By the Numbers

by Jen Lancaster

  While I’m standing outside watching everyone start the game, Auntie Marilyn, Uncle Leo (he works for my dad—that’s how he and Auntie Marilyn met), Cousin Patrick, and Gam-Gam pull into the driveway in their Country Squire station wagon. From the expression on Patrick’s face, he is not having a fun time with our grandmother. He practically bolts out of the car.

  “Kool-Aid. Now. Please. I need some sugar to wash the drive from picking up Gam-Gam out of my brain,” he demands. He looks very handsome in his plaid pants and double-breasted, belted vest. I like the long lapels on his silky shirt, too. “Why is she convinced we should be working in a button factory? It’s 1974, and (a) we’re in grade school and (b) there are child labor laws.”

  I hold up my hands. “Maybe because our fingers are small?”

  He takes a look at my dress and says, “I hate everything about what you’re wearing, up to and including the ankle socks. Especially the ankle socks.”

  I nod in agreement. “Me, too. Come on in. I think we have red Kool-Aid,” I say.

  “Perfect.”

  “Should we wait for everyone else?” I glance back to see Gam-Gam dawdling at the front of the house.

  “No. Gam-Gam will want to spend some time criticizing the landscaping before moving inside. She’s going to have a field day with the shag carpet and all the wood paneling. I’d say we have a few minutes.”

  Oh, no. Is Gam-Gam really going to be nasty about the new house, too? My parents are so proud of how nice it is, with the automatic dishwasher that’s the same mustardy gold as the fridge and the stove and the trash compactor. Dad can’t stop talking about how great his custom cabinets look in there, too. He may even use pictures of our kitchen in a magazine ad! Plus, we have the built-in kind of air-conditioning here instead of the window units like in the old house. We haven’t had a real hot day yet, but when we do, I bet we won’t have one room that is stifling.

  You should hear my dad when he shows everybody the den with his hi-fi system and reel-to-reel audio player. When he played “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” it sounded like Jim Croce himself was in the room singing to us! My dad bought a horseshoe-shaped bar and stocked it with a bunch of bottles of scotch. (Which does not taste like butterscotch at all. Ask me how I know.) (Well, ask Foster, technically.) He said he heard our fancy neighbors the Cushmans really like scotch, so if they ever want to come over, he will be ready to entertain them.

  So I guess what I’m saying is I will be mad if Gam-Gam craps on this for my parents, especially because they try to be so generous with her, except she won’t ever take anything from them. Why is that? I once overheard my auntie Marilyn say that if Gam-Gam allowed them to do nice things for her, she’d be giving up control and it wouldn’t be worth it. That Gam-Gam would rather be miserable. I didn’t understand what any of that meant—who would ever choose misery?

  Sometimes I don’t understand people.

  Patrick and I walk inside, and I yell up the stairs, “They’re here! I’m getting Patrick a cold drink!”

  Mom replies, “No Kool-Aid for you, Penelope! I don’t want you to stain your dress before brunch!”

  How does she always know?

  • • • •

  The eight of us are seated in the main dining room at Centennial Hills, having just taken a walk around the grounds. Everything is so pretty and green here, and you can see the lake! I hadn’t been anywhere but the dining room before today. This place is so big, with a pool and a golf course and lots of racquet courts and a stable, and there’s even a shooting range!

  My mom says now that the weather is getting warm and school will be out, there are lots of activities she expects me to participate in. She says it’s important for our futures for her to meet “the right kind of moms,” and she’ll do that if Foster and I get involved in all the kids’ sports here. A lot of the stuff sounds fun, so I am up to try. I do pretty good in PE when we have sit-up and pull-up challenges, but less so when there is a ball involved, so I guess we’ll see. I start tennis lessons next weekend. I already got new sneakers and a white skirt outfit with little shorts sewn in underneath and some cute, short socks with fuzzy pom-poms on the back of them. Karin says tennis is hard and I should do gymnastics with her in Wilmette, but they don’t offer gymnastics at the club, so my mom says no. I wonder if that’s because Karin’s mom is divorced. The way my mother talks, divorce is worse than cancer.

  A very nice man named Miguel is waiting on us. My dad gave him a real big smile and a handshake when he seated us at the table, so I guess my dad likes him, too. When Miguel was taking drink orders, he offered to bring Shirley Temples for me, Patrick, and Foster. A Shirley Temple is ginger ale and grenadine, garnished with maraschino cherries, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Foster has put away three so far.

  “What do you think about the country club, Bernadette?” my dad asks. I can tell he’s trying to sound real casual, but he’s sitting there with his chest all puffed up and I know how proud he is of finally becoming a member. He’s talked about belonging here for a long, long time. I don’t know what changed to make the snooty people finally let him in, but they did, and then it was like ten thousand Christmas mornings for him. When he found out our family was accepted, he and my mom danced around the kitchen holding hands for about five minutes. I think he even cried a little.

  Patrick and I give each other the side-eye. We know what’s coming. We can tell you what Gam-Gam is going to say. In school, I’ve been learning about how math helps predict patterns, which lets you know what’s going to happen next. But I don’t need arithmetic to predict that my dad’s about to have his feelings hurt, because it happens every time.

  Gam-Gam’s steel-gray eyes dart around the room, taking in all the other families enjoying their Mother’s Day brunch. There’s nothing about her that’s relaxed or friendly. For example, her hair is all scraped back into a bun that’s so tight it must make her whole scalp ache. Maybe that’s why she’s cranky. (I know I don’t like it when my mom pulls my braids too tight, but I tell her and she loosens them, so it’s okay.) Her mouth is all small and pinched into a bitty little dot in the center of her face. She’s got that flappy arm skin that you think would make her feel soft and doughy when you’re forced to hug her, but no. The flaps are more like something she’d use to suffocate her prey. She kind of reminds me of a lizard, except a lizard might be more warm-blooded.

  “Ridiculous,” she spits. “This club is ridiculous.”

  My dad looks like he’s had the wind sucked clean out of him. My mom’s teeth are still smiling, but none of the rest of her face is.

  “Mama, membership here is everything Max has been working toward!” Mom calls him Max now. She used to call my dad “Sully” because his middle name is “Sullivan.” Everyone in his old neighborhood where he grew up still calls him Sully, but he doesn’t go there much anymore. “The connections he’s made already are invaluable! The new business tipped the scales and helped us buy the house!”

  My mom’s eyes look really sad, but she’s still wearing that big toothpaste-commercial grin. Actually, people ask her all the time if she’s on television, because she’s very glamorous. People used to say she was a dead ringer for Angie Dickinson, and then they’d add words like, “Va-va-voom!” which always made me feel funny. But over the past few years, her style has changed. Now when she goes to the beauty salon, she brings pictures of Princess Grace of Monaco and says she wants to be like that. People still admire her looks, but more quietly now.

  I probably will not be pretty like her when I grow up. I take after my dad, who is more plain, but he’s very smart even though he did not have a chance to go far in school. My mom says Gam-Gam was so beautiful when she was young, but I don’t see it. Maybe it’s because her personality makes her ugly.

  Why can’t Gam-Gam try to be nice? Why can’t she just tell my mom and aunt they did a good job? When we go to other relatives
’ houses, there are a lot of dirty kids in bad-fitting diapers without enough grown-ups paying attention to them. Why isn’t Gam-Gam saying to my family, “Wow! Look how far you have come!”

  Gam-Gam tosses her napkin on the table, and her tiny dot of a mouth gets even more puckered. “The house is ostentatious.” I know what “ostentatious means,” and this makes me mad. We don’t have plastic on a single piece of furniture, unlike at her house, and there’s no crocheted doilies covering up our toilet paper, either, because we have plenty of cabinet space. Custom cabinet space. “Cobblestones? Turrets? All that landscaping and four bathrooms? You’re four people. You two forget where you come from all of a sudden? You move twenty miles north and all of a sudden you have to put on airs? Makes me sick.”

  When is my mom going to learn that Gam-Gam only seems to feel better when she’s making other people feel bad? She is a MEAN MISTREATER. She is the Grinch and it’s not even Christmas.

  “Mama, you’re being very hard on Marjorie. That’s simply not fair,” Auntie Marilyn says.

  “‘That’s simply not fair,’” Gam-Gam repeats in a voice that is meant to mock Auntie Marilyn. She says this with her pinkie finger raised in the air. “You’re as big a faker as Margie; you’re just not as good at it yet, Mary. Oh, and I didn’t name you Marilyn, so I’m not calling you that either.”

  My brother isn’t paying any attention to what’s happening at the table because he’s snuck a Sports Illustrated into the dining room. The magazine is sitting on his lap, and he’s glancing at it between bites of his salad. But Patrick and I are taking in the whole scene, and it’s so uncomfortable. He reaches for my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze. His palms are really cold and dry. I can feel his pulse racing. Mine is, too.

  Why is Gam-Gam so awful?

  There’s so much tension at the table I’m not even sure how anyone’s going to be able to chew or swallow their food, when Miguel practically runs up to us with a tray full of drinks. “Oh, no!” he says, his voice real bright and cheery. “You asked for coffee and orange juice, but I accidentally bring a big, huge tray full of Bloody Marys. It’s my mistake, so I am happy to leave the drinks for no charge. Otherwise I will have to throw them away. Can you help me out, please, and take them?”

  The cocktails disappear off his tray, and I swear my parents look really grateful. After that, the meal is a little bit better, because the liquor takes some of the bite out of Gam-Gam. She stops telling Mom and Auntie Marilyn what’s wrong with them and starts complaining about her other kids. Gam-Gam doesn’t seem to like any of her children. She says they are all bums, worthless bums. I wonder if some of my aunts and uncles would have their acts together more if my Gam-Gam weren’t so hard on them. They probably all stopped trying after a while.

  I suspect my mom is never going to stop trying to get Gam-Gam’s approval; nor is Auntie Marilyn, and that is too bad. They are both real good ladies, and they deserve to have come from someone better than Gam-Gam. They tell me all the time about the neat stuff Gam-Gam did when she was younger and about all of her business smarts. They say if she were raised in different times, Gam-Gam would be running a big company like Pepsi or Coke and that she used to be decent to them and rather sweet, but I sort of doubt it. I think she kind of ignored them.

  Maybe Gam-Gam is why my mom is always after me to walk down the stairs instead of run, make a good first impression, use my napkin, chew with my mouth closed, pick up my bike, et cetera. Maybe she thinks if I turn out good enough, Gam-Gam will finally be happy.

  Now that I’m thinking about it, sometimes my mom’s constant instructions feel as suffocating as being hugged with Gam-Gam’s arm flaps.

  At least it’s better than having a mother who ignores you. I know she wouldn’t boss me around so much if she didn’t love me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To: christophersinclairjr@calmail.berkeley.edu

  From: thefarmerfromthedells@hotmail.com

  Date: June 26th

  Subject: I bought a ticket

  Hey—I’ll make this brief because I know you’re busy, but I bought my ticket to come out to San Francisco over the 4th of July. Let me just say this—expect to see fireworks.

  XO

  To: the_bride@kelseylovesmilo.com

  From: the_groom@kelseylovesmilo.com

  Date: June 26th

  Subject: I’m so confused

  Kelsey,

  You’re not answering texts, so I’m e-mailing you because I don’t know what else to do.

  Should I get you a ticket or not to see Owl City at the House of Blues in October?

  I think I will err on the side of yes.

  Hope to see you then!

  Love,

  Milo

  To: jessica@sinclairsartorial.com

  From: interncassie@sinclairsartorial.com

  Date: June 26th

  Subject: awkward, but . . .

  Hi, Jess,

  I know this is, like, an unpaid internship and all, but I’m kinda broke, so I’m wondering if you can start giving me some money for all the work I’m doing? Because that would be supes great! Maybe just PayPal me five hundo to start, kewl? Kewl.

  XO,

  Cassie

  • • • •

  Jessica is sitting at the island in the kitchen when I come home. She’s eating a bowl of miso soup and snorting derisively as she looks at fashion blogs on her iPad. When she finally notices me, she asks, “Where have you been?”

  “Have you seen your grandparents?” I say by way of reply. Hey, check me out. I can be brusque, too.

  “I have. They’re old, they’re fabulous, and the lady always smells like juniper berries and Shalimar.”

  “True, but not helpful. Specifically, where are they?”

  “Specifically, they said they were playing bridge with the Cushmans, so they’re probably at their house. Ew, how twisted would it be if they were actually all old swingers? Gross. Regardless, I bet someone’s driving home twelve miles an hour with the blinker on the whole time tonight. Now, specifically, where were you?”

  I actually feel a bit of pride in telling her where I’ve been. See? I’m young. I’m vibrant. I can do things. “I had a date.”

  “Pfft. Not in that outfit you didn’t.”

  Well, that feeling of pride was short-lived.

  “I think your mother looks nice,” Chris says. He clatters into the kitchen on his Mobilegs crutches. (His neck brace is also gone.) He says he felt like FDR in the wheelchair, so he’s been giving the crutches a whirl instead. I’m amazed at the advances in crutch technology since I used to bang myself up in pursuit of country club sportsmanship back in the seventies. I had these wooden Tiny Tim–style deals, with odd-smelling rubber grips and pads. I had to stuff washcloths under my arms to keep my skin from rubbing off, and I was perpetually sore. But Chris’s Mobilegs are these ergonomic lunar-landing-looking things that are ventilated and spring-loaded and in no way appear to have come from a Charles Dickens novel. Sure they’re still durable medical equipment, which is inherently not sexy, but they’re the Lamborghini of durable medical equipment, so that has to count for something.

  He says, “I’m just spitballing here, Jess, but if I showed up at someone’s house uninvited and without a lot of explanation as to why I was there, I might try to be, you know, not horrible, as opposed to horrible.”

  “I’m here to help you, Dad,” she replies, snapping shut her iPad, moral indignation set to eleven.

  “I’m managing nicely and Sophie’s taking me to PT, so you can probably go back to New York now,” he says. “The worst of it’s over. You should apologize or pack.”

  Jessica replies, “Listen, I’m not used to dealing with people from the Midwest anymore. I forgot that I have to sugarcoat every little thing here instead of just offering the truth as it is. My mistake.”

 
“We should write down that apology and send it to all the greeting card companies because, damn,” Chris says.

  Chris claims he didn’t hit his head when he fell and also that he was wearing a helmet, but I am not so sure. Where is the guy who constantly babies his daughters? Who perpetually gives them the benefit of the doubt? He’s not letting her get away with any of her usual lip right now and it is amazing!

  From the expression on Jessica’s face, she’s surprised, too, but she quickly composes herself. “What I meant, as a professional stylist, is that you went out to a social activity in a daytime, business look. It’s late June and it’s evening, so you could wear anything—you could do a sundress, a halter, a tunic, a romper—even, God help us all, capri pants—yet you opted for a summer-weight gray pantsuit with a white shell. No colorful scarves, no chunky jewelry, no strappy sandals. Nothing festive. An absence of joy or whimsy. Let me ask you something: Did you even take off your jacket so your date could get a peep of your reasonably toned arms?”

  “I don’t recall,” I mumble.

  “You arrived home five minutes ago. You don’t recall what happened prior to five minutes ago?” she presses.

  “The bar was chilly, so, no, I must have left my jacket on,” I admit.

  “This is what bothers me about your generation,” Jessica says. “It’s like you guys have given up. You don’t even try. What, you think it’s all over because you’re fifty? Well, news flash, look at Mimsy. She’s how old?”

  “She tells people she’s sixty.”

  “And they believe her because she’s fantastic! She’s got it going on. Follow her lead—she always has her hair set, her lipstick on, her nails just so, and the outfit always matches the occasion. No matter what, she’s impeccable. I bet if Mimsy were a fashion blogger, she’d make a zillion dollars, because that shit is genuine.”