by Swan Huntley
Without asking, William spoon-fed me the first bite, and—what? What was this metal thing jabbing me in the mouth? My first thought was, Get the manager! But then, when I saw William’s face, I put it together pretty quickly. The metal thing had to be a ring. He hadn’t gone to the loo. He had gone to find the waiter to make this happen.
Even just feeling it with my tongue I could tell the rock was huge, and when I spit it primly into my open palm (the sunlight seemed to make a spotlight just exactly there), I saw that it was. I licked the chocolate off and William dipped it in his seltzer—huge smile, those brilliant teeth; those teeth were mine now—and when it was clean, he got on his knee and said, with so many people watching, “Catherine West, will you be my wife?”
9
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, but if the person you are dealing with is not medically sane, does this definition apply?
On Monday I went uptown to try again with my mother. I hoped again that today would be different. The biggest thing I had going for me was that my mother now adored Evelyn after months of hating Evelyn’s guts for allegedly stealing her comb. If she stonewalled me again, I planned to tell her that she had to stop. She had to make peace with my future husband. She had to accept this. She had to accept me and my choices and my life. I got worked up in the cab with a heated inner monologue: You have to accept my choices, Mom! I am an adult! Accept my choices! Accept this! Accept me, Mom! Fuck!
My ring. It was huge. It was an ice cube. I’d moved all the other jewelry off my left hand to make room for its presence. I couldn’t stop looking at it.
When Mom and I got to Da Castelli—a particularly arduous walk; she kept stopping to ask where we were—and sat down in our regular booth, I laid my palm flat on the table in front of her. “Mom, look.”
She didn’t look down but straight at me instead. Was there distance in her eyes? Or was this how my mother had always looked? She seemed to float in and out of herself. She was there and then not there and then maybe there again. Her hair was tied back in a severe chignon like a schoolmarm’s today; her makeup was a little heavy. Were those fuchsia accents in her eye shadow? She wore a royal-blue silk blouse and a pearl necklace. She ran her fingers back and forth along the pearls.
I flapped my sad hand on the table. “My ring, Mom, look at my ring.”
She looked down, and tapped the diamond once. She said nothing to me, but when the waiter appeared with her prosecco (impressive—she hadn’t even ordered it yet), she said, “Thank you very much, kind sir,” which was a lot more than she usually said to waiters.
“Mom, I’m getting married.”
She looked at me like I was a moron. “Catherine, I am aware of that.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am.”
My face twisted up in the mirror behind her. “Really?”
“What do you take me for?” This was one of Mom’s stock one-liners. She had said it to my father all the time: “What do you take me for, Bruce?” (My father’s reply: “Certainly not an idiot, Elizabeth!”)
“Okay,” I said. It was hard not to keep looking at myself in the mirror. Not because I was obsessed with my reflection, not because I was a narcissist, but just because it was there. “Do you know who I’m marrying?”
“Fernando Delarus.”
“No, Mom,” I said, “no.”
“Who then?”
I braced myself. “William Stockton.”
“Who?” She looked confused, like she had never heard the name. I thought this was good. I thought I might be getting a new reaction.
“William Stockton.”
Then her face changed. She was still looking at me, but her gaze had turned inward. Her eyes went blank; she was no longer there.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m so sorry William broke your vase.” I tried to sound like I really was sorry. Intonation was important. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it. I’m sure he’d be happy to buy you a new one now.”
“It’s voz, Catherine, not vayce.”
“You’re right, Mom.” I looked distressed in the mirror. “I’m sorry William broke your voz.”
“I don’t understand anything you are saying to me, Catherine.”
“William broke your voz and he is very sorry.”
“William Stockton?” She said this as though she had just thought of the name herself, as though I hadn’t just said it.
“William. Stockton. Yes.”
For a second this seemed to register, and I thought I could feel my mother, the old version of my mother, sitting there with me at the table. She took a long inhale through her nose. One nostril turned into a slit and the other one didn’t. This was a side effect left from the nose job. “He…”
“What? What?” I looked distressed in the mirror. “What?”
“He’s not good enough for you,” she said finally.
“Why? Because he doesn’t come from money?”
“Catherine,” she said.
“Why? Tell me why.”
She closed her eyes—her lids were like tissue paper now, her eyelashes like black lace ripped apart—and when she opened them again, I could see even before she spoke that she was gone again. She was no longer my mother. She was just another parent who had been taken away from me, and I felt very sorry for myself.
“Where is my veal with rosemary?” she said.
I didn’t have the energy to explain that this wasn’t Silvano’s or that the dish she would be having was salmon pasta, or that it was very good here. I didn’t tell her that she lived in a home now that was all fucking yellow, or that she had Alzheimer’s, and that it was so hard to deal with, so incredibly hard, and that sometimes I didn’t know if her life was worth living.
In the mirror I looked so honest that I almost believed it myself. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “Your veal is coming.”
10
It was a small engagement party. An Intimate Gathering of Friends and Family, the invitation said. I wore pink chiffon. William wore a blue blazer. Dierdre who was married to Russell who worked with William said, “You two look like you belong on the top of a wedding cake!” She was drunk, but she was right.
It was a pretty afternoon, sun-dappled and not too hot. Crisp champagne and well-dressed people, smiling and laughing, and my heels were even comfortable. At least they were a little more comfortable than usual. I checked the doorway for my mother—no, still not here.
The jazz band wore cream suits with bright green handkerchiefs and played just loud enough, and all the caterers with their little trays looked like models. I had chosen the very best canapés: smoked salmon with dill crème fraîche on sesame lavash, tequila prawns with bacon, cucumber with whipped feta and sun-dried tomatoes, roasted cinnamon pear bruschetta, olive crostini. These were presented on glimmering silver trays with green napkins that matched the handkerchiefs on the band.
Jeff had done a spectacular job of improving the roof garden with not much notice. He had modeled it after the plants on the High Line that William and I liked so much—long grasses and purple wisteria in ten-foot-long gray wooden beds. Bouquets of baby’s breath lined the entire perimeter of the roof in ascending tiers. Jeff had installed a surrounding staircase just for that. It gave the impression that we were on a cloud, a dreamy little slice of heaven, albeit a rectangular one.
A dozen people from William’s work were there. He was so likable. In just a few months he’d gotten this many people to come to his engagement party. Besides Russell and Dierdre, there was a blond guy named Kurt from Arizona, who looked more like an actor than a banker, and Stellan, a short Swedish man with too-wide lapels and a buzz cut, and Fiona, William’s assistant, who was pleasant and frumpy (I was glad about that) and who spoke in an even more overly articulate way than William did, with the separated syllables of a GPS machine.
Stan and Max had come with their mothers, Beatrice and I had forgotten the name of Max’s mom
. Both women were stylish and trim. Beatrice was Australian, and oddly pale for being Australian, and wore a large straw hat with a purple bow on it. Max’s mom was slight—her big blue Birkin miniaturized her even further—and when she lifted her sunglasses at one point to remove something from the corner of her eye, I noticed the worry lines on her face. They seemed natural and permanent. It was hard to imagine that face asleep.
The two of them were blending in nicely. Beatrice got into an animated conversation with William’s boss, Michael, and Max’s mom nodded politely as my architect, Carl, who was such a Chatty Cathy (he never shut up), explained something with his hands. I did wonder where their husbands were, and felt a small sense of pride about William being a sturdy male figure in their lives.
Max and Stan were hanging out in the far corner drinking orange juice and taunting Herman with branches of baby’s breath they’d pulled from the pots. They wore dress shirts and blazers: Max in navy and Stan in red, which had definitely been a poor choice on his mother’s part. Redheads can’t wear red. It never works.
Maya’s short yellow dress was working. She gave me a heartfelt hug and said, “Hey William,” as though they were already friends, which was so sweet. For maybe the first time ever, her hair was not in its doorknob bun. It hung down to her ass instead.
“Your hair is longer than mine!” I said.
“I haven’t cut it for five years.”
I had a feeling she meant that literally. “Wow.”
Besides having a fabulous time—this was a day to enjoy, Catherine, a day to enjoy—I was anxious. The host is always anxious. I checked the doorway again. Still not here. And there was a dead leaf on the ground. And one of the model-caterers seemed to be perspiring too heavily. I knew all those guys did coke and thought, No one better OD at my party.
“Are you having a nice time?” I asked Maya, who sipped her champagne with her pinkie extended straight out.
She swallowed and said, “Oh my God, are you kidding? This is fly.” She touched my arm. “So fly.”
“Good,” I said, trying to give the impression that it barely mattered to me what she thought.
In the doorway, not my mother but Vera with one of her sons.
“Hey you guys!” Maya wrapped her arms around them both.
“Hi Vera.” I hugged her lightly, a boss hug. “And hello,” I said to the boy, who must have been about fourteen.
Vera nudged him. “Introduce yourself.”
The poor thing was covered in volcanic acne, and when he opened his mouth to say, “I’m Dorian,” the sun glinted off the metal braces in his mouth.
“So good to meet you finally,” I said, sensing right as I said it that the finally had been too much.
“Yeah,” he said, the end upturned like a question. I wondered what terrible things his mother said about me at home, and hoped she was a good enough mother to tell only her husband these things and keep the kids out of it. Not that I cared.
“You look great,” I told Vera. At least she was looking more serene than usual. Her outfit was a floral polyester nightmare from T.J. Maxx, but she did look relaxed.
“Hey,” Maya said to Dorian, who was on his phone now, “don’t drink too much, okay?” She winked.
He smiled without teeth—the braces smile.
“No drinking,” Vera said, too seriously. That woman could not take a joke.
“Mom, I won’t,” Dorian whined.
“Let’s go get you a nonalcoholic beverage from the bar,” I said, and motioned for him to follow.
“Lucia!” Maya said. She had spotted Lucia and Jeff standing over the flowerbeds. They tended to stick together at these things.
“Hola, ciao.”
They started speaking in Spanish.
“Hey, no working,” I said to Jeff, who was still wearing his gross work pants. “You’re here to have fun!”
A fleeting thought: Yeah, Catherine, take your own advice.
“What do you want? A Coke?” I asked Dorian. We were standing in front of the bartender now, who waited with his hands behind his back. This one looked less sweaty. Good.
“Ummm, yeah,” Dorian said.
“Be polite,” Vera said.
“Coke?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Vera, what would you like?”
“White wine if you have it.”
“Of course. We have chardonnay, pinot grigio…”
A hand on my shoulder and I turned around to find Dan, who looked great, and also like someone else. I’d never seen him in a suit before.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He smiled in his easy way. I was glad he was there; maybe his calm would rub off on me.
“You look great,” he said.
“Really? I shouldn’t put my hair up?”
I moved it to the other side. I was beginning to feel too hot. Also, did Maya’s hair look better than mine? When I looked again—she was still talking to Lucia—I thought, No, mine looks better. Her ends were weirdly tapered.
“Can I get you a drink? Champagne?”
“I’ll have a Coke,” Dan said.
“Of course.”
He ordered it from the bartender, then said to Dorian, “What’s that, buddy?”
“Coke.”
“Cheers.”
Dorian still looked like he was hating life, but maybe a little bit less.
“Catherine!” Susan yelled. There she was in a gorgeous periwinkle dress, her makeup perfectly fresh and her arm around a man. It took me a second to realize the man was Henry, Susan’s too-young-to-date manager, who was apparently now her date. He had grown a short beard and looked older.
When I hugged her, I whispered, “What the hell?” into her ear, and she whispered back, through a plastered smile, “Tell me about it.”
Since the sushi restaurant, Susan hadn’t been calling with her usual frequency. This was because of Henry, I now saw. This meant that we were fine. We were just focusing on our love lives right now.
“Dan!” She kissed his cheek.
“Henry, it’s so nice to see you,” I said.
Caroline greeted me by punching my arm and saying, too loudly, “I can’t believe you got engaged while I was gone!” People turned to look because she was so loud, and then she took my hand and said, “Oh my God, this rock!” I loved her so much in that moment.
Bob was there, too, with Spencer and his large Jamaican nanny. It was afternoon; the twins were napping. Caroline and Bob looked tan and jovial. She wore a super-tight black dress (it looked good; she looked more like a socialite than a hooker today), and Bob was plump in his khaki slacks and his white button-up, which he’d unbuttoned too much—his curly gray chest hairs were offensive. Bob hated dressing up. It wasn’t his thing. He was from Maine.
“Where is the man in question?” Bob took two glasses of champagne off a passing tray and handed one to Caroline. “Take us to him,” he bellowed, ridiculous, like a cartoon king.
“Come, come,” I said, and led them to William, who was talking to Michael now. It seemed serious. Michael stood with his chest puffed out—he had a wide torso and disproportionately small legs—and was wagging his finger at William. William was captivated, or pretending to be, saying “Yes, absolutely, yes.”
“No work talk.” I took William’s arm. “Hi, babe.”
He kissed me. “Hi.”
“Lovely party,” Michael said. His reflective glasses were expensive and gaudy, and his bronzed skin shone like a penny.
“Thanks all to my future wife.” William kissed me again.
“I want you to meet Caroline and Bob.”
Caroline dove in for a squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hug. “Soooooo good to meet you.”
William respectfully patted her back. His face looked shocked, scared. My sister was scaring him. “You, too, Caroline,” he said.
She pulled back and held his arms. “Yay!” she squealed, like a kindergartner.
“Yay ind
eed,” William said, studying her face. I assumed he was comparing her face to mine. I wondered what he saw. He still looked shocked. I remember thinking he must have expected Caroline to look different somehow, or be different somehow; that explained his surprise.
“And Bob,” I said.
“Hello there,” Bob said in his ridiculous regal voice. He shook William’s hand with one firm jolt.
“He’s hot,” Caroline whispered to me.
Spencer pulled at my dress. “Aunt Catherine, I want to blow bubbles!”
“I don’t know if I have any bubbles, Spencer.” I looked around for Jeff.
“You want bubbles, sweetie?” Caroline touched his fine blond hair and Spencer smacked her hand away. “Where’s Tonia?”
Spencer pointed at her, his arm snapping straight. Tonia, the large Jamaican nanny, was at the buffet, making herself a plate of food.
“Go ask Tonia to buy you bubbles.” Caroline patted his back twice. “Go, go.”
Spencer took off running.
Bob was telling William about the epic boating conditions in Playa del Carmen. “I prefer sailboats as well,” William was saying.
“Mom’s here!” Caroline announced.
My body flushed and tingled with a wave of anxiety. “Great,” I said in my best hostess voice, nearly out of breath because I wasn’t breathing again.
Caroline waved like a lunatic. “Mom! Over here!”
William looked at me, unsure. I gave him a look that said, It’s okay, don’t worry, we will get through this together.
“Mom! Over here!” To me she said, “Oh good, she’s with the one I like.”
Caroline meant Evelyn, whose name she should have known by now.
Evelyn led Mom by the arm to an empty gray wooden bench that matched the flowerbeds. Mom wore a red dress, high at the neck, with flowing see-through sleeves and gold flats. It was a miracle Evelyn had convinced her to wear flats. She looked at her feet as she walked, holding on to Evelyn, who shaded Mom’s face with the large white hat she held up like a parasol. Mom looked old, hobbling along, her footsteps small and timid as though the earth would open up and swallow her if she stepped too far. I reminded myself that now she was the child and I was the parent, and nothing she said could be taken to heart.