Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

Bridget did not want to get high with her children. She never had, never would. Still, her feelings were hurt that they hadn’t even invited her to join them. They asked Gwen. They asked Jackie. Bridget would have said no, anyway, but they could have at least included her, just to be nice. When they came back to the porch, talking loudly and laughing uncontrollably, she left them out there and went into the kitchen, where all three dogs, who were soggy from having waded into the pond twice, were underfoot and pacing, in search of dropped food.

  She’d lost control of the evening. She didn’t know where Will was hiding, Jackie was drunk, Kevin was so stoned he was almost comatose, and she had no idea what Oscar was even doing here.

  Henry was on the counter, licking a stick of butter, while Eliza, terrified of the dogs, had apparently gone into hiding.

  Bridget shooed the cat off the counter, got the lettuce from the fridge, and started making a salad, wondering what this evening would be like if Sterling were here. Better, she decided. She wanted him with her in the kitchen, laughing at the chaos, reaching for her hand to give her palm a kiss. But then she remembered he was on a deadline. He likely would have excused himself to go up and work in Will’s loft. And where would Will have stayed? In the guesthouse. Then where would Isabelle have stayed? Upstairs in her room, right next to Oscar and his 215 pounds’ worth of Hadley and Bear. It certainly would have been more crowded, but crowded-good or crowded-bad?

  Bridget squeezed a lemon, a drop of which flew into her right eye.

  Her father was getting hitched, and she had been dumped. What a turn of events. She vaguely remembered the first time she met Lottie, recalled going on a picnic with the Langs when she was six or maybe seven years old. But where were they? Central Park? The English Garden in Munich? Or was it Regent’s Park in London? Her mom and Lottie were standing together, both wearing knee-length dresses and flats. Johannes and Lottie’s son, who was about her age, was lying down on a blanket staring at the clouds, and she remembered thinking he was no fun whatsoever. He had a stomachache or some ailment that day and refused to play. Bridget was running in circles around the blanket, where Gwen, who was only a baby, was sleeping. When Bridget stopped running, she reached out, dizzy, and wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, but when she looked up it wasn’t her mother at all. Bridget recalled feeling mortified, but Lottie looked down at her, thrilled, it seemed, by this (accidental) show of affection, and she patted Bridget on the head. “Sophia,” she said, with a bright smile, “I’ve always vanted a girl. May I keep her?” For a moment, Bridget worried that her mistake had cost her her family, and she wanted nothing more than her mother.

  Why on earth had Oscar come home without Matt? Without any warning whatsoever? And with all these people here, when would she get a chance to talk to him about it?

  She worried that whatever had happened, she was partly to blame. Maybe she’d jinxed Oscar and Matt by not giving them the wedding they’d asked for last year: a ceremony at her house out on the lawn under a tent. Bridget wanted to host it for them, but they’d picked a date only six months away and she wondered how she would manage to get her house ready. When Walter called after a storm to say that a pipe had burst in the guesthouse, a big tree was down, blocking the driveway, and her garage door was broken again, Bridget knew that there wasn’t nearly enough time to repair all the damage, get the field mown, and hire a florist, a band, a caterer, and a company that would deliver tables, chairs, tents, and porta-potties. Above all that, she was afraid the event would be a disappointment or, even worse, an embarrassment. What would they do if the power went out, as it so often did, in the middle of the party? So she apologized to Matt and Oscar and went to Edward, who said they could have the party at his estate. Thanks to Marge, it was a beautiful wedding, much better than anything Bridget could have pulled together, but she felt sorry she hadn’t hosted it herself. Matt and Oscar had wanted a fun, casual affair, grilled steaks and a bluegrass band. Instead they got black tie and a string quartet.

  Oscar complained to Bridget afterward that it was all a bit too precious, but Matt was grateful. “I loved every part of it,” he told Bridget, sounding almost convincing.

  “Come on, you hate caviar,” Oscar said. “And you’re certainly not a fan of waltzing.”

  “I waltz just fine,” said Matt with a laugh. In his typically goofy way, he counted out loud and demonstrated: “One-two-three, one-two-three…”

  Imagining Matt in their DC apartment, sitting alone at the Restoration Hardware dining table she’d given them, made Bridget upset, wondering what had gone wrong between them. She let out an exaggerated, heavy sigh.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for me,” Oscar said, coming into the kitchen.

  “I’m worried,” said Bridget. “Why isn’t Matt with you?”

  “Because I don’t want to be anywhere near him.”

  “But, Oscar—”

  “And he certainly doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.”

  “What on earth happened?”

  Oscar’s jaw was clenched. “Matt wrecked everything, and then I overreacted and made it even worse.”

  This statement did not surprise Bridget as much as she wanted it to. Oscar had always tended to jump headfirst without checking the water.

  “Wrecked everything how?” she asked.

  But Oscar was on the floor now, playing with Hudson and Hadley, while Bear came over and tried to sit on his lap. Bridget watched while he wrestled with the dogs, looking like he did in high school.

  He got back on his feet, brushed off his shirt, and reached for the martini shaker. “I feel ridiculous coming home like this, but I need some time to reboot, figure out what to do next. I’m not staying long,” he said, “just for the summer, if that’s okay. I can work from here and take some time to sort my life out.”

  The whole summer? Oscar worked at a political think tank promoting renewable energy and green initiatives. Bridget wasn’t so sure it was the kind of work one could do remotely. “Of course,” she said. “Whatever you need.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  Bridget went back to whisking the vinaigrette. “Have you seen Will?” she asked, wondering if it was too early to dress the salad.

  “Not since my last martini.” He was pouring himself a new one from the sweaty shaker, and then he got a bottle of wine and a beer from the fridge.

  “Easy does it,” Bridget said, knowing booze wasn’t going to help anything, especially since Oscar got hit with the worst hangovers.

  “It’s not all for me,” he said, laughing. “It’s for everyone.”

  Gwen came inside with her phone pressed to her ear. She held up a finger, pointed in the direction of Bridget’s bedroom, and then went in, closing the door behind her. Bridget figured she was either getting an update from Marge or talking to the producer on her show.

  “Isabelle told me you and your boyfriend called it quits,” said Oscar. “Sorry to hear it.”

  “I wish I could say Sterling and I came to a mutual decision,” Bridget admitted, “but I was blindsided. He dumped me.”

  “I guess we’re a couple of sad sacks then, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?”

  “For different reasons maybe, but yes.” He had a look of defiance rather than one of sadness as he said, “Matt’s with someone else.”

  Bridget dropped the oily whisk on the counter. “No, he’s not,” she said. “What? No, I can’t—”

  “It’s been going on for a while,” said Oscar. “He’s completely fallen for the guy, and I can’t even blame him.”

  “Who? How could he—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I told him to fuck off, and I left him.”

  Bridget started to ask for an explanation, but Oscar cut her off.

  “Not tonight, okay? I don’t want to get into it.” With the wine under his arm, the bottle opener sticking out of his shirt pocket, a beer in one hand and his martini in the other, Oscar walked carefully back out to the porch, where Isabelle and Jackie greet
ed him with a high-pitched “Whoop!” These people needed food and fast.

  The side door opened, filling the kitchen with the smell of charcoal-grilled chicken, and Will came in with a platter that he quickly covered with foil.

  “So that’s where you were hiding,” she said. “Do we have enough food?”

  “Not really,” he said. He put down the chicken and started arranging thin slices of cooked potatoes in the oval Le Creuset baker. “We’ll make it work.” He pointed to the empty ice cube trays. “Could you refill those? The ice maker isn’t working.” He seemed nervous.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, taking the plastic trays to the sink and then carefully placing them in the freezer, water lapping over the edges and onto the floor.

  “You need a plumber, too,” he said, clearly preoccupied. “The powder room toilet isn’t flushing.”

  “Oops,” Bridget said. “I knew the sink wasn’t draining.” She went to the breakfront, and as she opened the lower cabinet, Eliza leapt out and ran away. “I have to squeeze in one more place setting on the table,” she said.

  “Two more,” Will said.

  Bridget counted again. “We’re seven,” she said.

  “We’re eight.”

  “Wait,” said Bridget, turning to face him. “You invited a date?”

  “Emma.” He was flushed. “I really want you to meet her.”

  “Tonight? You’re sure you want to expose her to this level of craziness?”

  “I invited her before I knew Oscar was in a crisis,” Will said. From the porch came the sound of uproarious laughter. “Am I going to regret it?”

  There was a loud knock on the front door. Ears up and fur flying, all three dogs started running, barking, and knocking into each other on their way to the entry. The cats ran up the stairs to hide.

  “Another adult is welcome,” said Bridget. “The drunk twenty-somethings are outnumbering us. Want me to—?”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” Will wiped his hands on a dish towel, tucked in his shirt, and turned back to Bridget. “Remind me to tell you later: Caroline called earlier to talk about… some things.”

  “Oh, good!” Bridget said, delighted. “I told you she’s committed to us.”

  “She was prickly,” he said, backing away. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  As soon as he turned his back to walk to the front door, Bridget dropped the smile and took a moment to close her eyes and breathe. She cursed Sterling in her mind, wishing upon him a severe migraine, the kind he often got that hurt so much he would have to sit in a darkened room for several hours. She was instantly sorry for having such an evil thought and took it back, hoping instead that he was at the very least suffering from the pain of missing her as much as she was missing him. She heard Will coming back, the sound of laughter between him and Emma, and steeled herself to get through the evening.

  Carrying the two extra place settings out to the porch, she took one look at the table and realized how tight it was going to be.

  Isabelle had a cordless speaker on the low table beside the couches, and the music had gone from mellow indie rock to the Grateful Dead, a band her kids had always loved for reasons Bridget couldn’t understand. Kevin, who seemed to be rousing from his coma-like state, and Oscar were cracking up about something.

  Jackie seemed bewildered by their conversation. “Wait,” she slurred, “I ’on’t get it. Cars are stolen around here, but iss because people don’t bother to lock them?”

  “We leave our keys in the visor,” Kevin said. “Or we used to. Now it’s like…” He raised his hands and then dropped them. Bridget didn’t know what that gesture signified other than that he was too stoned to hold up his arms.

  “Does anyone hear that?” Isabelle asked, looking up at the porch ceiling.

  “Hear what?” asked Bridget.

  “I think I have tinnitus,” she said, sticking a finger in her ear. She turned to Kevin. “Do you say tin-i-tis or tin-EYE-tis? Wait, where were you?”

  “Sitting here, I think,” said Kevin, as though doubting his very existence.

  “No, I mean, I thought you moved away somewhere.”

  “I was in Maine,” said Kevin, “until the construction company laid me off. So now I’m living with my mother for a while.”

  “So, you guys all live with your moms?” Jackie asked. She didn’t sound judgmental; she sounded dumbfounded.

  “It’s cheap,” said Kevin.

  “It’s a choice,” said Isabelle.

  “It’s temporary,” said Oscar.

  Isabelle grabbed on to Bridget’s hand. “Kevin says if I buy stuff like paint and smackle and wood stain—”

  “Sparkle,” said Oscar.

  “Spackle,” said Kevin.

  “—I can fix up the guesthouse.”

  “My apartmen’ ’s a dump,” said Jackie, “but you do not move back in with my mother.” Jackie had had way too much wine. Bridget picked up the bottle and moved it over to the dining table. Then she offered the basket of crackers to the kids, leaving it right in front of Jackie. “I have to ask, wha’s it like?” Jackie said. “You guys have so much… everything.”

  “We do?” asked Isabelle, scrolling through her iTunes playlist to change the song.

  Look around you, Bridget wanted to say.

  “Horses and Porsches and sheeps, oh my,” Jackie said. “Mr. Stratton is the richest, youngest old person I ever met. Who likes their life as much as that? Iss not even normal.” Jackie was pulling off the Ugg boots, and Bridget noticed she was wearing a pair of fleece Christmas socks Will had given her. “I mean,” said Jackie, “the trip he’s taking iss the craziest shit I ever heard of.”

  “What trip?” asked Isabelle.

  “Is he planning his honeymoon?” Bridget asked, realizing that his marriage to Lottie would extend past the ceremony itself, which was about as far as Bridget’s mind had gone.

  “Honeymoon?” Jackie said. “Pffffft.”

  “What?” Bridget asked. “It’s not a honeymoon?”

  Before Jackie could answer, Gwen came back out and sat down. “Marge says Dad’s fine. They’re having croque monsieur for dinner.”

  “Oooh la la,” said Jackie, laughing hard. “Let me tell you peoples something: words like ‘Cock Mister’ and ‘bon voyage’ were not bandied about in my household growing up.”

  “Did I miss something?” said Gwen.

  “The trip, the trip,” Jackie said, trying, it seemed, to be helpful. “He’s spending hella cash on this whole shebang.”

  “What trip?” asked Gwen.

  “How much money?” Bridget said.

  Jackie stretched her arms out to indicate the extent of his spending.

  “I don’t understand,” said Bridget. “Where’s he going?”

  “Where isn’t he going?” She was cracking herself up. “Jackie,” she said, mimicking Edward’s deep voice and British accent, “fetch me two fuhhst clahhss tickets on SpaceX.”

  “No way!” said Oscar, and the kids all started arguing about the desirability of vacationing on Mars.

  Bridget wanted to get back to the point. “Where exactly are they going?” she asked.

  Gwen leaned in and whispered, “Forget it. She’s pickled.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about a trip,” Bridget whispered back.

  “He hadn’t said anything about getting married either,” said Gwen, “and that’s happening, so…”

  “Are you talking about me?” said Jackie.

  Bridget looked up. “We were talking about Edward.”

  “Nahhh.” Jackie’s mood seemed to swing wildly from giddy to paranoid. “I kinda feel like everybody here hates me.”

  “Oh, no one hates you!” said Oscar.

  “Hate,” Kevin said, “is a waste of human energy.”

  “It’s my left ear,” said Isabelle, covering it with her hand. “It’s definitely ringing. Nobody hears that?”

  Jackie started putting her high heels back on but was hav
ing a hard time because of Bridget’s thick socks on her feet. She was mumbling to herself, heading, it seemed, toward some kind of meltdown.

  “We’re all having a fine time, and no one hates anyone,” Bridget said. “Where are you going, Jackie?”

  “To Queens. I don’t like it here.”

  Bridget tried to steer Jackie toward the table. “Let’s eat some dinner, and then we’ll drive you to Edward’s for a good night’s sleep. Gwen? A little help?”

  And there was Emma, looking lovely at first glance, in a long tiered skirt and a tank top, floating out on the porch, giving everyone a timid wave. “Will asked me to tell you all the dogs got out, and they’re swimming in the pond, so he’s—”

  “I’ll get ’em,” Oscar said, hauling himself up and going out the porch door to the yard.

  Emma introduced herself to Bridget and then to Gwen, while Bridget told Kevin where to sit. “And Jackie, why don’t you sit between Kevin and Oscar, who will be right here, and Isabelle can sit on Kevin’s left.” Jackie took a wobbly step, just as Oscar’s soaking-wet dogs came bounding in, dripping water all over the floor. They stopped right next to Jackie. Everyone froze. And then the big dogs shook.

  Jackie, dripping water from her eyebrows to her knees, sat down hard in her chair at the table, dropped her head down, and threw up in her own lap.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Bridget and Gwen were standing over poor Jackie, having maneuvered her up the stairs, dressed her in pajamas, and tucked her into Isabelle’s bed. Gwen got a glass of water for the night table, while Bridget put a plastic bucket next to the bed.

  “Well, that was fun,” Gwen said quietly. “I think puking might be my favorite emotion. There’s nothing quite like… letting it all out.”

  The smell of vomit on the porch had been so off-putting that Oscar, Isabelle, and Kevin had taken their dinner plates and another bottle of wine to the guesthouse. Meanwhile, Emma and Will were in the living room, having what must have been the most unusual first date ever.

  Jackie let out a noisy snore.

  “What a beautiful ending to a truly exquisite day,” Bridget said, stifling a laugh. Gwen couldn’t stifle it, and Bridget shushed her.