The Virginity of Famous Men

by Christine Sneed

  “My dad’s supposed to be here soon. He’ll help you. But right now, my mom asked if you’d give her a hand in the kitchen while I’m at the hair salon.”

  “You’re leaving?” he asked. “There’s no way we’re going to have everything ready before the guests start arriving.”

  “I’ll only be gone for an hour. The salon’s six minutes away.”

  “It’s too windy to get your hair done. Just put it up in a bun.”

  She shook her head. “No, I have to look good.”

  “Yes, I know, I know,” he said wearily. “Because today’s an important day.”

  They had spent most of the three previous days cleaning and decorating the house, making several trips to Home Depot and Target, and trying hard not to fight in a way that would damage them for good. He’d been right but she refused to admit it aloud: the jubilee was a crazy idea. She didn’t know why she’d thought that after the planning was done, everything else would be easy. Because this was decidedly not the case.

  While she was at the salon submitting to the expert hands of Miriam, her grandmotherly hairstylist of the past four years, the winds picked up even more and it started raining hard, everyone inching along four-lane Sheridan Road when usually they sped heedlessly through the daisy chain of stoplights. By the time Karen was home again, her French twist had wilted and the wisps that Miriam had curled on the sides of her face had gone limp. Glen was right—a wasted effort in every way. And things only grew more nerve-racking as the day progressed. Her father arrived in a foul mood, still angry, it appeared, over an argument with Kevin, barely managing to say hello to Karen and her mother before he stomped outside to the tent to help Glen with the lights. “This is the most fuss I’ve ever seen for someone who’s not actually getting married,” he grumbled as he left the kitchen.

  Her mother gave her a sympathetic look. “He’ll be fine once he eats lunch. His blood sugar is probably low.”

  “Why do people have parties?” asked Karen, peevish. “Everyone hates them.”

  “I don’t hate them, but I do wish they were easier to prepare for.”

  By one o’clock, there had been two funnel-cloud sightings—the first near Geneva in Kane County, the second in Lake County near McHenry. O’Hare had suspended takeoffs and landings, and although Midway hadn’t, not yet, it would likely do so soon. Several of her and Glen’s out-of-town guests called or sent texts to say that their flights were delayed or canceled, and they didn’t know if they would make it at all now. Would Karen call the Drake and the Four Seasons to see if she could get full refunds on their rooms because the rate, even with the discount, was just a little too much for them to swallow whole?

  Other disheartening questions followed: Would she think about postponing the couplehood jubilee until next weekend? Since it was at their home, not at a reception hall that had to be reserved months in advance … since the airlines would be willing to let them use the same plane tickets because of the bad weather … since they had been looking forward to seeing her and Glen so much and didn’t want to miss their big day!

  The messages and requests kept coming, her phone chiming and ringing and blinking like a frantic miniature robot. Glen’s phone was doing the same frenetic dance, his friends also writing or calling to say they were delayed at the airport, or the highways weren’t safe, and although some of them had always wanted a Dorothy-and-Toto moment, they doubted that they would have the same happy fate as the girl from Kansas if they were sucked into a tornado too.

  By three o’clock, the sky had turned a soupy green, the maples in the front yard had lost dozens of leaves to marauding winds, and the red and violet-blue impatiens had been flattened by hard rain. Her father and Glen had managed to set up the tables and chairs in the tent and attach the lights to its interior perimeter by stapling them to the vinyl, which was probably not allowed, but in grim frustration, the two men had done it anyway. Karen didn’t complain because they both looked exhausted and bedraggled, her father’s wispy gray hair swirled high on his head like a meringue, Glen’s closely resembling the wet pelt of the lake-loving collie she’d had as a girl.

  “If anyone shows up for this thing,” said Glen. “I’ll be amazed. But Frank made it. He’s camped out at the Drake already. I think he got in last night.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Karen’s mother. “More food for us if only a few guests are able to make it.”

  “What are we going to do with a hundred and ten chicken breasts, Sue?” Mr. Quinn asked his wife. “And who’s going to eat all of those goddamn cupcakes?”

  Instead of a big layer cake, Karen had baked two hundred cupcakes—chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla—which she and her mother had just spent the last hour and a half frosting and adorning with black and white sprinkles.

  Glen was eyeing the cupcakes. “You can have one,” said Karen. “Two if you must.”

  He chose a chocolate one and ate it in three bites. “Let me make sure this one’s all right too,” he said, reaching for a strawberry.

  At four thirty, Karen went into the bedroom and put on her dress. Glen had not yet changed into his rented tux, nor had her parents put on their party clothes, but when she went back to the kitchen in her new white dress with its small lavender flowers embroidered around the hem and bodice, her mother was dressed and combed, and her father, Mrs. Quinn informed her, was changing now. “Did Glen see you in your dress?” her mother asked. “He’s not supposed to.”

  “He hasn’t yet,” said Karen. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He’s outside talking to his friend Frank. He arrived a few minutes ago.”

  “I didn’t hear the doorbell ring.”

  “I think it’s broken,” said her mother. “The storm must have done something to it.”

  “No,” said Karen, tears surging hotly to her eyes. “It’s been broken for a while. I completely forgot about it. Glen must have too. Or else he didn’t feel like doing anything about it.”

  “Don’t say that, honey. He’s been working hard all week.” Her mother hugged her, enveloping her in the scent of roses. “Everything’ll be fine. It’s time to have some fun now. I put a sign on the front door telling your guests to come around to the back. The grass is a little wet, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “I bet only ten people will make it,” Karen said moodily. “We had ninety-two yeses before the worst weather of the year picked today to show itself. This is such a disaster.”

  Her mother pulled back and looked at her, trying not to smile. “Spoken like a true bride. I said the same thing about a hundred times on the day your father and I were married.”

  “Glen and I aren’t getting married.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. Between you and your father, I haven’t forgotten for one second.”

  Someone was knocking on the front door now, and Karen turned to run to the front of the house, but her mother held on to her arm. “I’ll get it. You go outside and talk to Frank and Glen. Kevin and Rae and the boys just got here too. I think they’ll all be glad to have you out there to mediate.” She paused. “You look beautiful, honey. Try to enjoy yourself a little. Don’t worry about who can and can’t make it. Have some wine, eat some nuts, and relax.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice catching.

  “Yes, you can. Go out there and have fun. Everyone here loves you.”

  Later, after thirty-seven intrepid guests had arrived and were eating chicken breasts and pesto-laced penne with what seemed to be great cheer, the storm having been outwitted, Karen looked up from the table where she and Glen sat with her two ebullient, sugar-addled nephews and Glen’s friend Frank and knew that she needed to make a speech. Her eyes, in weak homage to the sky, had been leaking tears all evening, and seeing these heroic relatives and friends before her (including the twice-divorced Bill, who was relieved that neither of his ex-wives had made it), she started to cry in earnest. They had all risked their lives and nicest clothes and coiffed hair in order
to deliver themselves and their beribboned boxes or sober white envelopes to the gift table with its vase of pink roses and crystal candy dishes with three different kinds of M&Ms. They had all willingly consented to offering her and Glen a whole day of their lives, a whole weekend, in some cases, and had brought them presents and agreed to observe the social contract that stated you should celebrate your friends’ good fortune as if it were your own.

  She’d drunk three and a half glasses of red wine and had not eaten a real meal since the previous night, other than a few bites of chicken and two cupcakes that had fallen on the floor and were not fit to serve to guests. She was tipsy and tearful and a little dizzy as she stood up from the table, Glen smiling at her uneasily. She tried to give him a reassuring look but her face felt rubbery, her lips huge and gummy when she smiled.

  “I just want you all to know that I’m really grateful you’re here,” she said, her voice quavering. “I don’t care that weddings are so expensive.” She felt Glen put a cautioning hand on the small of her back but didn’t look down at him. “I mean, I don’t care that this wedding, even though it’s not really a wedding, cost my parents and Glen and me so much because many of you have had real weddings and spent a lot more on them than we did on this party. I’m so happy you were able to come, and if you want to take your gifts back, you should. You being here is gift enough for us.”

  Glen had stood up and was trying to get her to sit down again. A number of the guests were chuckling, but others regarded Karen with a mixture of confusion and concern. At the next table, she noticed blearily that her father was staring at his plate and her mother’s cheeks had turned very pink. Glen managed to get her back in her chair, and he laughed uncomfortably before saying, “I think the stress of planning this party has gotten to Karen a little. The weather certainly hasn’t helped either.” He laughed his pained laugh again. “Everyone, please have some more wine and thank you all for coming. It’s almost time for cupcakes and then some dancing. Our deejay is stuck in St. Charles because the roads are flooded out by him, but my buddy Frank and I will spin some good tunes once we get the stereo set up.”

  Glen sat back down and took Karen’s hand, squeezing it gently a few times. “Thank you,” she whispered loudly. “You’re so nice. I hope they believed me when I said that they could have their gifts back. I don’t care about the money anymore. I’m just so happy we had this party.”

  “I am too,” he said. “But maybe you should drink some water and leave the wine alone for a little while.”

  When she teetered inside a few minutes later to help her mother bring out the cupcakes, she felt lightheaded and asked if it would be all right if she sat down for a few minutes. Her mother nodded, and Karen walked very carefully into the next room, using the walls to keep herself upright as she moved toward the sofa. She took off her shoes and stretched out, and then suddenly it was very dark and she woke to find Glen and her mother standing over her, telling her that she should go upstairs to bed.

  “Did I miss the dancing?” she asked, afraid to move because she knew that her head would protest. “Did everyone go home?” Her mouth was very dry and tasted strongly of peanuts.

  “Yes, but don’t worry,” said Glen. “We’ll have another party.” He exchanged a smile with Karen’s mother. “If your mother lets us.”

  “I’m sorry that I fell asleep and made you do all of the work,” said Karen. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “We tried,” her mother said, “but you told us to leave you alone. You don’t remember?”

  “I must have been talking in my sleep.”

  Glen smiled. “Likely story.”

  “I remember making a speech before I passed out. Or did I dream that?”

  “Nope,” he said. “That was real.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” her mother said, glancing at Glen. “You were very sweet.”

  “I was drunk,” said Karen. “I hope everyone knew that.”

  “I don’t think there was any doubt,” said Glen.

  It was after midnight by the time her parents and the last guest had driven off with extra cupcakes and chicken, Karen kissing them all good-bye, unsteady on her feet. The stormy conditions had departed too, the sky now punctuated with stars. As Glen helped Karen unzip her dress, his hands warm against her back, she wondered if any of their friends had reclaimed their gifts, but didn’t ask.

  “Do you think people had fun?” she asked instead, turning to look at Glen. He was already undressed, his tuxedo sheathed in plastic and hanging primly on his closet door.

  “I’m sure they did,” he said. “I did.”

  “I think I did too,” she said. “But I worry that our friends hate me now because of my speech.”

  “No one hates you, Karen. They probably love you even more. It all went well, even with the tornados and the broken doorbell and your tipsy speech.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  He yawned. “I’m exhausted. I’m glad we don’t have to worry about the party anymore.”

  “God, it was a lot of work.”

  “Having fun often is,” he murmured.

  Within a few minutes, he was asleep, but after her three-hour nap, she lay awake for a while before getting up to drink a glass of water. In the bathroom, waiting for the water to run cold, she looked out the window and was startled to see the tent below her.

  In the darkness, its peaked roof looked like a mirage, the work of fairies. If she closed her eyes and counted to five, she believed that it would be gone before she opened them again.

  OLDER SISTER

  By the beginning of her second year in college, Alex had learned that she did not like what happened when she drank, nor did she like to be around people who were drinking competitively. Something else she learned was that she had an older sister—technically, a half sister. It was her mother who told her that she and her younger brother, Chris, had a second sibling, even though Mrs. Fiore was not the woman who’d given birth to her. The girl’s mother was an ex-girlfriend of Alex and Chris’s father’s, a woman named Michelle, who, twenty-one years earlier, had punished him for his decision to marry someone else a year and a half after their daughter, Penelope, was born by moving to France, where she’d found work as an English teacher at a boarding school a few miles outside of Paris.

  When Mrs. Fiore told Alex that she had a sister, they were having lunch at a large and noisy deli on the southern fringe of the Washington, D.C., college where Alex was about to begin her sophomore year. It was the last day of move-in week, which had been very hot and humid, and now it was raining hard. People kept entering the deli with dramatic exclamations, stomping their feet on the waterlogged mats and shaking out their umbrellas, some of the drops landing on Alex’s bare legs.

  Alex stared at her mother after hearing her embarrassed revelation. Mrs. Fiore’s arms were crossed, hands clenching her elbows as if she’d caught a chill. She was small and dark-haired, a high-strung, smiling woman whose laughter was timorous but frequent. Finally Alex asked, “Does Chris already know? Why are you the one telling me this? Why not Dad?”

  Her mother wiped under her eyes with the napkin she’d been using while they ate turkey sandwiches and the sweet potato fries the deli was known for. She had trouble meeting Alex’s gaze, something that made Alex feel both impatient and sorry.

  “Your brother doesn’t know yet,” her mother said. “But Dad’s supposed to talk to him this afternoon. I’m finally telling you because for years your father and I went back and forth over when and how to tell you, but he could never make up his mind, and now Penelope is insisting on meeting you, so there’s no more stalling.”

  Alex blinked. “Why did they name her Penelope? Why does she want to meet me?” She could feel her heart racing and tried to take deep breaths. She would grow light-headed if she breathed too shallowly; she might even faint, something that had happened twice in the past year, both times at parties with classmates who
had drained a keg before moving on to a cabinet filled with hard liquor.

  “She wants to meet both you and Chris, but it doesn’t have to be at the same time. I think she’s coming to Washington next month, which is why I’m telling you now. You have a little time to prepare yourself before she arrives.”

  “What if I don’t want to meet her?”

  Her mother hesitated. “Well, think about it for a little while. But I do think you should see her. At least once.”

  “Has Dad seen her since she and her mom moved to France?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has?” said Alex, taken aback. “When?” She had no idea when her father might have seen this other daughter, nor any memory of prolonged and contentious silences between her parents. Her father’s mood was so steady that behind his back, she and Chris sometimes called him Mr. Sunshine.

  “He saw her a few times when Michelle brought Penelope over from France to visit with her relatives in Madison. But he can talk to you about that. Penelope lives in New York now. She graduated from NYU last year.”

  “She’s still there?” Alex paused. “What does she look like?”

  “I think she’s working at a law firm as a paralegal.” Her mother smiled. “She’s a cute girl. But so are you, honey. You’re prettier than both she and her mother are.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Alex, embarrassed.

  “It’s true, honey. You’re the prettiest girl I know.”

  “I’m your daughter. You have to say that.”

  Her mother regarded her, less sheepish now, the paper napkin back on her lap. “No. I don’t.”

  Alex knew her mother was being sincere; she also knew that this prettiness was one of the reasons why she wasn’t going to drink anymore, even if the boys who liked her pressured her to do it, even if her girlfriends jeered at her, mascara and thick eyeliner smeared garishly under their eyes, their euphoric, drunken faces laughing at her sudden, unaccountable prudishness, especially after such a spectacular first year of strip poker and quarters and beer bongs wet with the spit of other lonely students who would throw up all over the sidewalk on the way home or at the foot of their beds or in the dorm hallway, where the prim, Sunday-mass-attending RA would emerge at seven A.M. and step in it on her way to the shower, to the great hilarity of the few students who were awake to witness it.