by Jim Kokoris
I patted myself down. “I need your phone. I left mine in the room.”
Mindy opened her purse and handed me hers. “Here, but she’ll see my number and won’t answer.”
“She’ll answer. What’s her number?”
“I don’t know her number.”
“You don’t know your sister’s number?”
“You don’t know your daughter’s number?”
“I have it on speed dial.” I was having trouble processing this news; the wedding had been planned for months. The inn, the caterer, the guests: who was calling them? What and how were we going to tell them? My cousins had booked flights months ago. I had rented a tuxedo, and it was being delivered to my room. Then I thought of Karen again. What must she be going through? How was she handling this?
“What are we going to do now?”
“I know exactly what to do,” Mindy said.
“What?”
“Eat,” she said. “I. Starving.”
* * *
I called Mary while Mindy finished her barbeque chicken quesadillas.
“Hi,” I said.
“I can’t talk.”
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t talk.”
“Is Karen there?”
“I can’t talk.”
When I heard silence on the other end, I handed Mindy back her phone.
“What she say?”
“I don’t think she could talk.” I stared straight ahead at the necks of bourbon and scotch bottles lined up on the back of the bar. “Poor Karen.”
“She’ll survive.”
“That’s all you have to say? She’s your sister.”
“I think we’ve talked, like, twice in the past year.”
“That’s ridiculous. You live ten minutes from each other. You know, she scheduled this wedding around your schedule, she planned it this way. She waited until the show was off.”
“I know that, Dad. I know that because everyone keeps reminding me of that fact. I’m surprised the invitation didn’t mention that: Planned around Mindy’s schedule.” She pushed her plate away. “God, I’m a pig. I can’t believe I just ate that.”
The bartender walked over and cleared her things. He was tall and lanky and like every male under thirty, sporting a bit of stubble. He stared hard at Mindy for a moment, smiled, and asked, “Excuse me, but are you Mindy Nichols?”
Surprisingly, she blushed and looked down at the bar. “Thanks, but no. But I mean, I wish. She’s amazing,” she mumbled.
The man stood there for another second, trying to sift through her response, then smiled again and drifted away.
“That, like, never happens to me,” she said.
“He knows who you are.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Anyway, I don’t want to have the ‘how do they get your ass to inflate like that?’ conversation right now.”
“You didn’t have to be rude. He’s a nice guy.”
“Nice guy.” Mindy rolled her eyes. “Just stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop trying to fix me up with some guy, okay? It drives me nuts.” She grabbed her purse, rummaged through it, then slapped a black American Express card down on the bar.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything, but okay, I’ll shut up.” I picked up the card and handed it back to her and placed my own pedestrian green American Express card down.
“Do you have my key?”
“I’ve got it here somewhere.” I began emptying my pockets. “I know I have it.”
“Oh, fuck!” Mindy jumped off her barstool. “Ethan! Stay over there. I’m coming! Stay right there!”
“What?” I looked up just as Ethan, in bare feet and boxers, darted across the lobby toward the bar. With his knees locked and his long skinny arms flapping about, he looked like an electrocuted stick figure.
“Mindy! Here! Mindy! Here! Hello! Hello! Hello!”
“Oh, Jesus!” I bolted from my chair, but Mindy reached him first, covering him with a hug.
“Hi, buddy! Let’s get back to your room, okay?”
“Where. Mom. Be?”
“She’s not here. Come on. Let’s go. Dad, give me the key.”
“Cold. Out.”
“That’s because you’re almost naked.”
“Yes. Ma’am!” He laughed and kept hugging her hard, his face beaming. He loved Mindy.
I stroked his hair and squeezed his shoulder. I was trembling. I had no idea how he had gotten out. “The door mustn’t have closed all the way, or he figured out how to open it or something. He’s never done this before. Never!”
“He’s fine,” Mindy said.
Ethan, one arm still around Mindy, reached out and pulled me close. The three of us were now in a small, tight circle. I suddenly feared where things were heading.
“Oh God,” I said.
“What?”
In an off-key voice, Ethan began, “Family. Family! Family! U!…”
Mindy’s eyes grew wide. “Not the family fight song, please. I’m tired.”
“Sing!” Ethan yelled.
“Fuck!”
“Just do it,” I said. “He won’t stop until we do.”
“Dad, I can’t, come on! Not here.”
“You’re an actress, act,” I whispered between gritted teeth. “No one’s here anyway.”
“Dad!”
“Sing!”
“Do it,” I said. “Please.”
So we held hands and sang, “Family! Family! Family! U.S.A!” Over Mindy’s shoulder, I saw the bartender, frozen in the act of wiping a glass, his mouth agape.
“There’s still only one verse, right?” Mindy asked when we were finished.
“Yes.”
“Good, let’s beat it.”
I handed Mindy her key. “I shouldn’t have left him,” I said again.
“Everything’s fine.” She lead Ethan away. “Just get Red Bear. She’s probably going to hit on that bartender.”
* * *
After I put Ethan back to bed, I went into the bathroom, and hit speed dial. Mary surprised me by answering.
“Oh God,” she said.
“What happened? Is it true? What is going on?”
“It’s off. She’s not going through with it. She caught him. He was cheating. Apparently, she’s suspected for a while, and then she caught him.”
“Unbelievable!”
“She caught him in the pool with Penny.”
“Jesus, not Penny!” I said even though, at that exact moment, I hadn’t a clue who Penny was. Then, “The pool?”
“The pool.”
My mind began to reel. “Indoor or outdoor?”
“What difference does it make, John? My God!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t think straight. Just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Do you know what I’ve been through, any idea?”
“How is she? Can I talk to her? Is she there?”
“She’s in her room. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I can’t believe this. What do we do now?”
“Nothing.”
“We have to do something. Start calling people.”
“Sally and Sal are taking care of everything. Calling everyone. The caterer, the band. We have to pay for some rooms, most of the rooms, probably.”
“God, I cannot believe this.”
“We were lucky that this happened now, not two days from now. No one’s really here but us. But we’re going to have to pay for the rooms.”
I was silent, overwhelmed.
“Hello? John? Am I keeping you from something?”
“I don’t know what to say.” I paused. “Okay, I know I must know her, but who is this Penny person again?”
“A bridesmaid. A sorority sister.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Well, I don’t remember her,” I said.
“I never liked him. From the start. Never trusted him, that jaw of his. His family, they all have that same damn jaw.”
“Let’s try to focus on Karen.”
“If you cared so much about Karen, you’d be here by now. You would have taken a plane out here, instead of … of … walking.”
“Planes don’t work with him, you know that.” I stood and tried to pace, but the bathroom was too small, so I had to sit back down on top of the toilet. “Well, Mindy’s here. With me. She just got here.”
“I know that.”
“We’ll be there either tomorrow or the day after. You’re going to stay and wait for us, right?”
“I guess. We paid for the rooms. We took over the whole inn. It’s empty, the whole thing.”
“Did Roger and his family go home?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Beth was very unapologetic. She implied that Karen was overreacting.”
“What did Everett say?”
“Everett? Not a word. He just sat there like some beaten-down old dog. That whole family is so dysfunctional.”
I paused. I had found myself in the middle of an infidelity mine field, and thought it would be best to slow down. “This has got to be tough on them too.”
“Please. Do not defend them.”
“I’m not defending them. But it’s not Everett’s fault. He didn’t screw anyone in the pool. His son did.”
“You should have been here for this,” Mary said. “She’s your daughter too.”
“I’m sorry this happened this way. I’m sorry.”
She was quiet. I searched for something positive to say.
“At least Ethan had a good day,” I said.
“For once, I don’t want to talk about Ethan Nichols. We have other children.”
“You’re right, I know, you’re right.” I paused, helpless. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Are you sure you’re going to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good night then,” I said.
And as expected, she hung up.
5
The next morning, invigorated by a full eighteen minutes of teeth-grinding sleep, I immediately launched into a litany of worries about Karen as soon as we were inside the van. I hadn’t gotten far before Mindy cut me short.
“Can we not talk about this?” She was slumped down in the passenger seat, juggling a massive cup of Starbucks and a copy of USA Today, compliments of the Knoxville Marriott.
“Why, what’s wrong? Why don’t you want to talk about it?”
“Because I’m sick of talking about it.”
“Sick of talking about it? It just happened.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really? I think there’s a lot to talk about.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it. Besides, they’ll probably kiss and make up, screw in the pool themselves.” She took a deep slug of her coffee. “I’m not sure why I’m even going anymore.”
“You have to go. Karen needs you.”
“She doesn’t need me, trust me. She doesn’t need anyone. You know what she said to me, she said, ‘You don’t have to stay long. Just come to the service and then leave. We don’t really need you there.’”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Yes, she did.”
“That doesn’t sound like Karen.” I shook my head. Unfortunately, that sounded exactly like Karen. “Well, then your mother needs you. We all need you. We need to be together.”
“Right, right. Family. Family…”
“U!… S!…” Ethan cried from the back.
Mindy and I both reflexively yelled, “A!”
Mindy opened her paper. “Okay, I’ll go, but I don’t want to spend the whole trip talking about Karen and Roger, okay? I’ve been hearing about this wedding for six months. It’s off, so I don’t need to hear about it anymore. If you want me to come along now, then that’s the one condition, okay? Is that a deal?”
“She’s your sister. You should show some compassion.”
“Deal?”
I was disappointed in her offer. But since we had a long drive ahead of us and since I was confident that the conversation would inevitably head back toward Karen, I agreed. “All right, fine, deal. But you need to change your attitude when it comes to your sister. She loves you.” I glanced in the mirror, checked to see if Ethan was buckled, pulled out of the parking lot, and passed by the huge ball in front of the Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame.
“Hoops!”
Mindy looked up at the ball. “What the fuck?”
“Okay, now it’s my turn to make a deal. Stop saying that word, okay? I don’t want Ethan picking it up. That’s the last thing I need, him walking around saying that. He’ll say it hundred times a day. No more f-bomb. Deal?”
“I don’t know what the big deal about that word is.”
“Deal?”
“Okay, fine,” she mumbled.
I merged onto the interstate, and we drove in silence. Traffic was predictably light; it was midmorning, and no one was heading east toward the mountains. I stepped on the gas, determined to make time.
“So,” I said after a while.
“So.”
“How’d you sleep?”
Mindy, head in the paper, shrugged, so I shrugged back.
“Where. Mom. Be?”
“She’s with Karen,” I said. “Your poor, oldest sister, Karen.”
Mindy took another large slug of coffee, said nothing.
I made tracks, hanging in the left lane, passing anything that moved, and waited for Mindy’s morphine, the coffee, to kick in. After a few minutes, and after a few more slugs, I deemed her properly medicated and made another run at conversation.
“What are you reading?”
Mindy’s eyes remained on the paper. “What?”
“The paper. You’re engrossed. What’s so interesting?”
“Nothing. This study.”
“What study?”
“About fat people. It says that four percent of Americans are morbidly obese.”
“Oh, well, that’s interesting.”
“Morbidly obese,” Mindy said. “That’s a really weird description, morbidly obese. I mean, what’s with the morbidly? Do we really need to distinguish between obese and morbidly obese?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Do you think obese people make fun of morbidly obese people, go around saying, ‘Hey, at least I’m not morbidly obese.’ Or do you think morbidly obese people walk around saying, ‘God, if I could just become obese, I could fit into those jeans!’”
I laughed a little. “Good point.”
Mindy finally looked up from her paper, and I noticed that in the very top of her left ear, she was sporting a tiny gold stud. More evidence of her growing celebrity stature. My heart sank. Earlier in the year, a prominent entertainment Web site had done a “rising star” feature on her, and she had also recently been on a late-night talk show. I had been detecting signs of a swollen head ever since. I didn’t want to lose my little buddy to stardom, gossip magazines, tattoos, heavy drug use. I decided that her bright red high-tops also were a bit showy. I changed lanes and made a silent vow to somehow keep her grounded, remind her that she was the president of the math club in high school, used to have hamsters as pets.
“So this is Tennessee,” she said.
“Yep. The South.”
“Looks like the North to me.”
“It’s not. People are different.”
“What, you’ve made a lot of friends?”
“Nice. Outside,” Ethan said.
“Very nice,” Mindy said. She returned to her paper.
“Hot. Out.”
“Not too bad,” I said.
I passed a semi with Georgia plates, hauling a load of lumber, then flic
ked on the radio and found a country music station, which I thought appropriate.
“Off!” Ethan yelled after he realized it wasn’t Merle Haggard singing “Silent Night.”
“So, is Will Ferrell a nice guy?”
“What?”
“Will Ferrell, the actor.”
“Why are you asking about him?”
“Just trying to keep the conversation going. I’ve been alone a long time.”
“You’ve been with Ethan.”
“He’s not exactly Larry King, okay?”
She folded her paper and tucked it between the armrest and her seat. “Yeah, he’s okay. Has kind of a big head.”
I glanced at her. “Staying grounded must be hard when you’re a big star. But’s it’s important.”
“No, I mean, literally. He has a big head. Like, physically. When you’re working close to him, it kind of throws you off; it’s like this big thing, staring down at you. But he’s okay. Pretty funny.”
“Oh.” I drove another minute. “Is he married?”
Mindy didn’t say anything.
I shrugged. “You two did a lot of skits together. I noticed that.”
Mindy pulled out her phone then immediately put it away.
“No service in the Deep South?”
She slid down in her seat. “I’m not gay, Dad.”
I jumped. “What?”
“Mom told me you think I’m gay.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m not sure what she told you.” You can’t tell that woman anything, I thought.
“I’m not gay. I would tell you if I were. It’s not like some big deal, okay? I don’t like meeting guys, the whole dating thing, that’s all. I don’t have time.”
“Okay … I’m not exactly sure how you can get married if you don’t like meeting guys and the whole dating thing, but okay.”
“Who says I want to get married? Why would I ever want to do that? You and Mom weren’t exactly a commercial for it.”
“You know, you’re right; this is none of my business.”
“It’s not.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I turned the radio back on.
“Off!” Ethan yelled.
I turned it off, drove awhile, then glanced back. Ethan was studying the distant mountains with his mouth open, a sure indication that he was thinking, absorbing, pondering. I wondered what he thought of the mountains, how he was processing them. He had spent his entire life in Illinois, and had never seen anything like them before. I regretted not having time to pull over and explain them to him.