Wimbledon, Kentucky

by H. Claire Taylor

  She regained her composure as best she could and began on the appetizer.

  “After the wedge salad, we have a homemade cream of mushroom soup with bruschetta…”

  “Again,” Jack interrupted, “vegan. No cream of mushroom soup for me, thanks.”

  Bret leaned over to Bill. “I think that man’s a little screwy in the head. He thinks mushrooms are an animal.” Though Bret’s body language might have led one to believe he’d meant to whisper, his voice gave no indication that he’d actually intended to be quiet.

  Jack puffed up his chest. “It’s all right. Some people are too callous to feel the pain of the animals that produce our food. It’s probably not your fault, Bret; it was probably just your upbringing.”

  “Damn right it was,” growled Bret. “I was raised to be a man. Men eat meat. That’s why we got these sharp teeth in the front.”

  “Exactly,” Gavin chimed in. “If we weren’t meant to eat meat, why would God have given Adam and Eve sharp teeth?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jack said sarcastically, “because it makes eating forbidden fruit easier?”

  “Ah!” Gavin spat, insulted. “I really hope to our Lord that you’re not blaspheming.”

  “You know,” said Melanie, “Bret is actually closest to the tru—”

  “And for the main course,” Laurel said, trying to get things back on the increasingly controversial topic of dinner. Everyone quieted, waiting to hear what was up for the main course, though it felt to Laurel like their anticipation stemmed not from hunger but from another possible excuse to begin a debate.

  “For the main course, I’ve prepared some boiled lobster tails, served with—”

  She never got to finish saying what the lobster was served with, as the table erupted in bickering.

  Malcolm could be heard saying, “Sorry, no shellfish…”

  Jack threw in a, “Have you ever seen those poor things in the tanks at the grocery stores?”

  Bret was booming on about “real man’s food.”

  Melanie was explaining to Frank how, evolutionarily speaking, lobsters were like the cockroaches of the oceans, to which Gavin felt it necessary to blurt out “Evolution? More like evilution!”

  “See?” Georgina addressed Laurel. “That’s exactly why I brought him. Christian sensibilities.”

  Laurel shifted her gaze to Bill and mouthed, “Help.”

  It wasn’t out of some sort of nobility that Bill did what he did; it was out of pure hunger. He’d been subjected to the smell of that buttery lobster for the past hour and a half and all his attempts to swipe a tail for a pre-dinner snack had been angrily thwarted by his wife. So, hungry and ready to dig in, but knowing the lobster was still a soup and salad away, he stood up from his seat and began banging his fists maniacally on the table until everyone was confused enough to quiet down.

  “Shut the hell up, everyone. Are you hungry or not? I know I am, and I hate you all for making me wait to eat this goddamn food. Shut the hell up!” He turned to Laurel. “Now go bring out those goddamn salads. And if they don’t like the way you prepared them, they can pick off whatever they don’t like.” He turned to Jack. “You don’t like meat? I don’t give a damn. Pig’s already dead, asshole. Not eating it is like spitting on its goddamn grave.”

  Bill plopped down in his seat, shook out his folded napkin, which he tucked into his shirt collar, grabbed his fork in one hand, knife in the other, and waited as Laurel hurried back and forth from the kitchen, bringing in the wedge salads and placing them in front of each honored guest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AS LAUREL HANDED OUT THE salads, she skipped over herself and Bill, playing the martyr and knowing Bill would rather not waste precious stomach space with what he called “rabbit food.”

  Picky eaters be damned, she decided as she handed out the salads with everything on them. However, while Laurel had her talents, cooking had never been one of them, so it wasn’t just the picky eaters who half-heartedly attempted to veil their looks of disgust as they picked at their salads. Even Frank Leinenkugel found himself knocking a few odd-looking bacon chunks to the side, wondering if Laurel knew what bacon was, or that maybe she had meant to say “charred mucus” instead of “bacon.”

  As a distraction from the cuisine, Frank struck up conversation, obliterating the silence with his booming voice.

  “So, Malcolm,” he began, “you’re a Jew, so I guess that means you keep up with the ongoing tensions in the Middle East.”

  Malcolm choked down a bite of the salad, trying to avoid thinking about what the slimy thing that slid down his throat could actually be, and nodded. “Yeah, I follow it as much as the next Jew.” He chugged some water to help everything go down smoother. He was still slightly terrified of talking to the mechanic, but anything, anything, to distract from the salad.

  “So you keep up quite a bit, then,” said Frank.

  “Exactly.”

  “So how’s it going to end?”

  Malcolm paused and eyed Frank, trying to figure out what exactly he meant by that. He was cautious in his response, growing tired of Frank’s genius resulting in his own embarrassment. “End?”

  Frank roared with laughter. “My sentiments exactly, kid.”

  Malcolm could feel the eyes of the other guests flickering back and forth between him and Frank, so he laughed along, trying to act like he was in on the joke.

  “You’re definitely onto something,” Bret Hammersmith chimed in. “There doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. There may never be.”

  “Not as long as both religions exist,” Jack Knowles added.

  “It just goes too far back, historically speaking,” Melanie said.

  Laurel interjected. “Then what are we supposed to do? Be okay with everyone killing each other?”

  Gavin shook his head fiercely. “Oh, no! God would frown upon such an attitude. But, you know, the first thing they taught us in rehab was the serenity prayer, and it’s just like that. ‘Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ We can try to change it if we want, but we also have to accept that we may never be able to.”

  “Well spoken! Well spoken, indeed,” Dr. Leinenkugel said, smiling kindly at Gavin.

  Bill gulped down some water then clanged his glass down on the table, being as noisy about it as he could. He thought it was a nice, emphatic gesture for what he was about to say. His father used to do it almost every dinner while Bill was growing up, and he only hoped he could manage the same red-in-the-face look of suppressed rage that his old man used to muster up. “Enough,” he said. “Enough of this small talk. Can we please move on to why we’re really here? It’s not to talk about trivial things like the Israel–Palestine conflict, and it’s definitely not for the cooking.”

  “He’s right,” Jack said. “Let’s move onto more serious topics. Particularly, the most urgent topic that faces the world today: let’s talk about the weather.”

  Bret groaned. “Here he goes, saddling up his high horse. He’s been bitching about the environment for years, and now he finally feels like he’s been right this whole time. Guess what, Jack? That whole global warming thing you were whining about for so long was wrong. You were wrong. You were so far off, in fact, that this crisis seems to me like it might just be God’s way of mocking you. Just you. That’s how far off you were. But no, I won’t give you another reason to be egocentric.”

  Malcolm wondered, not for the first time tonight, why he was at the dinner. Bret didn’t seem to need a spokesperson; he could speak for himself just fine. Malcolm began thinking about his overstuffed down comforter and his Sleep Number bed that he set on forty-five after days like this, and he wished he could be at home, sliding himself in between them right now. But no, for some reason he found himself eating a terrible meal with terrible company, hating his terrible job. He would have liked to have a girlfriend to go home to, but he hadn’t had one of th
ose in years. He blamed it on the job, even though he’d only had it for half a year. He wondered briefly if it would be a good sign if the next girl who came along preferred a higher or lower Sleep Number before he was pulled back to the dining room table by Bret’s question:

  “What do you think, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm, of course, had no idea what the topic had shifted to during his fantasies, so he said the only thing he could think of: “I agree with what you said, Mr. Hammersmith.”

  “Of course you do,” Bret replied, thumping Malcolm on the back. “You’re a smart kid. No sugar in your coffee, that’s how I could first tell.”

  Laurel stood from her chair to get everyone’s attention, and said, “May I clear your plates? We have some delicious soup waiting to be served.”

  While no one was in a hurry to taste the soup, everyone welcomed the idea of getting the salads out of their way. The bleu cheese curds stank like feet. More so than bleu cheese usually did, even.

  The soup was served but no one wanted to be the first to try it. Melanie made the mistake, as she glanced around the table, of catching Laurel’s eyes. Laurel motioned with her hand for Melanie to go ahead and try the soup. “After you,” her hand seemed to say.

  Melanie tried to smile politely, though she found that the corners of her mouth only quivered when she tried to lift them, so her attempt ended as more of a fierce scowl. She dipped her spoon into the soup, pulled it out, stared at the slice of mushroom her spoon had scooped, hoping that maybe she could intimidate it into tasting better than it looked, then slowly ladled it into her mouth.

  It didn’t taste half bad.

  Melanie was so surprised by the fact that she didn’t mind the taste that she went overboard with her praise.

  “Dear God, Laurel! This soup is delicious!”

  Georgina wondered what Melanie was playing at. Maybe this was a trick. She never liked Melanie all that much and trusted her even less. Melanie was always too practical, lacking the important female sensibilities of impulse and wrath.

  But one by one everyone but Jack tried the soup, and each was as surprised as the next that it didn’t taste like a vomitous poison. The mood lightened quite a bit as the guests began enjoying the meal.

  “Now,” Frank began, “if there’s one thing my overabundance of education has taught me, it’s that a problem can’t be solved effectively until it’s been properly identified. So let’s identify it.” He slurped in some soup, which ran down his beard and dripped onto his lap. He didn’t seem to notice and continued. “So what exactly is the problem here?”

  No one spoke or looked at Frank, as another few spoonfuls dripped down his chin.

  “Anyone?” he asked. “Come on. Education may help stimulate intelligence, but it doesn’t create it. Surely someone here can help me identify the problem, even if you’re not nearly as educated as I am.” He dabbed his face with a napkin, completely missing the places where the soup chunks clung to his beard.

  “Well,” Jack finally said, “it’s cold, and it’s not getting warmer.”

  “Exact—” Frank burped. “Exactly. That’s the first problem. What are some of the other issues?”

  Oh thank God, Melanie thought. Finally something I can contribute without being attacked. She cleared her throat to accept responsibility for answering, then ran her hands over the napkin in her lap, smoothing it out before rolling her shoulders back until her posture looked uncomfortably rigid. It was her teacher pose. “Well, apparently there is snowfall in places of the world that never get snow. Saharan Africa, Ecuador, South Texas—they’ve all had strange snowfall that’s disrupting their agriculture. Well, not Saharan Africa, since they don’t have agriculture. I’ve had to face all kinds of challenges while teaching my students about the different climates of the world.”

  Frank sucked down the last of his soup and everyone was visibly relieved.

  Georgina let out the breath she seemed to have been holding, before saying, “It seems like it would be a lot easier to teach children about climates right now, seeing as they’re all cold.”

  Melanie smiled sharply at Georgina. “Well, yes, I guess you’re right. But if I want to teach them properly, you know, how the world is supposed to be, then the current weather proves to be a setback.”

  In between spoonfuls, Gavin said, “Maybe this is how it is supposed to be. It’s obviously God’s will.”

  Melanie turned her jagged smile upon Gavin. “Hmmm…You know, I never thought about it like that. It sure does make my job a lot easier if I answer all of my students’ questions with, ‘Because it’s God’s will.’ How have I not thought of that yet?”

  Gavin didn’t catch the sarcasm. “I’ve been saying this for years. Why are we worrying so much about all the whys of the world when we could just rest assured that it’s all a part of God’s plan?”

  Melanie dabbed her mouth with her napkin then placed it back into her lap, allowing herself a few moments to hold in the outburst that was threatening to leap out of her mouth. “I guess our petulant questions about why things are the way they are is part of God’s plan as well.”

  “Interesting, interesting, interesting…” Jack said, gripping his chin pensively, leaning over the table, and staring back and forth between Melanie and Gavin. “I find that every time the subject of God’s will is broached that this sort of impasse is always reached. How fascinating. Yes, yes, yes…”

  “You’re a fool, Jack,” Bret said, having fought off the impulse to insult Jack for as long as he could. “Can we get back to the important business?”

  Frank held up a hand and the table fell silent. Laurel wasn’t sure when Frank Leinenkugel became the moderator of this discussion, but she didn’t mind handing over the control to him. After all, he was the only doctor at the party.

  Frank cleared his throat. “I think we need to address the issue of how no one noticed the cold until we did. I think this might be the most quizzical of all topics we discuss tonight”—he looked around the table as he spoke—“but I think it’s a discussion best held over some lobster.”

  Laurel knew her cue and hurriedly began gathering up soup bowls, whether the guests had finished their portion or no.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER MUCH DISCUSSION, BRAINSTORMING, SPIT-balling galore, debate, argument, rationalization, and a few shed tears, Gavin said something that made more sense to everyone than anything that had been said all night:

  “I think the reason no one noticed it was because the news didn’t mention anything about it.”

  A lot of questions could have followed this, because, all in all, it was a terribly flawed idea, but none did. It made sense. It just felt right.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “NOW, MELANIE,” GEORGINA BEGAN, ONCE the lobster had been ravaged by the guests that didn’t have any moral or religious opposition to it, “I remember overhearing someone talk the other day in the salon about something that seemed, well, quite honestly, over my head scientifically. Maybe you can explain it to me in simple terms, like I was one of your students.”

  Melanie found it difficult to keep from screaming every time Georgina said anything. It was an impulse that was most difficult to control at times like these. She’d just have to settle for letting the screaming loose in her own mind.

  Her eyes widened only a bit in response to this internal noise, and her jaw tensed as her teeth sutured together to prevent any of the screaming from seeping out.

  She swallowed it all down and nodded politely for Georgina to continue.

  “Well, I heard that maybe the Earth is slowly moving away from the Sun. Apparently this happens in universes.”

  The screaming grew louder in Melanie’s mind until she wrangled it under control and could reply.

  Swallowing helped. She swallowed it down.

  “Well, yes, the inverse of that does happen in solar systems,” Melanie began, trying to be subtle with her correction of Georgina’s misuse of term. “Planets and other celestial obje
cts can begin a slow spiral toward a star if the mass of the star is great enough. It’s a very slow process, Georgina, you have to understand that. It’s not something that would happen in the period of a year or even in the period of a thousand years. And for it to happen in reverse, that would mean that the star is losing mass at a rapid speed, which is simply not the case with our sun.”

  Georgina shrugged and sighed demonstratively. “Well, I didn’t come up with the theory, I was just saying I overheard…”

  “Dessert?” asked Laurel.

  Bill grunted his support of the idea.

  “It could still be from the ozone layer,” said Jack. “You never hear anyone mention that anymore. Yeah, sure, you hear a lot about global warming—”

  “Heard a lot about global warming,” Bret corrected.

  “—but what about the ozone? When was the last time you heard about the ozone on the news?”

  “That must mean it’s not the problem,” Georgina said. “Or else we would have heard about it on the news, right?”

  “That’s so far wrong. I hope you don’t really believe that,” said Dr. Leinenkugel. When he saw the hurt look on Georgina’s face, he began backtracking. “Oh, no, no, no, it’s not your fault. It’s everyone else’s fault that you’re this way.”

  She appeared comforted. “See? That’s what I’ve been saying for years. It’s not my fault I’m this way. If I don’t know how to spell, or how the universe works, or how the media functions, it’s not my fault. I was made this way by everyone else!” She beamed at Frank. “I’m glad an intellectual like you can appreciate that, because I’m always made to feel like an idiot when I say it.”

  Frank almost felt guilty. But not quite. He made it a policy to not feel guilty for the gullibility of those who didn’t bother checking for the facts.

  “Wasn’t all that hoopla about there being a hole in the ozone layer?” Gavin asked.

  Melanie nodded.

  “Well,” Gavin continued, “what if it has scar tissue now?”