“Daddy!” I turn around to see Caleb and Lucas sprinting towards me, Elise bringing up the rear. Bouncing along the sand behind them, like a can tied to the back of a car, is a purple kite.
“Daddy, look, it’s flying!” Caleb screams. For a second the kite flutters in air before crashing back to earth.
“Good job, buddy!” I call out, clapping my hands.
“We got some good air time back there,” Elise says. She’s slightly out of breath, and her cheeks are flushed from exertion. “It’s not easy with no breeze.”
“Did you see the kite that Grandpa and Ives bought me?”
“I did. Wow, that’s cool.” To Elise, I say, “Thanks for hanging with them this morning. I don’t know why I slept so late.”
She shrugs; no big thing. “We had a blast, right, guys? Anyway, Lucas and I have to head back to the city pretty soon, so we were psyched to get some beach time in first.”
“No, Mommy,” Lucas pouts. “I don’t wanna go to the city. I want to stay here with Caleb.”
The boys lock arms, a unified front. My heart wells up with pride.
Caleb has a friend, I think. He has a real friend.
Elise ruffles Lucas’s hair. “I know, sweetheart. I don’t, either. But I’ve got some things I need to take care of. Just for a few days.”
“Bummer you guys have to go,” I say, kicking the sand with my toes. “You sure you don’t want to hang for the afternoon at least?”
Elise pauses. For a second it looks like she’s considering it.
“Nah,” she says. “It’s better if we get back. I think it’s supposed to start pouring later, anyway.”
I look out at the ocean. She’s probably right—thick, angry clouds have gathered on the horizon—but I can’t shake the feeling that the real reason she’s leaving is me.
“That’s really too bad. We love hanging with you guys.”
“We should be back next weekend.”
“You’re coming to Zadie’s wedding, right?”
She glances away. My heart lurches a little. I feel like this is the end of something—something we haven’t even started.
“I’m going to try my best,” she says, and I can tell she feels the same way. “There’s some stuff going on with Lucas’s dad and—”
I wave her off. I don’t want to hear about Lucas’s dad. “You don’t need to explain.”
Elise looks hurt. “I want to be there. I really want to hear your toast.”
I wince. “Why does everyone keep saying I need to give a toast?”
“Well, you are the best man, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Isn’t that tradition? For the best man to give a toast?”
“I don’t think tradition is invited to this wedding.”
Elise laughs, a full, genuine, all-is-forgiven sort of laugh. “I love your sister’s style,” she says. “She really marches to her own drum.”
“That she does. I think everyone in my family does. Except me. I’m kind of the lame duck around here.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You really think she’s going to want me to give a toast?”
“Of course. You’ll be great. Just speak from the heart.”
“We all know what happens when I do that.” I let out a nervous laugh.
Elise smiles sympathetically. “Not to brag,” she says, “but I’m actually pretty good at wedding toasts. I’ve been a maid of honor seven times.”
“Seven times? Wow.”
“Anyway, if you want help . . .” She trails off, like she’s not sure if she really wants to finish that sentence.
“I’d love it. So, does that mean you’ll come to the wedding?”
Elise sighs. “Yes,” she says after a pause. “I’ll be there. You Goldwyn boys are awfully persuasive, you know that?”
“It’s part of our charm.”
Natural Disaster
It’s been raining for three days. It started about an hour after Elise and Lucas pulled out of the driveway, and it hasn’t let up since. I’ve spent most of the time pacing around the house, trying my best to pen an elegant, heartfelt, non–YouTube-worthy toast for my sister, and it’s going very badly. I’ve even stooped so low as to google “best man speeches” and “poems about family.” The wastebasket by my bed is filled with all my failed attempts and half starts. As of now, all I have is: “My name is Charlie, and I’m Zadie’s brother.” After that, I draw a blank.
I haven’t heard from Elise once, which is doing nothing to improve my mood. By now I would have expected a “Thanks for the lovely weekend” call or at least a “Hey, how are you?” text. Instead, nothing. Nothing but rain, rain, and more rain.
“Maybe it’ll rain itself out by the weekend,” Shelley suggests, her voice full of hope. She and Zadie have also spent the last three days pacing around the house, staring anxiously out of different windows. Like if they could just get the angle right, maybe they’ll see the sun.
For the umpteenth time, Zadie pulls out her phone. “Nope. Still showing rain for the next seven days. Not just rain: angry-looking clouds, lightning, gale-force winds.” Zadie stuffs her phone back in her pocket, annoyed.
“My mother used to say that rain on your wedding day was good luck,” Shelley says.
“Well, if that’s true, we’re going to be the luckiest couple on earth.”
“The weathermen are assholes,” Buck declares. He looks over at Caleb. “Sorry, bud. I shouldn’t have said that. The weathermen are bad people. They totally screwed me. I never would have planted all those peonies if I had known they were going to cause this.” He gestures helplessly at the rain.
“Well, to be fair to the weather people, I’m not sure they caused this,” I say.
“Oh, they caused this all right. If they had their facts right last week, I wouldn’t have spent hours and hours on my knees in the dirt. All that work for nothing. Those assholes promised me sunshine.”
“It’ll be okay.” Shelley gives him a squeeze around the arm. “Don’t you kids worry. We’ll just have to get a tent in here somehow.”
“We don’t have the budget for a tent!” my sister wails. “I knew we shouldn’t have gotten those mason jars on Etsy. We blew all our money on those stupid mason jars.” She stops, changes gears. “What if we did the whole thing in the basement? That’s, like, a big open space. And that way none of the furniture needs to be moved—”
“No daughter of mine is getting married in a basement!” Dad booms. We all turn to stare at him. “Now, I’ve held my tongue for long enough. No invitations, fine. Bake your own cake? All right. No wedding planner? Wouldn’t have been my choice but, okay, I can live with that. But the basement? No way. No how.”
Shelley darts over and begins to massage his shoulders. “What do you suggest, honey?” she asks nervously. “I mean, it’s Wednesday. The rehearsal dinner is in forty-eight hours.”
“Rehearsal drinks,” Zadie corrects.
“Rehearsal drinks.”
“I have people,” Dad says mysteriously, “who take care of this sort of thing.”
“Who are you, the Godfather?” I scoff.
“No,” Dad says huffily. “I’m your father. And more importantly I am the father of the bride. Just give me a day. There’s going to be a tent and it’s going to be the best goddamn tent you’ve ever seen in your life.”
• • •
On Friday morning I wake up to the sound of buzz saws and hammers, and for a moment I think I’m back in the city.
“Daddy, look!” Caleb scampers over to the window, pressing his forehead to the glass. “There’s going to be a circus!”
There is, in fact, a circus on the lawn, just not the kind Caleb is hoping for. Buck, wearing an orange rain slicker, is directing a team of workmen who appear to be erecting a tent.
“¡Cuidado!” Buck shouts. “¡Ten cuidado con las peonías!”
“What’s Uncle Buck doing?” Caleb says, awed.
“Why?”
“Because the rain is so bad.” A clap of thunder sends Norman cowering beneath the bed.
“Is it a hurricane?” Caleb whispers, backing slowly away from the window.
“No, bud. I don’t think so.”
“Because if it’s a hurricane, a tent won’t be enough to protect us.”
“It’s not a hurricane, Caleb, I promise. Let’s get some breakfast, okay?”
• • •
“There’s a hurricane coming,” Dad announces as soon as we enter the kitchen. He flips off the television. “It’s over Cuba right now and it’s heading our way.”
Caleb digs his fingernails hard into my palm. “I told you, Daddy.” He glares at me, betrayed.
“Terrific,” I say, and shoot my father a look. “Thanks so much.”
“What do you want from me?” Dad shrugs. “I don’t make the weather.”
“It’s not supposed to hit until Monday,” Shelley chirps. “Plenty of time for a beautiful wedding. And look! Look at that magnificent tent!”
We all turn to the window. The tent—white with turrets—is indeed magnificent. I glance over at Dad. He gives me a small smile.
“It’s looking okay, isn’t it?” he says hopefully. Beside him, Zadie is staring out the window, mesmerized. The relieved expression on her face is enough to make me want to bear-hug him. I have no idea how much this is costing him, and I don’t want to know. All I care about right now is how happy it makes my sister.
“It’s looking great,” I say. My stomach flutters nervously. Dad pulled this off with twenty-four hours’ notice, I think, and all I’ve come up with for my toast is “Hi, I’m Zadie’s brother”?
“Like for Cinderella,” Caleb breathes, momentarily forgetting the impending natural disaster.
“It is spectacular, Dad,” Zadie says, and kisses my father on the cheek. “We don’t know how to thank you.”
A howling gust of wind batters the windows.
“¡Cuidado, cuidado!” a workman screams as a giant tree branch sails overhead and comes crashing down on the tent.
Panic ensues. The wind howls again, scattering the potted plants around the perimeter of the tent like matchsticks. A porta-potty tips over, nearly crushing Ives. Workmen dash every which way, desperately attempting to batten down anything not firmly rooted in the ground.
“No!” Zadie screams.
“It’s okay!” Shelley sings out. “Come on, you guys. We have nine hours. We’ll all pitch in.” She opens a window and calls out, “Buck! Come over here for a minute. Tell us what needs to be done.”
Buck nods and jogs back towards the house. He leans in the window, rain running in rivulets off his jacket onto the kitchen floor. “All the floral arrangements are in the living room,” he says. “We’re going to have to wrap each one individually to protect them from the rain.”
“Done,” Shelley says. “Madison and I are on that. What else?”
“Those porta-potties are never going to make it in this wind.”
“I’ll call,” Dad says. “I’ll get them removed. People will just have to use the bathrooms in the house.”
“I’ll need help carrying the chuppah into the tent. Charlie and I can do that together.”
I glance at my watch and grimace. “Actually,” I announce, “I have a meeting with Fred.”
No one says a word. The rain is coming down in sheets. The sky is charcoal black, the color of midnight.
“It will be quick,” I add. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for the rehearsal. I just don’t know if I can help out with the prep work.”
Silence.
Shelley nervously chews on her thumbnail. Dad stares at the blank television. Outside, Buck shifts nervously from one foot to the other.
I’ve made a mistake. That much is clear. Admittedly, trying to squeeze in a meeting with Fred this afternoon was probably not the best plan. That being said, it didn’t occur to me that I’d be asked to do anything today. I just assumed that showing up in a tux would be enough.
Zadie looks up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Are you for real? Are you seriously having a business meeting the day of my wedding?”
“It’s not the day of your wedding,” I say, crossing my arms defensively against my chest. “The wedding’s tomorrow. Anyway, it’s just for a couple of hours. You won’t even know I’m gone.”
Zadie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she says, disgusted. “Today of all days.”
“Doing what?” I snap. “Trying to get my job back? I know this is really hard for you to understand, Zadie, but some of us actually have to work for a living. And yes, sometimes that entails doing things that are not convenient for us. But here’s a newsflash: I need this job. Caleb needs this job. You need this job. It’s really easy to sit there and criticize me and constantly point out all the manifold ways in which I’m failing as a father and a brother and a son, but at the end of the day, my career supports our family. And we’re all going to have to make sacrifices in order for me to keep it.”
Zadie’s nostrils flare. “Are you actually trying to tell me that this meeting is so important that it can’t wait until Monday? What are you and Fred discussing? Peace in the Middle East? The cure for cancer? Seriously, Charlie, tell me. I want to know what it is you’re doing that is so much more important to you than being with your family.”
I don’t immediately respond. Instead I glance over at Caleb, who is staring at us. I swear he looks embarrassed to be associated with me.
“What is the meeting about, Charlie?” Zadie goads, her voice rising. “What is it about this time?”
“This time?” I explode. “You make it sound like I’m always ruining everything!”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Because of your job, everything always turns into a friggin’ disaster!”
“Maybe my entire life is a disaster!” I shout. “My job has obviously been a disaster! My love life is clearly a disaster! Hell, I’m probably a disaster of a parent, too. You think I like that? You think I’m happy with the way everything’s turned out?”
“Enough!” my father snaps, exasperated. “Just . . . just go to your rooms.”
“What did you just say?” I turn to him, venom dripping from my jaws. “Did you just have the audacity to ground us?”
Dad’s eyes widen. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “I just meant, why don’t you both just go cool off? We have guests arriving in nine hours. There’s an actual hurricane blowing our way. We really don’t have the time or the energy to fight right now.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Zadie sniffs.
“Our rooms,” I repeat, infuriated.
“It’s raining out, you asshole!” Dad shouts at me. “There’s nowhere else to go! You don’t want to go to your room, fine. You’re a big boy. You have car keys. Go to Fred’s. Do whatever you want. But I, for one, am going to try and get this house ready for a goddamn wedding.” And with that, he swivels his wheelchair around and heads for the door.
“I’m on flowers,” Shelley says, snapping into place behind him.
“Me, too,” Zadie declares. She shoots me a final, searing look. “I’m going to do my best to enjoy tonight. With or without you.”
“Hey, Caleb, you want to come out to the garage and help me with the chuppah?” Buck says. “We need to finish glazing the base.”
Caleb looks up at me. The disappointment in his eyes causes my heart to shrivel up inside my chest like a salted slug. “You okay, Daddy?” he says.
I nod, unable to speak. I’ve never felt more wretched in my life. “I’m okay, bud,” I manage to say. My voice comes out hoarse, like I have to force the words out of my throat. “Go help Buck with the chuppah. There’s something I need to take care of right now. I’ll be back soon.”
Caleb nods and turns away. He seems unsurprised. He’s heard that line before, I
realize. He’s heard it one too many times.
You’re My Guy
I don’t need directions to Fred’s house; I’ve been there once before. During my first summer at Hardwick, Fred hosted the firm’s annual summer retreat. We all awoke at the crack of dawn, boarded a bus, and headed out to Fred’s for a long day of inter-firm bonding. The partners acted like camp counselors, organizing games of croquet and capture the flag, while the associates quietly grumbled about all the work that was inevitably accumulating on our desks while we were supposedly out having fun. At the end of the day, Fred’s wife, Ann, invited us onto the back patio for a barbecue, at which point toasts were made and everyone got pleasantly sauced. Then we boarded the bus again and returned to the city while the partners scurried off to join their families at their own Hamptons houses for the rest of the weekend.
Though I complained along with everyone else, I loved spending the day at Fred’s. For one thing, it gave me a chance to spend time with him out of the office. He shepherded me around his property, showing me its various updates and improvements. The new tiling around the pool. The stair climber in the basement. The roses he was training to grow around the garden arbor. He didn’t do this with anyone else, just me. As stupid as it sounds, it made me feel special.
• • •
I pull up beside the house. There are a few new trees, I notice, but otherwise it looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago. As I switch off the car, my heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest.
You have to do this, I tell myself sternly. You need to do this. It’s the right thing to do, for everyone involved.
Fred is standing on the front step, waiting for me. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “I know you’re busy today.”
“Of course,” I say, and extend my hand.
He hugs me instead. The move catches me off guard. I’ve never known Fred to be a hugger. In fact, he, like me, usually eschews any kind of intimacy. We’ve always spoken in a language of head nods and handshakes, all those small, subtle ways that men tell one another, You’re my guy.
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