“We should hang out with Amber sometime soon,” Dennis suggests on the ride home.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say numbly. “Sure.”
“How’s she been doing?”
“Good.”
“You mean ‘well’,” Emily informs me placidly.
‘Bitch, recognize the English majordom and say is, “I did mean ‘well.’ Thank you, Emily.”back off’ is what I want to say. However, because she owns me now, what I do
“You’re welcome, Howie.”
It’s like Basil the Butler ought to show up with the tea and cucumber sandwiches any second now.
Even Dennis notices. “Are you guys okay?”
“Yes,” Emily replies serenely. It is the most bizarre, conspicuous reply in the history of language.
+
“I don’t eat pigs,” Emily informs my mother placidly when we sit down to dinner.
There’s a split-second where Mom tenses. I can tell she wants to smack Dennis. “You’re a vegetarian?” She arches her eyebrows in my brother’s direction. “I’m so sorry, Emily, Dennis didn’t mention it to me.”
“Oh, I’m not a vegetarian. I just don’t eat pigs.”
“Ah,” my mother says. “You’re … Jewish?”
“No,” Emily says. “I don’t have any particular religious affiliation. Although Neo-druidism does sound interesting, doesn’t it? I wish more people still wore cloaks.”
“Um,” says my mother. “Well. If there’s something else I can whip up for you instead—”
Whip up? Okay, that’s just not gonna happen. Especially considering the only other thing that’s remotely meatlike in our refrigerator is a half-empty pack of turkey hotdogs that’s been in there for so long we stopped recognizing them as anything other than the fridge’s benign(ish) extraneous growth. You don’t eat those. At this point, it’s just a matter of respect.
“No, no, that’s fine,” Emily says. “I’m very fond of salad.”
“Well,” Mom says, “good.”
And that’s that.
We’re halfway through eating in terrible silence when, out of nowhere: “When I was a little girl, we used to go and visit my aunt and uncle’s farm in the summers. There was a pig there that I got to be very good friends with. They have such wise eyes, you know? I didn’t have very many friends when I was little, especially ones I could really talk to, so he became very dear to me. I named him Gilbert, after Gilbert Blythe from L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables. That was my favorite book then. It’s still one of them, but I very much like Mansfield Park too. Anyhow, that was a tangent; I apologize. My point is, near the end of the summer, my uncle butchered Gilbert and we wound up having him for dinner, and I didn’t know it was him until after I’d eaten. I felt very bad about it for a very long time. I was sure he’d never forgive me.”
Emily starts to look distinctly misty-eyed behind her glasses. Dennis reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Aw, hon.”
It’s a weird, silent, mournful, weird moment of weird.
“I also don’t eat asparagus,” Emily adds then, sounding much more chipper.
“Why?” I ask without meaning to. “Tragic pet asparagus history?”
Damn my inherent wit! The last thing I can afford is to mess with her.
“No,” she replies, totally unbothered. Or at least that’s what she wants me to think. “I just don’t like the way it tastes.”
“That’s fair,” I answer lamely.
“What a sad story,” Mom finally remarks.
“It’s all right,” Emily replies. “My mother died the following year, and that was much worse.”
Well, gee.
“I … expect it was.” Mom. Oh, Mom. “So, you like Jane Austen?”
“Oh yes. She’s good, isn’t she?”
“People seem to think so.” There’s an unmistakable flicker of bitch please!ery there. I can’t really blame my mom for that one. Thanks to her and Amber, I’ve learned how literary ladies get about their Austen. “I always make a point to teach one of her novels in my class. In fact, I even wrote a sequel novel, many years ago.” Oh. Oh, that was not good.
My mom realizes it right at the same time. Hell, even Dennis seems to realize it enough to come out of his happy love bubble.
“You did?” Emily asks. So innocently. “What was it called?”
Smooth move, Mom. Smooth move.
“Oh,” Mom says, backtracking. “I don’t think you would have heard of it.”
“Probably not,” Emily agrees pleasantly. “But I’m curious to know the title.”
“Oh, I –” And then, finally, she crumbles. Doesn’t even try to make up a fake title or anything. It’s damn tragic, to watch her just give in like that. “Mansfield Spark: The, um, Hot Nights of Mr. and Mrs. Bertram.”
“Oh,” Emily says, after a very long silence. “I don’t think I would like to read that very much. No offense.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” Mom hurries to agree. “It was … tawdry.”
Well, jeez. I hope Dennis is happy. His ladylove got Mom to feel ashamed of her tawdriness. Is nothing sacred?
“Dennis told me you’ve written lots of other books.”
“Yes, well. Those were … also tawdry.”
Emily nods demurely. “I thought they might be.”
“They’re done under a pseudonym,” Mom fights on. “And they’re just for fun, really. One day I’d like to try a good novel. But, you know, I just haven’t … haven’t really had the …” Emily just keeps on watching her, so placid, so creepily attentive. Mom breaks. “Peas?”
Emily frowns. “I don’t think I know that expression.”
“Um,” Mom says. “What was that? … Dear?”
“‘Haven’t had the peas.’ Is it British slang?”
“Er, no. It’s—” Mom holds up the dish, defeat in her every movement. “Peas.”
“Oh!” Emily nods. “I see. Literal peas.”
“Literal peas,” Mom confirms weakly.
“How nice. Yes, please.”
“Peas,” I say, because, man, I gotta help somehow. Dennis definitely isn’t leaping in. “Awesome.”
“Yes. They are awesome, Howie.” Emily looks right at me as she says it. I know, I just know that somewhere in that brain of hers, she’s thinking about what she just so happened to walk in on earlier. And the fact that she regaled us over dinner with a story of pig slaying suggests that this girl’s not really an expert on which topics make for appropriate conversation and which ones don’t.
+
As soon as Dennis goes downstairs to get Emily’s bags, I make a beeline for the guest room. Emily is sitting on the bed, staring at a picture of my grandparents on the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
“So,” I say without preamble. “Uh. About what you saw earlier.”
“Yes,” Emily replies, shifting her eyes to me, “that was awkward, wasn’t it?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“Was that Arthur?”
She sounds so damn quaintly conversational; it totally throws me off. “Um. Yep, that’s him.”
“He looked like a very attentive kisser.”
“Yeah, he’s got skills, but, uh, see, here’s the thing.” She suddenly seems really far away, sitting all the way over there on the bed, and my voice seems extremely loud. So I sit myself down next to her and continue real quietly. “My mom and Dennis, they don’t exactly know about that whole thing.”
“Yes,” Emily agrees, “I thought they mustn’t have.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I think Dennis would have mentioned that you were gay. He’s told me many things about his family, and I thought that probably would have come up if he knew.”
“Well.” At least she’s got that much figured out. “Yeah, so – wait. What things?”
“You cry very much when you watch Old Yeller.”
“What? Did, okay. I did cry. I was five. If I watched it now, I would be—” Right. Not the point
. “So, uh, can I count on you to not … ya know, tell them anything?”
“Yes,” Emily replies. “I don’t feel like it’s my business to tell your family anything you don’t want them to know.”
“’kay. Uh. Thanks.” Well, that wasn’t so bad. I’m about to get up when—
“Why don’t they know?”
I turn to look at her. She’s staring up at me like she’s genuinely puzzled. (Emily, I can already tell, isn’t the sort of person to just get plain confused – no, Emily gets puzzled.)
“They just … they don’t. It’d just – I dunno, it’d just be weird or whatever, and it’s not like there’s even any point in them knowing, ‘cause it’s just a … it’s just like this … mistake-type … one-time … he tripped and his face fell on my face. It’s not even a big deal.”
“All right,” Emily says. There’s something going on in her crazy eyes that I’m not liking at all.
“In fact,” I say, standing up, “you should probably forget about it. It’s so not even a thing that matters. It was just—”
“You seem ashamed.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but I’m interrupted by Dennis dragging her stuff into the room.
“Your luggage, milady,” he declares, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She smiles. “You guys bonding?”
“We are,” Emily replies, throwing a little look at me.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Totally.”
+
We haven’t got any milk. Not unusual, but milk, it’s kind of a household staple. The way I see it, we can try to impress Emily all we want with Josh Groban and rejected pork chops, but if there isn’t even milk in the morning, well, that right there is a surefire sign of inherent dysfunction.
I pitch this to my mom, who thankfully sees things the same way. Then I gallantly offer to run out and get some, therefore averting this most horrific of crises.
On my way to the store, I take a little detour.
Arthur’s the one to open the front door, which is a relief. I don’t really know how well this’d go with Kristy interference.
He looks happy to see me, even though his face gets worried right away, to show he hasn’t forgotten about what happened earlier. The fact that the first thing he looks is happy, though, just because it’s me – I dunno. It makes me feel like shit somewhere in the back of my brain, but not to the point where it changes stuff any.
“How are things?”
“Cool. She’s not gonna tell.”
He relaxes a little. “That’s good.”
“Yeah. Hey, listen. I’m not ashamed of you or anything.”
“Um,” Arthur says, frowning a little. “Thank you.”
“I dunno, man, I just don’t want you to think that’s why I … I just know how stuff has gotta be, you know? That’s all. It’s like, my life is this certain way, and that’s how it works, and I can’t just – but I’m not ashamed of you. You’re good people. The fact that you like me, it’s … you’re the best person that ever has, no question. I don’t really get why you even bother.”
He’s starting to smile.
“And I—” I’m not really sure how to say what I’m supposed to be saying, so I go quiet and just look at him. His tie is flipped back over his shoulder and he’s got a kitchen towel in his hands. Must have caught him mid-dishwashing.
Oh, you son of a bitch, I think, in the least oh-you-son-of-a-bitch way possible.
“Can we maybe put this on pause for a little while?”
His brow starts to furrow.
“Not, like, it’s-over-pause,” I hurry to add. “Just … I don’t think I can really handle this while my brother’s here and we’re doing the whole family Christmas thing. And hey, you know, you’ve probably got Christmas stuff to do, too, right? So you probably don’t even have time to be dealing with …” Oh, man, the furrowed brow, it’s not budging. “You okay over there?”
“Splendid, actually,” he replies, but my new foe the furrowed brow does not lend credence to his words. Damn it, furrowed brow! It is very quickly becoming my new life goal to vanquish it.
“It’s not you. It’s –” Okay, no way am I finishing that sentence with ‘me.’ I do a mental search for alternative endings. “—this girl. This friggin’ girl my brother is dating. She doesn’t eat pork because of Gilbert, and she wears this hat, and – and she knows things. I feel like maybe we should tread carefully while she’s around.”
“Why?” Arthur points out, all wry and valid. “I get the sense that she might know about us already.”
“I dunno, man, I think she was really starting to buy my whole he-tripped-and-fell-on-my-face story.”
And then the furrowed brow heightens its presence. Not only that, but it’s accompanied by this not-quite-sigh thing and a shake of his head. I feel my stomach plummet and ooze into my toes. Arthur stares at our feet for a couple of seconds, like he can see the stomach-oozed toes through my sneakers, then looks back up at me. “Howie—”
He goes silent.
It is some motherfucking ominous shit.
“Yeah?” I finally croak.
He looks at me. I don’t even know what to see in that look.
And then – wonderfully! Miraculously!
“Nothing,” he says, expression softening. “Do what you feel like you need to.”
It’s not a perfect response – like, what is this ‘feel like you need to’ malarkey? This is what I need to do, plain and simple. But, whatever, he gets an out for being patient and understanding. I will forgive him a couple of poorly chosen words.
“Really?” I ask, just to make sure he’s not messing with me. “And you and me, we’re …”
He shrugs, the hint of a smile on his mouth.
Then he slams the door in my face.
Well.
“Cute,” I call.
No answer.
“Seriously,” I persist, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I mean it. Adorable. They should draw a picture of this moment and make it April on a calendar.”
Nothing.
“Stick it next to a cherub-kitten. Some babies dressed like eggplants…”
Still nothing.
Despite myself, I start to feel a little worried. Who resists hilarious calendar quips? Nobody! Nobody who’s not secretly pissed at you. Oh, shit. This wasn’t a good idea at all. I should have just gone straight for the milk. The milk that we didn’t even technically need, because – fine, I’ll admit it, I poured it into the sink so I would have an excuse to leave, and stop here, and tell Arthur I’m not ashamed of him out of nowhere, which, hey genius, maybe that’s the kind of thing that you’re not supposed to randomly tell someone you’re involved with, especially when you follow it up with narrowly avoiding It’s-not-you-it’s-me-ing them, Jesus, what is my problem. You know what? Emily. Emily’s my problem. Thank you, yet again, brother of mine, for showing up and making it abundantly clear how much I suck when compared to your greatness, I sure have missed those good times—
The door swings open.
Arthur smirks at me.
“That wasn’t funny,” I let him know.
He shrugs. “I thought it was a little funny.”
“Yeah, see, that’s why you need me around. To teach you that your sense of humor actually sucks.”
“How can one person be so unfailingly charming? Honestly. I keep thinking we’ve reached the peak of it, and then you outdo yourself.”
“That’s a little thing I like to call skills, Artie my man.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“That’s what I call it. Oh, the things I could teach you.”
I don’t really want to leave once we get talking. I’m starting to notice a pesky pattern there, where conversation with Arthur is concerned. But it only takes so long to buy milk, so I extract myself. I don’t kiss him goodbye – that seems a little too two-steps-forward-one-step-back – but there’s this weird, lingering, stilted moment, like where a kiss is supposed to be. I can t
ell that he’s just as aware of it as I am.
Still, it feels pretty good once I’m back in the car and away from him. I feel a lot lighter: Arthur doesn’t seem pissed, and I don’t have to worry about keeping up my life of deception for a couple of weeks. I mean, sure, it kind of sucks to be all “Happy holidays – later!” to someone I, well, like a lot, during the time of year where you’re supposed to be all extra-cuddly and full o’ love, but whatever. Small price, and all that. The point is, I am temporarily free of all this. I walk into the grocery store feeling so relieved I could whistle. I don’t, though. People who sing to themselves in public always freak me out.
Chapter Seventeen
I wake up the next morning to the sound of Mitch.
I pull myself out of bed and head downstairs. My first glimpse of the kitchen from the hall reveals Mitch standing in front of our open refrigerator like a king surveying his majestic domain. A king in a ‘Dick’s Hardware’ t-shirt.
“Amber, Amber! How much would you pay me if I ate one of these?” he demands, showing exactly no reverence for the balance of nature as he peels the pack of ancient hotdogs off the shelf.
Amber. Sure enough, she’s sitting at the counter next to my mom, cup of tea in hand. All of my Amber angst has been suppressed by necessity, but seeing her again gets me feeling horrible right away.
“Hmm,” she replies, tilting her head in mock-contemplation, “lemme think: zero dollars.”
“No, seriously. If I ate one.”
“I would pay you nothing, Mitchell.”
“Amber, these are hella old. That’s gotta be worth like five bucks at least.”
“I’m not going to pay you to eat somebody else’s old hotdogs, you moron.”
“What if I covered them in—” He rummages through the contents of the side door: “—marmalade? Why do you guys have marmalade? Doesn’t this only exist in, like, Australia?”
I decide this is as good a time as any to make my entrance.
“Morning,” I say to my mom. Amber’s posture gets stiffer. “Why’d you let him in?”
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