by Julia Glass
Jonathan and Cyril moved Zeke’s bed against the front windows and brought the sofa back from exile, but now the furniture is all much closer together, like a group of people who don’t know how to keep a proper distance while having a conversation.
A champagne cork fires off in the kitchen. A dog barks in response. “Qui-ET!” booms Greg. The bark shrivels to a whine.
Lucinda catches sight of Madison, sitting on the bench in the front hall, fingering her phone. She’s wearing a pretty blouse, but she’s also wearing blue jeans that show every curve of her slim yet feminine form and ballet flats without socks. (Is that a tattoo on her granddaughter’s ankle?) Lucinda remembers the crinolined dresses she bribed Christina into wearing to all holiday occasions when this house belonged to Zeke’s parents. She feels ominously behind the times; would she, at the height of working with those young mothers at The House, have thought twice about what this young woman is wearing? She thinks of Kit’s nine-year-old daughter, whom she will meet (she hopes) at Christmastime. Kit has e-mailed her pictures of his family, including Frances—Fanny (how fine and old-fashioned a nickname)—and already Lucinda has imagined how Fanny will look up to her three grown cousins. Perhaps Madison will take her skiing or shopping (or, God forbid, to get her first tattoo).
Lucinda calls her in. “Madison, sweetheart, please join us. I know it’s tedious, but I need to hear how your year is going.”
Madison smiles at her grandmother, tucks her phone in a pocket. As she crosses the room, Jonathan hands her a glass of champagne. She looks surprised but pleased. “Twenty was way over legal in my day,” her uncle tells her.
Forget about “legal.” It’s barely noon. Lucinda has never offered liquor before midafternoon. I am a guest, she tells herself for the tenth time today. She sits on the couch next to Greg and Cyril.
Christina is in the kitchen with her brother. Madison (whose tattoo reveals itself to be a tiny mermaid, not so egregious) has taken the wing chair nearest to Zeke and is making an effort—obvious, but so it goes—to tell him about her studies, her vacillation between majors, and what she sees as the inevitable decision about whether to follow the “family imperative” toward law school. “Looks like Courtney’s the only one to escape,” she’s saying. “But she had to go halfway around the world to do it! India’s too crazy-far for me, I’m sorry.”
Zeke, also making an effort—just to hold himself still without trembling—laughs quietly. “Law shkool leadj many places.”
“Oh, I know that,” says Madison. “Like look at Dad. Or you, of course. You can do useful things, not just sue people. I do realize that.”
Lucinda makes herself focus on the conversation beside her. Greg and Cyril have met only once before—at Cyril and Jonathan’s wedding. Greg is an environmental consultant; he helps people with large tracts of undeveloped land figure out ways to preserve it without compromising too much on potential income. He comes at it from the law side, not the nature side, which means that engaging him in small talk about his work elicits digressions on subjects like eminent domain and conservation easements—often abetted by Zeke. Greg is the kind of man people refer to as “brilliant” in a defensive tone, because even though he’s almost terrifyingly smart, he’s socially tone-deaf, rarely able to discuss matters too far from his professional concerns. After an evening in his company, Lucinda often has the shameful reflex of reminding herself what a steady husband he is to Christina and how game he’s been about raising nothing but daughters. Visiting their home, Lucinda has witnessed Greg, alone in the room they call the man cave, cheering on a sports team, while Madison, Hannah, and Courtney perch at the kitchen counter trading magazines or vials of nail polish. The girls played sports in high school, but only Hannah continued her soccer in college.
Cyril, accommodating to the opposite degree, has drawn Greg into talking about the ruthless cuts in state funding to California’s parks. Cyril looks riveted as Greg lays out, in numbing detail, the plan that the governor ought to follow.
Turning her attention to the hors d’oeuvres on the silver tray (a trophy for best-in-show heifer at the 1947 state fair), Lucinda spreads an unfamiliar cheese on a paper-thin cracker. She is counting the minutes until the meal is served, but the cheese tastes exquisite. Now she tries a few of the tiny grapes. Also exquisite. Jonathan does know how to shop for food.
Christina calls from the kitchen, “Mom, can I get you in here for a sec?”
Lucinda wipes her fingers on a napkin and excuses herself.
Joining her children, she is pleasantly surprised to find that, as promised, order has overcome chaos. Along one counter, stacks of bowls and plates wait to fulfill their purpose; along another, covered dishes sweat and steam.
“Just about ready,” says Jonathan as he unties the flowered apron. “But how do you want to manage things for Dad? Teeny says he’ll be insulted if we cut up his food in advance. I mean, we’re serving bisque first, but for later …”
“He hates anything resembling condescension. You know that,” says Christina.
A week ago, Lucinda would have agonized over this decision. Today, all she can think about is Kit, the news she plans to spring on her family. (The phrase tidings of great joy has sprung to mind several times this morning, as if some evangelist is perched on her shoulder.)
Her children face her, expectant.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think he’ll notice if you just go ahead and make the food easier for him to eat. Everyone will be talking. It’s no big deal.” Everyone will indeed be talking.
“Exactly what I was saying,” says Jonathan. “Soup bowls, Teeny? Mom, you go back to being a guest. Just please tell Cyril it’s time to light the candles.”
Zeke will have to be helped to his chair in the dining room; he told Lucinda that he would not use the walker and insisted she take it upstairs for the day. He doesn’t want anyone even to see it. “I don’t want to shee it,” he stressed.
So Lucinda and Greg escort Zeke to the dining room while Madison is sent to take the dogs for a quick run out back. The swinging door to the kitchen is propped open, bowls of soup and baskets of bread ferried through by Cyril and Christina. Jonathan is fussing with the CD player in the living room. He chooses Handel, something rich and imperious with trumpets.
Lucinda and Zeke occupy their customary ends of the table. Cyril and Greg sit to either side of Lucinda, Madison and Christina flanking Zeke. Jonathan, who is filling everyone’s champagne glass (and this time Lucinda accepts), has a place between Madison and her father.
“I think,” Jonathan says once he’s seated, “that we need to start with a toast to Dad.” He waits for the others to raise their glasses. “One word. Indomitable.”
This isn’t the usual ritual, but nothing is as usual today. So much for the blessing; silently, Lucinda recites it, out of habit more than devotion.
The soup is a lovely shade of pink, with a spiral of green in the center. She’s sure the pilgrims never ate lobster bisque with cilantro coulis, but they never drank champagne, either. Or sat around a coffee table making small talk—or, she notes with dismay as her gaze rests on her granddaughter, texted underneath the table.
She glances at Christina, wondering if she will admonish her daughter—but from a faint glow on the buttons of Christina’s blouse, Lucinda can tell that she, too, is checking on her connections to the world beyond this table.
“Let’s all be in the here and now,” Lucinda says. She sounds shrill.
“Absolutely!” says Jonathan. “So here and now, because I just can’t stand keeping it a secret, let me share our news, something we’re really thankful for this year. Cyril and I are going to become dads!”
“Not really dads,” says Cyril, though he’s grinning. “Not technically.”
“Well, effectively!” Jonathan scolds.
“I’m finally going to be an aunt?” says Christina. “Wow. Better late than never!”
Lucinda is stunned. She cannot find trac
tion in the moment—the “here and now” she wanted them all to occupy—nor can she summon the proper expression of joy or congratulation. Zeke looks confused or skeptical; the stroke has distorted his face in ways that make it so much harder to read.
“You’re adopting?” says Christina.
“Now this calls for a toast,” says Greg.
“Okay, okay.” Cyril waves one hand in the air. “Let’s back up. Jonathan and I have been approved as prospective foster parents. We’d be taking in a teenager, a boy in high school.”
“Which is going to be a challenge,” says Jonathan.
“Which is going to change your lives like you can’t begin to imagine,” says Christina.
“Please, Teeny, as if we haven’t been through endless counseling and psychological profiles here. What we’re going to be doing is providing a stable home for a kid who’s come out as gay with no solid support, who’s had it rough and needs genuine empathy. God knows Cyril and I have been there.”
Zeke startles everyone by speaking. “Rough? You had it rough … in shkool, here?”
“Well, not here, no. I didn’t come out here. You couldn’t, back then. That would’ve been crazy. But it’s rough spending so much energy hiding who you are, not even really knowing if you’re normal. Or sane. I only realized just how rough it was years and years later. Not your fault,” he says to his father.
So he knew he was gay all the way back in high school. Lucinda says, “Do you know when this boy will move in?”
“It’s not definite yet, not completely, but we’re getting ready for it to happen in January,” says Cyril.
“What about all your traveling?”
“That will have to change. Obviously,” Cyril tells her. “I don’t have to go to so many conferences.”
“Mom, he doesn’t have to prove himself anymore. His department chair would die before she’d let Cyril go. We can now become the homebodies we’ve always longed to be.”
As Lucinda understands it, travel is what they enjoy more than anything else. But things change, of course, and so do the ways in which people see themselves. “Does he have a name, this boy?”
“Technically, we can’t discuss it, or him, till the arrangement is definite,” says Cyril. “Jonathan’s jumping the gun. But it’s great to tell you in person. It’s not like any of you are going to call up the child services people in Oakland.”
Lucinda checks on Zeke; he’s carefully, slowly ferrying soup to his mouth, breathing noisily between spoonfuls, as if he’s climbing a steep hill. He has often said that nothing anyone does or says can surprise him anymore. And why should this news surprise Lucinda? Jonathan has, after all, been brought up by parents who “give back,” as it’s fashionable to say.
“Cool,” says Madison belatedly. She appears to have put away her phone. “I won’t be the youngest anymore at these family things.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” says Christina.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonathan says.
“Nothing, little brother. And maybe we could use a little shaking up.”
Jonathan glances pointedly at their father. “I’d say we’ve had plenty to shake us up lately.”
Zeke answers Jonathan’s gaze. “You’ve thought about shish.”
Cyril leans in and says, “It’s something we’ve been exploring for a while. We could be getting in over our heads. We know that. But the rest of our life runs like a Swiss watch these days. We’re spoiled rotten. We look around us and notice how smug everyone’s getting. The people we spend all our time with. It’s like we’ve accidentally joined some privileged club and don’t even realize it. The International Smug Club.”
Jonathan doesn’t look happy to have Cyril speak for both of them, but he waits for his husband to finish. “Dad,” he says forcefully, “this isn’t some rash decision. The thing Cyril’s not telling you is that I’m the one who had to come up to speed. And I’m not ashamed to say that it’s helped me find the right therapist. And, I’ll just come right out with it, the right meds. I have a much better grasp on the world these days. I know you and Mom used to worry about me. That I was some kind of malcontent or wouldn’t find my purpose or—Mom, don’t try to deny it. It’s okay. We’re okay. More than okay.”
Had she even opened her mouth? Lucinda feels profoundly speechless. In fact, it looks as if all conversation has been permanently thwarted until Christina says, “Wow. Good for you guys. And that Smug Club? Greg and I are probably charter members.”
Greg laughs nervously. Madison smirks. Cyril says, “Not to get trivial, but who’s ready for turkey?”
Zeke has finally finished his soup. Jonathan is clearing the bowls.
So Jonathan is on an antidepressant. Lucinda should have guessed. From Ambien to Zoloft, crack to weed, her days at The House taught her plenty about drugs of all kinds: pharmaceuticals, recreationals, street names, detox. (“Time to talk pharm and rec,” one counselor joked whenever they met to discuss the girls’ habits and needs.) There is no reason this should disappoint her or make her feel even a splinter of blame, yet when she hears Jonathan imply that he didn’t have a proper “grasp” on the world, isn’t that part of a mother’s job—making sure a child can hold securely to things, so he won’t fall down too much?
Out comes the turkey on the Blue Willow platter that belonged to Lucinda’s mother, carried by Jonathan; out come the side dishes, carried by Christina, Madison, and Greg: a parade. Cyril, the grand marshal, waits at the sideboard with the carving utensils.
Greg pours red wine into a new set of glasses. Cyril takes orders for light or dark meat, gravy or none. Jonathan brings the laden plates to the table. Almost in unison, the three men sit down. But then Jonathan says, “Teeny, can you please fetch the condiments?”
She is standing, rolling her eyes at the nickname she cannot shed, when Zeke says, “Shildren, stop.” Everyone stares at him; his voice is harsh.
Seeing their fear, he softens his tone. “Your mother. Hass newj for you, too. Shake you up more,” he says, looking at Jonathan. “Lishen to her.” He turns to his daughter. “Sit.”
Lucinda did not expect this: that Zeke would make it easier. Even before the stroke, it was her job to make things easier for him. She looks plaintively at her husband; perhaps now isn’t the time after all. But even in his skewed face, she recognizes his determination. Do this, and do it now.
Full plates steam at every place on the table. Christina does not get up to fetch the condiments. Madison and her father put down their forks.
Lucinda begins, though not in the way she planned. “Christina, the news I have will make you an aunt, and Maddie, sweetheart, you do have cousins younger than you … and one who’s older. You just haven’t met them.”
Everyone stares at her. She struggles with what to say next. “We always, at this table, at all occasions like this, we always remember Malachy. Which we haven’t done today. Not yet.”
Cyril fingers the stem of his wineglass, anticipating a toast.
“But this time …” She swore she would not choke up. “I have to tell you something that your father and I have known for years but never … we could never tell you, for so many complicated reasons, but now … now we can.” She looks to Zeke; can he make it easier, again? But all he offers her is a slightly lopsided gaze, as if he, too, wonders what on earth she will say next.
“Mal had a son. His name is Christopher—he’s called Kit. He’s forty-two.”
Lucinda expected an audible reaction; Christina’s gasp is the most dramatic. Maddie utters a quiet expletive. Her mother glares at her.
Lucinda holds up her hands to ward off interruptions. “This is a very long story, which you will all hear in good time, but let me get right to the good part. A few days ago, I spoke to Kit for the first time, and he is eager to meet all of you. He’s married, and he has twins; they’re just nine years old. They live in New Jersey. They’ll come here—I think they’ll come here at Christmas. After Christm
as. Jonathan, I know you and Cyril probably have plans at home, but maybe you could come back. We’ll happily pay for your tickets.”
“How could Mal have had a child?” says Jonathan. “Who’s, what did you say? Forty … two years old? Forty-two? That would mean—” His gaze is directed at the ceiling as he adds and subtracts, makes calculations along the family timeline as if it were an abacus, each of their lives a finite row of beads.
“He was seventeen,” Lucinda says. “It was an accident. He was never really with the girl. The mother. Kit’s mother.”
Zeke startles her by speaking. “Not his wish. Not in the leasht.”
“Well, I’m guessing he was with her,” says Jonathan.
“Can we ask who she was?” says Christina, and Lucinda can tell that she is pushing beads to and fro on the timeline of her own life, thinking of girls she knew at the high school. She and Mal were only fourteen months apart in age, though the friends they chose could not have been more different.
“No one you ever met. That’s the truth, Christina.” Here is the hard part, unless she chooses to hide more than she should. “I did meet her, and I met the baby, Christopher—Kit—after he was born. For a few years I tried to help out, with money, that’s all she’d let me offer, but then she—”
“Mom,” says Christina, “was she at The House? Wait a sec, because if—”
“Stop,” says Zeke. “Lesher mother speak.”
Lucinda sighs. “I thought that if I was patient, if I waited just a few years, I could somehow bring her and the baby into our family, even though Mal was so unhappy about it. It wasn’t—obviously it wasn’t a situation Mal wanted, but I thought we could make the best of it, that once he was older and settled in his own life, he could make room for a child.” Hearing herself tell her other children that she had been willing to defy their brother’s wishes, even in support of so vital a cause, she is struck by how selfish she sounds.