“Sounds good to me,” Senior says, handing Cooper a hundred-dollar bill. “Christmas falls at the end of the year and so do taxes. I’ll be in my study. Let me know when the pizza is here.”
Kitty scowls, but only for a second. “Fine,” she says. “I have cooking to do anyway. We’re having a surprise guest tomorrow.”
“Who’s the surprise guest?” Mallory says. It’s now late—the pizza has been devoured (along with a bottle of Dom Pérignon that Mallory bought with Senior’s hundred—why not, it’s Christmas!), Heat Miser and Snow Miser have performed their soft-shoe, and Mallory and Coop are lying on the floor of the living room, the only light coming from the Christmas tree and the dying fire. It’s nice—but Mallory feels sad about their lost tradition. When Steve Gladstone started sleeping with Sloane Dooley, did he realize he was sabotaging not only his marriage but Christmas Eve for the family across the street?
“I have no idea,” Cooper says.
“Not a new girlfriend?”
“Nooooo,” he says. “I’m staying away from women for a while. Alison was fun, Nanette was fun but a hypochondriac, and Brooke was a card-carrying psycho. Like a Glenn Close–type psycho.”
“Let’s not forget Krystel,” Mallory says. “You married her!”
“I’m attracted to head cases,” Cooper says. “Alison was an anomaly. She was normal. We broke up because of the distance but also because I felt like there was something missing…and what was missing was the crazy.”
Mallory closes her eyes. She thinks about how, when she was growing up, Cooper was her superstar big brother, and in many ways she resented him for that. Now he’s her friend and life is so much better.
“I must have been a real jerk in my past lives,” Cooper says.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find someone,” Mallory says. “There are plenty of crazies out there.”
At five o’clock the next afternoon, right before Christmas dinner, the doorbell rings.
“Mallory,” Kitty calls out, “would you answer that, please?”
Mallory’s expectations are low. She suspects it’s going to be the new tennis instructor from the country club. Kitty has been talking about setting Mallory up with him.
Mallory opens the door to find a woman—plump, nervous smile, a long shiny curtain of silver hair, funky teal cat’s-eye glasses bedazzled with rhinestones.
“Mallory,” the woman says. “My God, look at you.”
Mallory blinks. The voice—she recognizes the voice. The hair, the glasses, that smile. She knows this woman, but who is it?
Then Mallory gasps. “Ruthie!” It’s Aunt Greta’s Ruthie, Dr. Ruth Harlowe.
Ruthie opens her arms and Mallory steps right into them. Tears leak from the corners of Mallory’s eyes, not only because she’s gobsmacked by seeing Ruthie but also because, along with the pile of sweaters and CDs, this is a gift from her parents. This is the best gift Mallory can imagine.
The Gladstones may have owned Christmas Eve, but Christmas dinner belongs to Kitty. The instant that Ruthie steps inside, a cork pops. There are champagne cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in the library—clams casino and Kitty’s famous gooey Brie with pecans and sour-cherry chutney. Everyone greets Ruthie like she’s an esteemed personage, which she is, but also like she’s a complete stranger, which she is to everyone except Mallory.
Ruthie is gracious in the face of what must be a very awkward situation. She still lives in “the house in Cambridge,” she says, though she’s in the Baltimore area over the holidays visiting her nephew, his wife, and their new baby.
Ruthie isn’t afraid to suck down a couple of champagne cocktails and neither is anyone in the Blessing family. Johnny Mathis sings “Sleigh Ride”; the fire crackles. Mallory tells Ruthie about her job at the high school on Nantucket and how the gift of that cottage has changed her life. “I can’t thank Aunt Greta,” Mallory says. “But now I can thank you.”
“Greta was so fond of you,” Ruthie says. “She thought of you as her own.”
Mallory is saved the embarrassment of crying by her mother, who calls everyone into the dining room.
Standing rib roast, Kitty’s incredible creamed spinach, homemade popovers with sweet butter—and for dessert, as always, there will be a sticky date pudding with warm toffee sauce and pillows of freshly whipped cream.
Senior says grace and then Kitty raises her glass of Ponzi pinot noir. “There’s something I’d like to say.”
Oh no, Mallory thinks. All she can imagine is Kitty ruining the evening by trying to demonstrate how evolved she is now. We know other lesbians (by which she would mean Leland and Fifi) and have found them quite agreeable.
Mallory locks eyes with Cooper. If she were close enough, she would squeeze his hand until Kitty finishes blurting out whatever cringe-worthy remarks she’s prepared.
Kitty says, “Ruthie, I want to thank you for sharing in Christmas dinner with our family. We owe you an apology for all the years we weren’t as accepting as we might have been. But now, in our advanced years, Senior and I have come to the realization that love is love.” Kitty hoists her wineglass higher. “And really, there’s no explaining it.”
“Hear, hear,” Coop says, and they all touch glasses without crossing.
Mallory watches her father take a sip of his wine and then fumble for the carving knife. She isn’t at all surprised that he let Kitty do the heavy lifting here, but neither is Mallory willing to let him off the hook.
“Is that how you feel, Dad?” she says. “Love is love and there’s no explaining it?”
Senior levels a direct gaze at Mallory. Her father’s face is so familiar to her, but in this moment she sees something new in his eyes. It’s as though tiny doors are opening to reveal…an actual person.
“Yes,” he says. “I do feel that way.” And then something even more extraordinary happens: her father smiles. “Thank you for coming, Ruthie. You’ve honored us with your presence. We don’t deserve your forgiveness but we are grateful for it.”
“Merry Christmas,” Ruthie says.
Cooper is more than ready to leave Baltimore the day after Christmas, but Mallory is staying until the twenty-seventh and she has begged him not to abandon her. Can he eke out one more day, please?
Sure.
“The Bellos are hosting a cookie exchange tonight,” Kitty says. “Why don’t you two come with me?”
“Absolutely not,” Mallory says.
“What’s the point of a cookie exchange now?” Cooper asks. “Christmas is over.”
“I think the answer to that is obvious,” Mallory says. “People want to pawn their stale cookies off on the unsuspecting.”
“Well, if you don’t have anything better to do,” Kitty says, “Regina and Bill and the rest of the neighborhood would love to see you.”
Coop’s rescue arrives when Jake McCloud calls the house to ask if Coop will meet him at PJ’s, their old Hopkins hangout, for beer and wings.
“You didn’t go to South Bend for Christmas?” Coop asks.
“Nah. Ursula’s mom came to DC. And those two are going to The Nutcracker tonight, so I’m flying solo.”
“Perfect,” Coop says. Ursula makes him nervous.
“And hey, invite your sister if she’s free,” Jake says.
“Oh, she’s free,” Coop says.
Cooper knocks on Mallory’s bedroom door. He can hear her playing “I’ve Done Everything for You,” by Rick Springfield, on her stereo and singing out, “You’ve done nothing for me!” at the refrain.
“Come in,” she says.
Coop cracks the door open. Mallory is reading in her purple shag beanbag chair, the one the whole family calls Grover. “Intervention,” he says. “Rick Springfield? Grover? You’re regressing. So you’re going out with me tonight. We’re meeting Jake McCloud at PJ’s at eight.”
Mallory sits straight up. “What?”
“I got you out of the cookie exchange—you’re welcome. We’re meeting Jake.”
M
allory says, “Is this you inviting me because you feel sorry for me? Because I don’t want to infringe on your male bonding. Or…I mean, is Ursula going to be there?”
“Ursula has The Nutcracker with her mother. Jake is taking the train up by himself.”
“To meet you.”
“To meet us,” Coop says. “He asked for you specifically.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “He did? He said ‘Bring Mallory’ without your prompting?”
“Yes. Can you stop being such a weirdo? I’m going to break the news to Kitty.”
At quarter to eight, Mallory enters the kitchen wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a pair of Chucks—that’s normal—but also the new silver hoops that she got for Christmas and makeup—mascara and lipstick.
Jewelry? Coop thinks. Makeup?
“You didn’t have to get all dolled up,” he says. “It’s just PJ’s.”
“Your sister looks lovely,” Kitty says. She has decided to forgo the cookie exchange as well. She and Senior are fixing leftover roast beef sandwiches to enjoy in front of the fire. Apparently, romance in the Blessing household isn’t dead. “You never know, your sister might meet a doctor tonight!”
PJ’s Pub is a dive bar beloved of all Johns Hopkins students, and Cooper Blessing and Jake McCloud are no exceptions. The bar is right across from the library and down the street from the Fiji house, so they used to go all the time—after studying, after chapter meetings, before and after lacrosse games. There were dollar imports on Wednesday nights and fifty-cent pizza slices on Sundays. Just saying these prices out loud makes Cooper feel a hundred years old, but the second he and Mallory descend the steps from street level and smell the old beer and cooking grease, Coop is twenty-one again.
Jake is sitting at their usual table next to the jukebox under the Stella Artois mirror where Jerry, the owner, writes the specials. When Jake sees them, he jumps to his feet.
“Oh, boy,” Mallory says.
The Hopkins kids are away on break, so the crowd is local and a little older. Jerry comes over to shake hands; he still remembers Coop and Jake by name even though they graduated nine and ten years earlier, respectively. They order one pitcher of beer, then another, and Mallory is keeping up, her face is glowing, and Coop understands; it does feel good to be out of the house. Mallory tells Jake the story about Ruthie showing up for Christmas dinner and Jake looks interested—though why would he care? Jake says that their Christmas was mellow. Ursula and her mother, Lynette, are still mourning the loss of Ursula’s father two and a half years earlier. Christmas isn’t the same without him and never will be.
“I’m happy to have some time away from them, honestly,” Jake says. “They don’t get along. Ursula had work to do yesterday—”
“On Christmas?” Mallory says.
“Sounds like Senior,” Coop says.
“And Lynette asked her to please put the work away and enjoy her family time.” Jake finishes off his beer. “You can imagine how that went over.”
“Well,” Mallory says. “I’ve about had it with family time myself.”
“Cheers to that,” Coop says.
Another pitcher, an order of wings, an order of mozzarella sticks. Coop gets up to take a leak and make a quick phone call. When he gets back, Mallory and Jake are leaning toward each other across the table, deep in conversation. Cooper remembers what a pain-in-the-ass little sister Mallory was when they were growing up, her and Leland always spying on Coop and Fray and his other friends and giggling and asking to tag along. Coop is psyched that Mallory has turned out to be such a cool person who can hang out with his friends like this.
“You got the book?” Coop hears Jake say.
“I did. I read it in two days. Thank you,” Mallory says.
“You know it’s a retelling of Mrs. Dalloway?” Jake says.
She swats his arm. “I knew that, yes—but did you know that?”
Cooper reclaims his seat and Mallory and Jake look up—startled? He’s interrupting their little tête-à-tête? “What book are you guys talking about?”
Mallory stands up. “I’m going to pick some songs.”
Jake clears his throat. “It’s called The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. Have you read it?”
“No, I haven’t read it,” Coop says. “I don’t read anything for pleasure. I do too much reading for work. So, what, you sent the book to Mal? You two have…a little book group?” Coop laughs at his own joke—but maybe it’s not funny. Maybe Coop should start reading and join a book group. What a great way to meet smart women.
“What do you guys want to hear?” Mallory asks. She’s standing at the jukebox. “They don’t have any Cat Stevens.”
“Thank God,” Coop says.
“No Rick Springfield either.”
“Even better,” Coop says.
“Surprise us,” Jake says.
“Yeah,” Coop says. “If you pick something I don’t hate, I’ll be surprised.”
Mallory drops in quarters and starts punching buttons. A second later, there are piano chords, then Paul McCartney’s voice: “Maybe I’m Amazed.” Coop approves, and apparently, so does Jake. He gets to his feet and says, “Dance with me.”
“No,” Mallory says.
“There’s no dancing at PJ’s,” Coop says.
“Just dance with me to this one song,” Jake says.
“No,” Mallory says, but Jake wins her over and they start slow-dancing in front of the jukebox, which is strange, but whatever, they’re all getting drunk and Cooper is distracted anyway because at that moment, his old girlfriend from Goucher, Stacey Patterson, walks into the bar.
Is this a coincidence? No; Cooper did some investigative work and learned that Stacey is VP of marketing for the Baltimore Aquarium and she’s still single. He called information, got her number, and invited her to meet them here.
Stacey is wearing a red wool coat and a houndstooth miniskirt with high black boots. She looks every bit as beautiful as she did in college. Coop hurries over to greet her; they hug. He shepherds her over to the bar and says, “Let’s get you a drink. What would you like?”
“A glass of merlot, please.”
Cooper isn’t sure merlot is a wise choice at a place like PJ’s, but oh, well. Stacey peers over Coop’s shoulder.
“Is that Jake McCloud?” she says. “I haven’t thought about him in years.”
“Yes, it is,” Coop says. “He’ll be psyched to see you.”
“Is that his wife he’s dancing with?” Stacey asks.
“No,” Coop says. “That’s my sister, Mallory.”
“Oh,” Stacey says. “Well, they would make a cute couple.”
Cooper turns to watch Jake and Mallory spinning slowly in front of the jukebox; Mallory’s head rests for a second against Jake’s chest.
They would make a cute couple, Cooper thinks. In another life.
Summer #7: 1999
What are we talking about in 1999? Gun control; Y2K; Kosovo; Napster; John F. Kennedy Jr.; Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda; Egypt Air Flight 990; “I try to say goodbye and I choke”; gun control; Brandi Chastain; The Matrix; Tae Bo; Elián González; Amazon; Jack Kevorkian; Hurricane Floyd; the euro; gun control; violent video games; gun control.
Jake’s memories of Mallory and his anticipation of seeing her—in nine months, in nine weeks, in nine days—serve as the emergency reserve of oxygen in his emotional scuba tank.
Jake has had one hell of a year.
Ursula celebrates her seventh anniversary at the SEC by announcing she’s leaving. If you stay any longer than seven years, the saying goes, you’re there for life. She’s courted all over the city and ends up taking an accelerated partner-track position in mergers and acquisitions at Andrews, Hewitt, and Douglas for a mind-blowing salary and the prospect of an even more mind-blowing bonus.
With Ursula making so much money, Jake decides to quit PharmX, a job he has hated in practice and principle since he started. He’s tired of meeting with congressmen a
nd local lawmakers in an attempt to ease regulations and raise drug prices for the pharmaceutical industry. He tells Ursula he’s quitting, she tells him he’s a fool, he tells her he doesn’t care, and she’s too busy to do battle.
Fine, she says. Don’t come crying to me when you’re sitting home in your boxers watching Montel Williams.
Jake gives his notice, then the next day schedules a root canal; he wants to get it done while he still has full dental. Jake’s boss, Warren, swings by his office more than usual, each time dangling some new enticement to get him to stay—a promotion, a raise, two extra weeks of vacation. (Warren can’t believe Jake McCloud lasted as long as he did in the glad-handing, soul-destroying world of pharmaceutical lobbying. Jake somehow managed to keep his personal integrity intact, fighting only for the drugs he believed in. He has been a tremendous asset all these years, and while Warren is sorry to see Jake go, he’s also cheering for him. His talents can be put to better use.)
When Jake clears out his office, he starts with his top center desk drawer, where he keeps the photograph of Mallory eating noodles and a number 10 envelope that holds three sand dollars and seven fortune-cookie fortunes. He throws the photograph away, telling himself it’s outdated—but it pains him nonetheless. He has looked at the photograph every single day the way other people look at pictures of Caribbean beaches—to remember that there is another world out there, one that provides escape, solace, joy.
He slips the envelope holding the sand dollars and fortunes into a manila envelope stamped INTEROFFICE and secures the metal tabs. He tucks this between drug reports in his briefcase. He nearly laughs at himself for taking this precaution. He could wear the sand dollars on a necklace and Ursula wouldn’t notice.
28 Summers Page 16