up and down Bridge Street, trying to find a gap in traffic, when a deafening clang starts up. Katya consults her watch. It’s exactly on the half hour, which means the bridge is going up. Traffic has already begun to stack up behind the crossing arms as they come down, pedestrians hustling off the sidewalk, tourists lining the channel to watch the sailboats make their stately way from the big lake into the harbor.

She doesn’t have to cross the bridge to get back to the house, so in theory, the bridge shouldn’t affect her. Trouble is, a pack of jackasses has neglected to leave a space for her to get out of the parking lot.

“Look at these idiots. They’re blocking the driveway, so now I have to sit and wait for the goddamn bridge.”

“Oh, and your time is so precious you can’t sit for ten minutes?”

“It’ll be more than that; have you seen that line of boats waiting to come through? And then traffic has to clear, and…Oh, forget it.”

Irina stares at her through some strands of black hair that have fallen across her face, dark creases under her eyes.

Now she’s also guilty of being frustrated by idiot drivers. And the only reason she’s in the car at all is Irina’s version of an adolescent tantrum.

Katya stares away from Irina and swallows back a groan at the line of traffic, which stretches all the way past the turnoff to their mother’s house. She could walk it faster, even if she had to carry Irina the whole way.

Katya uses a fingernail to scrape at a piece of crud on her steering wheel. Why does Irina try so hard to be the black sheep? It’s as if she believes every family needs one; she’s only com
pleting the tableau. Nonsense. They were doing just fine on that score, anyway. Van had his own moodiness and determination to fail. And in a way, Katya had so fully rebelled against Mira’s hippie-granola sensibility that in a way that counted, too. White sheep in her family, then.

Katya smirks to herself.

“What?” Irina shoots that word from the passenger side.

“Nothing.” Kat swallows a sigh, too. She daydreams about a cigarette, something she hadn’t thought of in years. It was a bad college habit, picked up in her sorority days because she thought it made her look sophisticated, plus a not thinly veiled attempt to piss off her mother. Mira had never smoked cigarettes, even though back then they weren’t the evil, un-PC cancer sticks of today.

Katya is quite sure her mother smoked other things, and who knows what else. And also probably burned various undergarments. She’s never asked, because unlike Van, who seemed fascinated by his parents’ hippie past, she was only interested in planning out her own future.

Katya remembers practicing married names before she was even dating. She always picked standard WASP-y names, and would try out various signatures. Always using “Mrs.” though, never “Ms.”

Mrs. John Anderson, Mrs. Kat Anderson, Mrs. Joseph Reynolds, Mrs. Kat Johnson.

She may have even written “Mrs. Charles Peterson” at some point. It would have been in character, anyway.

“You’re in such a hurry, then go!” barks Irina from her side. The bridge is down and traffic has started to move, and two cars have stopped before her SUV to let her out.

“Stop yelling at me for God’s sake. If this is the way you treat Darius…” Katya clamps her lips shut. Too late.

“I knew you couldn’t keep your mouth shut about this. I’m getting out to walk.”

Katya punches the childproof door locks and takes a bitter satisfaction in Irina’s failure to open the Escalade’s door. Not that Irina would likely fling herself out, even at the glacial pace they travel in the heavy traffic.

Reenie slams her fist sideways into the door and slumps lower in her seat. “Mom said you promised not to hassle me.”

“Technically I only promised not to mention you being knocked up. I didn’t say anything about the Insta-Groom.”

“Aren’t you clever.”

Katya drops their argument long enough to negotiate the tricky turn off the main road; tourists and locals out for a stroll are streaming across the side street. Finally, a couple of them pause long enough to let her through.

Irina is a sullen lump in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“For what?”

Katya pauses to think. For what exactly? For her own attitude? Or for the unplanned pregnancy? What exactly is the proper rejoinder to that announcement, anyway? “Congratulations” hardly seems appropriate. It would be a bit insensitive to offer condolences.

“I’m sorry I jumped on your case.”

Irina turns to her, slit-eyed, as Katya pulls the SUV in alongside their mother’s house. With no one home and all the windows dark, the house looks forlorn. Katya is jolted by a vision of the future when both her parents are dead, and the lights are out for good. The hair stands up on her arms.

“Yes, I’m really sorry. I’m sure you don’t need that,” on top of everything else, Katya nearly adds. But then Irina would just crawl up her ass about what “everything else” meant.

“Are you going to let me out now?”

Katya releases the childproof setting and pops open the lock.

She hops out of the car and nearly tumbles onto her ass, courtesy
of her spiky heels and the gravel. She tiptoes around the Escalade in order to shadow Irina, who doesn’t look altogether steady on her own feet. The muggy heat is murder on a pregnant woman, Katya remembers all too well. She’s been just-pregnant, enormous, and middling pregnant in the summer, and it’s never easy.

When is it easy, though? And Irina barely out of her teens, married to a virtual stranger, and much as the lefty liberals would like to pretend it doesn’t matter anymore, Katya knows that Reenie is going to catch hell somewhere, sometime, for marrying a black man. And the kid, too…

Reenie doesn’t hold the door for Katya, and the screen slaps into her outstretched hand.

Katya’s doctor is always telling her to stop grinding her teeth.
My doctor,
she thinks,
doesn’t have to live with this family.
Katya consoles herself by thinking that soon she’ll be back at the party with the wine.

“Why are you following me?” Irina shouts into the air around her, not turning around.

“I want to make sure you’re OK in here before I leave. I’m getting you some ice water. You should stay hydrated.”

Katya can see Irina nearly vibrating with indignance, but at the moment she cares more about the niece or nephew in there than Irina’s stupid youthful pride. She needs water, after all.

Irina’s shoulder blades visibly spike through the back of her dress as she drags herself up the stairs. Katya figures she lives on Chinese food, booze, and sex.

After Irina flops onto the bed, Katya positions two box fans, one on either side of her for maximum coolness, leaves the water glass sweating all over the side table (why doesn’t Mira have coasters anywhere?), and ducks out the door without hearing a word of thanks.

Mothers are used to doing without thanks, something Irina will realize soon enough.

Katya is almost out the door and back to the party when she sees Charles’s laptop open on the kitchen table. She pauses before the computer. Tiny specks of light zoom across the screen. She brushes the touchpad, and the computer wakes up with a cheery
ding
.

Charles has his spreadsheet open for Peterson Enterprises. It’s similar to the one he created for Kat’s Kradle Design, but his business has many more columns and rows. She is about to turn away, not sure why she stopped at the computer in the first place, when something about the screen jerks her attention back.

All that red. An awful lot of red, as in negative numbers. Deficit. Broke.

Katya steps back from the computer like it’s alive and might go for her throat. She remembers Charles’s offhand comment that morning about paying the mortgage. Or was it truly offhand?

The computer reverts to a screen of shooting stars, as Kat stands, locked in place, unable to grasp what her husband has been keeping from her.

NOT ONCE IN ALL OF IVAN’S THREE DECADES OF LIFE HAS HE EVER
imagined himself with two women at once.

Well, not fully clothed, anyway.

“Oh, this view is beautiful!” Barbara not only has his hand, but she’s walking so close to him he must squint at his own feet to avoid tripping her up. Barbara has been gushing about the view since she arrived and insisted they walk out to the pier despite the sky and lake looking ever more restive and dark.

Jenny ambles along on his other side, her hands clasped loosely behind her, gypsy dress whipping around her knees in the wind.

They have the pier almost to themselves. The tourists have headed off to their condos, or their hotel rooms, or the various restaurants and bars along Bridge Street. Locals know better than to be out on the pier during a storm. And for any other idiots who
might remain, the Coast Guard has posted signs the size of billboards, which blare in huge black letters over eye-piercing yellow that it’s dangerous to be out on the pier in rough weather.

Whatever the weather, he should be enjoying himself, with all this attention. His best friend on one arm, a gorgeous girl in a clingy dress on his other…

But even Van is not so dense that he could miss the way Barbara’s behavior has changed. She’s more gushy, more animated, and physically she’s hanging on him like a burr stuck to his sock. He can’t puzzle out the reason for the change. Having an audience in his family? Possessive in Jenny’s presence? She was perfectly friendly when Van had introduced them, at the bar after Jenny ordered a Guinness. Van remembers that Jenny had a line of foam on her upper lip, and he wanted to wipe it away for her. Meanwhile, Barbara was all shimmering and giggles as she extended a hand and exclaimed over the pendant on Jenny’s neck.

Jenny fingered her pendant as if she hadn’t remembered it was there.

Now they are on the pier. Barbara made the suggestion to take a walk, and though Van wasn’t entirely sure the “we” in her sentence included Jenny, he wasn’t about to leave her bobbing in a sea of his relatives, unattended.

And why did Barbara come at all? What made her change her mind about him? He’d never expected his desperate, clingy message to actually work.

Van changes the subject away from the view.

“Barbara, how’s your writing coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t had much time lately, I’ve been working a lot of hours. Though, there is this one story I’ve been working on.” She slides her eyes over to him and smiles. “I thought maybe your dad would read it. Maybe give me some advice.”

“Well, he’s going to be pretty busy this weekend, this being his
anniversary and all…” Van tugs his ear and keeps his eyes down on the concrete pier, which is pockmarked by gull shit.

“You’re a writer?” asks Jenny from Van’s other side. She doesn’t look at Barbara. Her face is still pointed toward the horizon, where the sun should be but now is only sheets of cloud.

“I write a little, here and there. For my day job I’m in marketing, I work for Lakeland Crossings.”

The local shopping mall. Van has seen some of her handiwork during the Christmas season. Giveaways, promotional events like fashion shows. She has a hand in the Santa Claus display every year.

“That’s cool,” Jenny says. She takes the scarf off her hair and shakes it loose. Its normal mousy brown is shot through with bright orange. Her hair is short and cut into chunks of varying lengths, so she looks a bit like a bird with ruffled feathers. Jenny faces into the wind to let it blow her hair back, then she fastens the scarf back in place.

Jenny seems different, too. Normally she’d be brimming with sarcastic remarks and asides in French, or she’d randomly quote Monty Python sketches which might or might not be appropriate to the context. She has barely said six words since they went out to the pier.

Van wants to ask her what’s wrong, but he doesn’t see much chance of shaking off Barbara for any length of time.

Barbara releases his hand and wraps her arm around his waist. He drapes an arm around her shoulders and a burst of her scent—something spicy that made him think of the Far East—reminds him that he really doesn’t want to shake off Barbara. She is his date. Jenny invited herself, come to think of it. He can’t be held responsible if she’s not having a good time.

“How about you? Any luck yet?” Barbara says this, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, making it even more difficult to walk
without tumbling onto the cement of the pier. They near the lighthouse. In better weather, people often fish off the end, and walkers make a loop around the lighthouse and head back to shore.

“You know how rough it is,” Van answers loudly, over the wind and waves crashing on the breakwater. Though he can’t remember Barbara’s actually submitting any of her short stories and poems for publication. Her writing is competent, and can be really good, but she seems more interested in starting new drafts than in revising what she’s got. Van admits he can understand the impulse of something new all the time. He has stacks of unfinished songs scrawled on manuscript paper in his closet.

Jenny chimes in. “You can do it, Van. You’ve got some great songs. You’ve just gotta keep at it, is all.”

Van’s answer is eclipsed by a bright flash and a building roar of thunder that ends with a crack like that from a whip. The clouds start to spit and Barbara shrieks like a 1950s cartoon housewife who has spotted a mouse. She runs tiptoe, her hands up in the air, back down the pier.

Jenny laughs out loud, and though she speeds up her pace a bit, she continues walking. Van frowns at her laughter and runs to catch up. He doesn’t blame Barbara for running. That white dress will be transparent if a downpour starts, and though he’d enjoy the sight, he wouldn’t enjoy everyone else getting a look at her panties.

Once inside—and only moderately damp—he sees that the partygoers are being seated for dinner. Katya had arranged for a fully catered affair. Van is certain his mother would have been content with vegan burgers and roasted corn grilled in the backyard.

Ivan starts making his way to their table, already pointed out to him earlier in the evening by Katya as she was still in her final flurry of organizing.

Katya didn’t seat all the siblings together, explaining to Van—though he hadn’t asked—that it would be more fun for them to see
other family and friends. Van arrives at the round table for eight noting that he’d been seated with his cousin Fancy and her husband; one of Mira’s favorite grad students, Mark, and his partner, Samir; and neighbor Patty with Patty’s daughter, Vicky.

Vicky is already there, and they nod hello. He shakes Samir’s hand as Mark introduces him, and turns to explain to Barbara why Fancy is called that (her name is actually Fantine) when he feels a tight knot of anxiety curl up in his gut.

Next to his place at the table is a marker that reads, “Guest.” As in, only one guest. And he has brought two.

Barbara pulls out the chair and plops herself down. “I can’t wait, I’ll bet the food here is fantastic. Hi, I’m Barbara,” she says to Samir, fixing him with a smile.

Van turns to Jenny with his mouth open, and his voice box in complete seizure.

He has never been so grateful to see Katya appear at his side.

“Oh, Van, that’s right, you have two guests. Hi, you must be Jenny? I’m so sorry about the seating, I just didn’t know. But as luck would have it, Irina isn’t back from the house yet, so you could sit by Darius. I’m sure he could use the company.”

“Of course,” Jenny replies and gives Van a brief smile. “Guess I’ll catch you after dinner.” She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder and strides off.

“I’m sorry…” Van starts to say, but his voice is drowned out by the band singer, encouraging people to find their seats for dinner.

Max and Mira are suddenly in the spotlight, having been outfitted with their very own table, a brainstorm of Katya’s, to avoid having to decide who gets the privilege of sitting there.

Someone starts tapping silverware to glass, and others start hooting and hollering for a kiss. Van’s parents stare at each other in the yellow light. Max grips Mira’s hand, and she breaks his gaze, looking down like a blushing girl of twelve.

To Van, something about her looks brittle, and he’s relieved when she finally looks up and Max kisses her firmly on the mouth.

He can’t quite believe it when Barbara grabs his face and smashes his own lips with a kiss, right there in front of the gay couple, just as his cousin and her husband are pulling out a chair to sit. His ears are still ringing from all the tapping on glassware when Patty lets out a loud hoot, whether for his parents or himself, Van can’t be sure. He’s still working out whether his breath was rancid, when she breaks off the kiss and sits back in her chair with a quick exhale, like she’d just completed a satisfactory task. Like a crossword puzzle or a knitted sweater.

“Wow,” is all Van can muster, with a quick glance around the table. Samir and Mark smirk at each other. Patty has already launched into a good-natured interrogation of Barbara while Vicky rummages in her purse, and Van’s cousin Fancy is standing agog. Her mouth hangs open so long, it’s all Van can do to keep from reaching up and nudging her lower jaw back in place. She always was a pain in the ass.

“Fancy, this is Barbara, my…” here Van pauses for the briefest moment and hopes no one notices, “…date. This is my cousin, Fantine, and her husband, Tom.” And so go the introductions around the table. In one way, it’s just like Van had hoped, back when he first invited Barbara, before she dumped him, requesting “space.” Back then he imagined everyone staring with great admiration, and even wonderment, that dumpy old Van managed to land himself such a great catch.

The politically correct synapses fire off to remind him that Barbara is not a fish to be landed. Van blames his unfortunate analogy on the nautical setting and the presence of Darius, who still makes him unaccountably nervous.

He turns to glance over his shoulder at Jenny and, in doing so, notes that Barbara has turned to look as well. She casts a fluttery
wave back over her shoulder and faces the center of their table again, where Samir and Mark are arguing good-naturedly about the last film they saw.

Jenny is talking to someone else since Darius seems to be absent. Jenny glances up at Van, and he shrugs, hands up, apologetically. She turns back to the other guest without acknowledging the gesture.

“Congratulations, dear heart,” says Patty, standing up to reach across Fancy and her rotund husband—whose round face has gone red with the heat, so that he looks like an apple—to slap Van in the arm. “You’re going to be an uncle.”

“I’m already an uncle,” is his first response, because he is, though Katya’s kids have never really taken to him. Probably because he used to buy them children’s adaptations of great works of literature, complete with drawings and big print. It’s not like he could compete with their own parents, gift-wise. Katya has never denied them anything. Then he remembers that a new niece or nephew should be a happy occasion, and he says finally, “Thank you.”

“Reenie will be just fine,” she says, though no one has suggested otherwise. Not out loud, anyway. “That Afro-American she married seems nice, and it’s good that he’s so much older. She’ll need that, now. And she’ll have help, won’t she? Especially if she lives somewhere near Katya, or maybe they could even move in with your mother…”

Patty had been tearing apart a dinner roll like a lion with its kill, but as her sentence trails off, she drops a piece of it into her salad. Her hand remains, pincerlike, over her plate. “Oh,” she says. “I’ve got to…um…” She pushes back her chair and almost falls backward out of it.

“Mom?” Vicky gets up and tries to follow, but Patty assures her she just needs “the loo.”

Van feels the skin on the top of his head crawling around with the sensation that something critically important is just outside his comprehension.

Then he remembers with a jolt that he has to give a speech in a few moments. With the shock of Barbara’s arrival, he had forgotten, and his hastily scribbled notes don’t yet amount to much.

He takes out the old grocery receipt he was using and a nearly exhausted ballpoint pen and sets to writing.