by Murder
"Imagine," I heard Mother say to Mrs. Brewster, "when Meg went in today to be measured, she found Eileen had not ordered her dresses after all. And she told Meg she had done it months ago."
"I should have demanded an affidavit." I shrugged. "Well, we're behind the eight ball, but I'm going to drag her down to Be-Stitched the minute she gets here and force her to make a decision."
"So, you've been down to Be-Stitched already," Samantha said. "What did you think of Michael What-a-Waste?"
"Samantha, really," her mother said, but by her tone I could tell she was rather proud of her daughter's wit.
"What-a-Waste?" Mr. Brewster said, as if he had no idea what she was implying.
"Or the last of the Waterstons, if you like," Samantha said. "I mean, you did notice that he's not exactly much of an addition to the town's list of eligible bachelors."
"He seems very nice," I said, noncommittally. I didn't want to get into an argument with Samantha, but didn't see how I could avoid it if she kept on this way. I glanced at Mother. Surely this violated her ironclad rule against discussing sex, politics, or religion at the table? Surely these days one should add genteel bigotry to the list of forbidden topics?
"I do so like what you've done with your hair," Mother remarked to Mrs. Brewster.
"Oh, he's positively charming," Samantha said, relentlessly, "at least if you happen to be a fag hag."
"That's a perfectly hateful thing to say," I began, and then jumped as Mother kicked me under the table.
"Now, Meg," Mother said. As if I were the one at fault.
"He's a very charming conversationalist," Mrs. Brewster said. "Very chivalrous."
"Well, that's a dead giveaway, isn't it," Samantha said. "I mean, how many straight men do you know who have decent manners and can talk about anything other than football and beer?"
Your fiance and your future father-in-law, for starters, I felt like saying, but Mother was glaring daggers at me, so I counted to three and then said, as calmly as I could, "You all seem to know rather a lot about the private life of someone who's only been here, what, a couple of weeks?"
"Well, it's a proven fact. I mean, several of the bridesmaids who were in being measured have tried to get him interested. I mean, honestly, if they're running around half-naked and practically flinging themselves in his lap and the guy doesn't show a spark of interest, what do you think that means?"
"He has excessively good taste?" I suggested. "Or--" Mother tapped me again with her foot. Samantha gave me a withering look.
"Oh, sure," she said. "He flat-out told them not to bother 'cause he wasn't interested. Besides, he hangs out with those two old aunties who run the antique store and the decorating shop."
"Now, now, Samantha. That's enough. Little pitchers have big ears," Mother chided, indicating eight-year-old Eric. Eric was too busy stuffing his pockets with tidbits to feed his pet duck to pay any attention to our boring grown-up conversation. "I think it's very sweet of them to make Michael feel more at home."
"And so convenient that they've convinced Michael and his mother to do curtains and slipcovers and such," Mrs. Brewster said. "They've had an awful time finding local help who meet their standards."
"Yes," Mother said. "I'm not sure I'd have dared to go ahead with redecorating the living room without Michael's help. Not the deviled eggs, Eric."
"But Duck likes deviled eggs!" Eric protested.
"You may take a deviled egg to Duck, then," Mother conceded. "But don't put it in your pocket."
Eric took this as permission to leave the table and trotted out to the backyard with the deviled egg.
"Then you're going ahead with redecorating, too?" Mrs. Brewster said.
"Yes, the living room, and possibly the dining room," Mother said. "Michael will be out tomorrow to take measurements."
"The dining room, too?" Jake said, plaintively. No one seemed to hear him.
"We're having the living room and the library done," Mrs. Brewster said. Mr. Brewster sighed gently. "I haven't decided about the dining room yet, although I suppose I should very soon. Perhaps I should have Michael take measurements tomorrow, too."
"If he has time," Mother said. "He will be doing quite a lot of measuring here."
"I'll call to make sure he has time," Mrs. Brewster said. "And no snide remarks when he comes young lady," she said, turning to Samantha.
"Of course; not a word," Samantha said. "What kind of an idiot do you think I am? I mean, you know how vindictive and temperamental they can be; I'm not about to do anything to make him mess up my gown."
Mother kicked me before I could open my mouth. My shins would be black and blue by morning.
What a narrow-minded, prejudiced--no, don't say the word, I told myself. The whole conversation left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt guilty about not having stepped in to defend Michael. On the other hand, if Mother hadn't shushed me, I'd probably have lost my temper and said something that I'd need to apologize for. I had a bad feeling that Samantha and I would end up having a knock-down-drag-out argument about narrow-mindedness before the end of the summer; I'd just try to avoid doing it in front of Mother. Or Rob. I had no idea what he saw in Samantha, but he was madly in love with her, so I'd have to learn to live with her.
In the meantime I vowed to be extremely friendly and hospitable to Michael. To make up for the various indignities and embarrassments he had probably already suffered at the hands of my small-minded relatives and neighbors.
Saturday, May 28
Of course, being friendly and hospitable to Michael was going to get a lot easier once I mastered the tendency to drool every time I saw him. I stumbled downstairs at ten Saturday morning to find him sitting in our kitchen. Mother was serving him coffee and pastries and explaining her redecorating plans.
I found myself wishing I'd combed my hair better before shoving it back into a clip. Or put on something other than my oldest jeans. Don't be silly, I told myself crossly, and responded to Michael's heart-stopping smile with as friendly a nod as I could manage before noon. I joined them and listened to Mother chatter about chintz for a while as I sipped my coffee and waited for it to take effect.
"Meg!" Mother said sharply. I started, spilling some of my coffee. Apparently I'd nodded off while sitting upright.
"Sorry, not quite awake yet," I mumbled, mopping at myself with a napkin. Good thing I wasn't trying to impress anyone.
"I know how you feel," Michael said. "During the year I won't let them schedule any of my classes before eleven. I'm still not used to the way people down here get up at the crack of dawn."
"Ten o'clock is hardly the crack of dawn," Mother said, favoring me with a stern look. "Wait till you've been down here for a few weeks, with all the fresh air and proper food, young lady. You'll be getting up with the larks."
"Don't try to reform me, Mother," I warned. "Of course not, dear," Mother lied, and led Michael into the living room to measure things. He looked as if he would rather stay in the kitchen to ingest more coffee. I could sympathize.
I had another cup of coffee and contemplated the mess Mother had made in the kitchen while serving Michael, the mess she always made in any kitchen. I had learned to cook and clean early, in self-defense. I finished my coffee and swabbed down the kitchen before taking up the phone and my list of things to do. Fourteen phone calls later I had lost my temper twice and succeeded in crossing exactly one thing off my list. I could hear Mother gently but firmly ordering Michael around in the living room. Well, better him than me. My turn would come. I went outdoors for some fresh air and found Dad busily trimming the hedge.
He looked relaxed and happy. Of course he nearly always did. After the divorce, Dad had moved in with my sister, Pam, and her husband, Mal. Or more accurately, into the apartment over their garage. It was all of a mile from the family house, and apart from going home to sleep in a different bed, he made remarkably few changes to his life after the divorce. He still divided his time between gardening at Pam's and at Mot
her's; doing things with the grandchildren; reading great stacks of books; making anachronistic house calls on the friends, neighbors, and relatives who hadn't yet been persuaded that he'd retired from his medical practice; and, most important, pursuing with wild enthusiasm and single-minded devotion whatever odd hobbies happened to seize his attention.
As soon as Mother decided on a garden wedding, Dad started grooming our yard for the festivities. Once Samantha decided to have an outdoor reception, he began relandscaping the Brewster's grounds. The Brewsters seemed thrilled to have him doing it, though that could change very quickly if all the extra work made their gardener carry out his threat to resign. And Dad was even pitching in occasionally to help Eileen's father prepare for her event.
All of which seemed very odd. Dad was working overtime to make the weddings a success, and yet, he had never liked Samantha. He was constantly complaining that Eileen took advantage of me. And as for Mother's remarriage to Jake--was he really that cheerful about it?
Speak of the devil, I thought, there goes Jake. Predictably, creeping along at five miles below the posted speed limit in his nondescript blue sedan. I waved at him.
He screeched to a halt, rolled down the window, and stuck his head out, looking very distraught.
"Yes, what is it?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Nothing, Mr. Wendell. I was just waving. Sorry if I startled you."
"Off to fetch your sister-in-law?" Dad asked. "She has a fine morning for flying, doesn't she? From Fort Lauderdale, right?"
"You-yes," Jake said. "How did you know?"
"Mother mentioned it," I said.
"Besides, it's hard to keep secrets in a small town like this," Dad boomed jovially. Mr. Wendell looked alarmed, and more like a startled gray-brown mouse than usual. He rolled his window up, tried to drive away with the emergency brake still on, stopped to release it, and finally rolled slowly off.
Well, that was not a success, I thought. In fact, it was about as much of a bust as most of my attempts to get to know Jake better. Ah, well; I'd have all summer to get acquainted with my future stepfather.
"So, what are you up to this morning?" Dad said, rubbing his back while surveying the parts of the hedge he'd finished clipping.
"Phone calls and errands. Want me to help with that?"
"No, I have a good idea how I want it done."
"Just as well; I have a feeling any minute now I'll get called into a conference about redecorating the living room. Mother has Michael from the dress shop measuring the house."
"Now there's an intelligent young man."
"Yes, he seems nice," I said, wincing. That was all I needed, for Dad to turn his boundless energy and determination to setting me up with the least eligible man in town. It was going to be the longest summer in recorded history.
"He's a professor of drama, you know," Dad went on.
"Yes, well, duty calls," I said, and fled back to the kitchen before he could continue.
I decided that chocolate chip cookies would cheer me up and placate Mother as well, so I took the time off from my list to whip up a batch. Lured by the smell, Rob ambled in, followed eventually by Michael and Mother, who graciously issued an invitation for us to make some lemonade and join her on the porch.
"We always like to have lemonade and cookies on the porch on summer afternoons," Mother said, when Rob and I brought out the glasses.
"Very civilized," Michael said, wolfing down his sixth cookie.
Just then we heard the kitchen screen door slam, followed by frantic quacking.
"Here comes Eric," I said.
My eight-year-old nephew ran in and launched himself at Mother, wailing and holding up a bleeding finger. By the time Mother had calmed him down enough to look at it, the bleeding had mostly stopped, and he had subsided into muted sniffles. Echoed by muted quacking from his pet duck at the back door.
"Would you like Grandma to kiss it and make it better?" Mother asked, smiling down at Eric.
"Grandpa says that the human mouth has more bacteria than even dogs' mouths," Eric said, snatching away his hand and backing off in terror.
"I'm sure your grandpa knows best then, dear," Mother said, with a touch of asperity. "Why don't you go ask Grandpa to suture it?"
"Okay," Eric said, charmed by the idea. Suture, indeed; the child obviously needed more of Dad's vocabulary lessons. Mother sipped her lemonade as Eric ran happily out, armed with a fist of cookies. Michael was looking oddly at us.
"Dad's very good with childhood scrapes and sniffles," Rob said. "That was always one of his major charms as a parent. How seriously he treated even the most minor ailments."
"It's a wonder you didn't all become raging hypochondriacs," Mother said, shaking her head.
"Other children might run to Mommy and get a Band-Aid," I added. "We'd go to Dad to have sterile dressings for our lacerations and abrasions--after proper irrigation to prevent sepsis, of course. At least Pam and I did."
"I never could stand the sight of blood," Rob said with a shudder.
"Won't that be rather a handicap in your profession?" Michael asked.
"Oh, very funny," Rob said, and buried his face in his bar exam review book.
"Rob's a little sensitive about lawyer jokes," I explained, patting my brother's arm.
"Lawyer jokes?" Michael said. "I'm very sorry; I wasn't trying to make a joke. I could have sworn your father told me Rob was going to go on to medical school. To become a forensic pathologist."
"Oh, God! Dad's at it again!" Rob groaned.
"Dad wishes Rob would go to med school and become a forensic pathologist," I said. "He came up with the idea about a week after Rob broke the news that he was going to law school."
"I didn't realize he was going around telling people that again!" Rob said, shaking his head.
"Still, dear, not again," Mother said. "He never really stopped, you know."
"God, think of all the people he's probably told," Rob moaned.
"I think most of the family understand the situation, dear," Mother reassured him.
"Our family might, but what about Samantha's family?" Rob wailed.
"They'll learn," I said. "The important thing to keep in mind when dealing with any of our extended family," I said to Michael, "is never, ever to believe anything any of us says without corroboration."
"Preferably from an outsider," Rob added.
"Preferably from your own two eyes," I said.
"Are you telling me your entire family are liars?" Michael asked.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Meg." Mother sniffed.
"Not liars," I said. "Well, maybe a few, and mostly they can't help it. It's just that most of our family are prone to ... exaggeration."
"Tall-tale-telling," Rob added.
"Creative interpretation of reality resulting from wishful thinking," I suggested. "Like Dad's notion about Rob having a career in forensic pathology. All Rob's life Dad has been dreaming about Rob following in his footsteps. He was depressed about Rob not going to med school until he came up with the forensic pathology idea one day, and after that it took on a life of its own."
"That's the other thing you have to watch out for," Rob said. "With most of the family, once they get an idea into their heads, it's very hard to get them to change their minds."
"We hate letting silly things like reality interfere with our pet notions," I said.
"I think I know exactly what you mean," Michael said. "I've already experienced something of the sort myself."
"Good," I said. "So you'll know to take everything anyone here says with a grain of salt."
"A pound of salt," Rob corrected.
"Honestly, I have no idea why you children insist on filling this poor boy's head with such stories about your own family," Mother said. "You'd think we were a family of lunatics and pathological liars." When the three of us burst out laughing, she shook her head, gathered up her embroidery and her lemonade, and went inside.
"Oh, d
ear," Rob said. "You don't suppose Mother is upset, do you?"
"I doubt it, Rob."
"I'd better go and see." He sighed, heading for the door.
"Mother is imperturbable, Rob, you should know that by now," I called to his retreating back. Michael chuckled.
"Oh, it's very funny if you don't have to live with her," I said. "Which, thank God, I don't most of the time."
"I wasn't laughing at your mother," he said, hastily. "I was laughing from sheer delight; how often does one meet someone who can use words like "imperturbable" in casual conversation like that?"
"Yes, I know we can be rather pretentious sometimes. Expanding one's vocabulary is one of Dad's pet projects. He used to pay us by the syllable for new words. He does it with the grandkids now. That sort of thing has a permanent effect."
"A very charming one, if you ask me," Michael said. I sipped my lemonade and looked at him over the rim of my glass. The more I saw of him, the more I realized why instead of treating him as a pariah when they discovered his sexual orientation the local ladies seemed to have adopted him as a sort of pet. He was not only drop-dead gorgeous, he was absolutely charming. Except for the rather generic Middle Atlantic accent, he could easily have been custom-made to fit their notions of a Southern gentlemen. He was immaculately groomed and casually but elegantly dressed, with impeccable manners. Even Samantha and her mother admitted he was a charming conversationalist--although around here, that could simply mean that he had the ability to listen to others rattle on for hours without any overt sign of boredom. And he had a knack for the formal gallantry and witty flirtatiousness that so many aging Southern belles consider their due. More to my taste, he seemed to have a brain, and a slightly sardonic sense of humor. If only ... but no. He wasn't very obvious about it, but if both Mother's branch of the grapevine and Samantha's said he was gay, I could see no use wasting time on might-have-beens.
"I'm not sure you should be quite so hard on your family, though," he said. "It seems to me that most of the town shares your tendency to see things the way they want to see them."