“I’m sorry,” Jane offered. “The machine’s been giving us some trouble.”
“Trouble? Look at that!” He lifted the lid to an empty bin. “Not a single goddamn cube! Not a shaving, not a splinter. It’s not even cold.” He leaned down and stuck his head inside, continuing his tirade, which was indiscernible until he emerged with a final goddamn.
“I’ll have someone look at it,” Jane said, “but in the meantime, there’s another machine up front at Building Two near the patio.”
“So that’s how you run your business? Have the paying customers compensate for your mismanagement? Ask me to walk all the way up to another building when my room is back here? Goddamn ice will melt before I get it inside.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Jane persisted. “If you like, I’ll have fresh ice brought to your room.”
Jennalee, who had backed a careful distance away from the madman, rolled her eyes, certain she would be doing the bringing. She heard the man then announce himself as Alden Sutherland, as if that might make a difference, and go on to bury Jane’s proposal with a diatribe on the disappointing way things were being run. Jane offered a weak smile and further apology. “We’re doing our best,” she said, “and I will have someone look at the ice machine right away.”
“They’re going to have to do a goddamn sight more than look at it!” Alden Sutherland said, and he reared back and threw the ice bucket a considerable distance before striding away.
“What’s his problem?” Jennalee asked as she and her mother watched him.
“I have no idea,” Jane answered with a sigh, “but I’d venture that’s one unhappy man.”
Jennalee left it at that. She and her mother started once again for the main building. In the lobby, they found Gerald Preece leaned back in his chair. “All done,” he said. “Everything balanced, noted, stored. Perfect.”
“Good, then you can get Wesley to fix the ice machine in Six. It’s not giving ice and Alden Sutherland is quite upset.”
“Right. So how’d it go with the Laidlaws?”
“Fine. I spoke with the woman and she agreed not to take the motorcycles inside anymore.”
“That’s it? No argument? No discussion?”
“No. I explained we couldn’t permit it and she agreed.”
Gerald shook his head.
“What?” Jane asked. “She agreed. There’s no problem.”
“That’s the oldest trick there is,” Gerald replied. “Don’t you see? The best way to diffuse a situation is to agree. Do that and there’s nothing left to say, end of discussion, and they keep on as they please. I’ve seen it a million times. If she’d argued a bit, I might believe they’ll stop, but this way I don’t think so.”
“That’s absurd.”
“You forget I’m an attorney. I know about manipulation.”
“Stop making this more than it is. No one’s being manipulated. It’s over and done with.”
“No, it’s not,” Gerald said. “You wait and see.”
“Fine. And when Noel Sutherland comes back to complain again, you can handle it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a bath before dinner. Jennalee, you need to clean up, too. And don’t forget, Benita Witherspoon says you’re to wear dark skirt or slacks and white blouse, period.”
“And no boots,” Gerald added.
When Jane had gone, Jennalee settled into a chair beside her father. “You should have seen this guy beating on the ice machine, Dad. He’s like old and paunchy and he’s wearing this Speedo and it’s totally gross, shows everything.”
“Jennalee, that’s enough! Go get ready for the dinner.”
“The dinner, the dinner. I’m sick of the dinner.”
“Don’t give me any attitude, young lady. You’re going to help out tonight without a single word. It’s time you pitched in around here.”
Gerald had come up out of his chair with the admonishment and he pulled off his glasses in a gesture of finality. Jennalee met this with silence, deciding then and there she would seek out Garth Laidlaw later and engage in more of what she knew her father would hate.
Chapter 8
John Witherspoon, husband of Benita, set up a bar in the Oak Room and subsequently became its tender. No more than a long table draped in white, it displayed an array of California wines and assorted hard liquors, while ice chests hidden below held soft drinks and beer. Rows of plastic glasses surrounding a large ice bucket were the only adornment. When Sutherlands began coming in around six, they drifted his way, and soon John Witherspoon was busy dispensing the sizeable stores that Sutherland Metals had provided.
Benita Witherspoon, her daughters, and Jane and Jennalee Preece worked at placing the first course—small but colorful fruit plates—at all one hundred forty-three places. Jennalee had conceded to black slacks, a short-sleeved white blouse, and black ballet slippers, but compensated by once again going without panties. As she passed Donna Witherspoon and issued an under-the-breath, “Cunt lips,” she decided her evening must conclude with exquisite sex with an exquisite man. She looked across at Troy and Carl Southerland, either of whom would do if Garth Laidlaw wasn’t available.
The Southerlands mostly arrived en masse, a compact herd, while the Laidlaws came in last, after everyone had been seated. In between, clusters of Sutherlands milled about sloshing drinks, squealing, laughing, back slapping, then arguing as to who would sit where. Lizann Laidlaw led her family’s small procession, Earl behind her, then Garth, and, after an interval, Harley who now wore black jeans, combat boots, and a rumpled white dinner jacket over his bare chest. His stud earring had been replaced by something Jennalee couldn’t make out.
Garth appeared deceptively urban in tan slacks and brown sport coat, loafers instead of motorcycle boots, and a white shirt open at the neck. Earl was also in a sport coat but appeared at odds with it, reminding Jennalee of Noel Sutherland’s boy as he repeatedly clutched the jacket’s hem. Lizann, who had undoubtedly orchestrated her husband’s look, wore a white, strapless dress that revealed freshly sunburned shoulders while clinging to the amble bosom. Jennalee admired the engineering aspects of the arrangement before digressing to visions of Earl clinging to a nipple.
Andrea Witherspoon ended up serving the Laidlaw table, which also became the Parker and Kimmie Sutherland table, as well as the Everett and Aldora Sutherland table. So Jennalee focused on Troy and Carl, who sat with Brent and Eden Southerland and their boys, Alex and Brice, as well as Wayne and Sharon Southerland and their boys, Randall and Jordan. As Jennalee replaced one course with another, refilled water glasses, and fetched drinks from the bar, she kept track of Garth Laidlaw, who she caught looking her way several times. She began to experience a wonderfully unsettling anticipation as she sorted through potential sexual partners: Garth, so accessible and raw, not quite contained by his urban cover; Troy and Carl, interchangeable in snug polo shirts and cotton slacks, tans freshly burnished.
“Stop drooling,” Donna Witherspoon whispered over Jennalee’s shoulder. “Can’t you see they’re gay? They’d rather stick it in each other than you.”
Jennalee turned so quickly she splashed ice water across the back of a Sutherland woman who shrieked and clamored to her feet. By the time she had been patted dry, Donna Witherspoon had disappeared. Jennalee found her outside smoking. “How can they be gay?” she asked. “They’re brothers.”
“They just register that way to spare the family because Papa Southerland is in a perpetual shit fit about them. He’d just as soon they didn’t show. I think they do it to bug him. Troy’s a Southerland, but the other guy isn’t. Carl Cushing. They’re from San Francisco, live in the Castro district, butt fuck each other.”
In all her years in San Francisco, Jennalee had cruised the Castro just once, late one Friday night with three other girls. They’d seen dozens of couples, mostly male, and while they’d giggled and stared, they also had professed deep understanding as well as lamented the loss. “I don’t believe it,” Jenna
lee now said.
Donna shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, tossing her cigarette onto the lawn. “Offer to suck one off,” she added. “See what happens.”
For the rest of the dinner, Jennalee watched the two men as discreetly as possible, but all she saw was a dinner party in progress, Troy and Carl talking animatedly to others while sharing nothing more than a good laugh. She tried to picture them doing what Donna had said, but couldn’t get herself out of the picture.
Over dessert—apple pie, which Benita Witherspoon explained was a tradition—a middle-aged Sutherland man rose and introduced himself as Winslow Sutherland. He received a mix of knowledgeable laughter and applause as he began the evening’s program. “This is our second year without my father, Prescott Sutherland, who began this reunion twenty-two years ago and who, with his passing, turned the reins over to my mother Marian and myself. Dad, if you’re here with us tonight, and somehow I think you are, I know we’re doing you proud. And now I hope you’ve all enjoyed your dinner and your dessert, our home-baked pies lovingly prepared as always by Aldora Sutherland, wife of our oldest member Everett Sutherland, who turned eighty-four last month. Everett, take a bow.”
Parker Sutherland stood to assist the old man, who seemed to Jennalee more frail than when she’d shown him to his room the day before. Everett bowed, but before he could resume his seat, a voice cried out, “I’m eighty-seven, you idiot! Can’t you count?”
Haskel Southerland, who sat in his wheelchair between Vaughn and Anita, was waving his napkin. His son attempted to wrest it from him only to be slapped by the old man’s other hand, after which the old man dumped a full Scotch into his son’s lap. Vaughn, reduced to frantic mopping, grew red in the face while Anita attempted to calm Haskel, who continued to shout.
“Yes,” Winslow Sutherland said, “we mustn’t forget our Southerland brethren and yes, Haskel Southerland is indeed eighty-seven and we honor that great achievement, but must qualify it as he does represent the side of the family who elected to break away so many years ago and insert that extra letter to defile a name that had stood untrammeled since the seventeenth century.”
Vaughn Southerland excused himself from the table and Winslow Sutherland couldn’t resist a needle. “Don’t desert us now, Vaughn. Your father is just getting warmed up.” The entire assembly roared as Vaughn hurried away, and Jennalee noted Troy and Carl sharing a smirk while Anita, Vaughn’s wife, kept her head down.
“Anyway,” Winslow continued, “we’re here to honor our family ties, one hundred forty-three assorted Sutherlands with a U and an O and, of course, the Laidlaws.” Lizann beamed at the recognition and nodded to Winslow, who hurried on. “Now you all need to be aware of our schedule for the weekend. After these festivities, our next event will be the poolside barbecue at noon tomorrow. That’s a catered buffet and pool party with games and prizes for the children. In the evening, starting at seven—we’re an hour earlier this year after some of you mentioned the late start was hard on the little ones—we’ll have our entertainment, which I see includes skits by the Tom Sutherland and the Dean Sutherland families, poetry by Galen Sutherland, a bit of standup comedy from Phillip Sutherland, and, of course, our annual musical contribution by Harley Laidlaw. Should be quite a show so don’t miss it. Then on Sunday, the fourth, we’ll have a catered brunch here in the Oak Room from nine to noon and the rest of the day free. Remember, the fireworks are at Malvern’s Sanders Park at dusk. As always, we suggest you get there early for a good spot. That will, of course, conclude our weekend, quite appropriately, we believe. Monday will be departure day, checkout at eleven A.M.”
He paused as Marian Sutherland slipped up beside him to hand him a note as well as whisper in his ear. He pulled back, scanned the room, then returned to his mother, who again whispered. He looked at the note, nodded, and eased her away. “Another announcement to add to our already sizeable list,” he said, placing the note behind his stack of three-by-five cards. “We Sutherlands never seem to hold still, do we?” he said. He then took a long drink of water and began.
“Our first announcement is a difficult one, the passing in May of our beloved Cora Sutherland at ninety-two. Cora’s heart finally gave out after a valiant struggle that included two open-heart surgeries. Cora, if you recall, was the widow of Wilbur who passed on eighteen years ago. She had made a life for herself that centered around the First United Methodist Church of Longridge, and for those of you unfamiliar with the place, it’s a small town in northern Arizona. Cora, you’re in our hearts tonight.
“On a more upbeat note, we can tell you Julian Sutherland is now up and around at the Crestview Convalescent Home in Westwood, is grateful for all the cards and get well messages he’s received, and plans to be here next year, at which time he will celebrate his eightieth birthday. More power to you, Julian.
“And now, on to the year’s accolades, awards, and accomplishments, the biggest of which has been the rise of Alden Sutherland to CEO of Genecel Technologies of Palo Alto. That’s the genetic engineering firm I hope you all were smart enough to invest in eight years ago when Alden joined them. The company has absolutely taken off and we must credit Alden for much of that.”
Applause rang through the room and Alden Sutherland, fully recovered from the earlier ice machine incident and tucked into a navy suit, beamed and nodded, after which Winslow moved on to announce a host of other business-related successes. “Jesus,” Jennalee heard her father say. He had eased in behind her at the back of the room and stood open-mouthed.
After the business stories came the academic ones, a PhD and two MBAs, along with other assorted degrees and awards, working down to Clifford Sutherland, Noel’s youngest, soon to enter the formidable Miller Academy. “We also note young Kipp Sutherland, son of Kyle and Melody, has been accepted to the Wakeley Day School which, as we all know, is one of the finest preschools in the state. Congratulations to Kyle and Melody and, of course, to little Kipp.”
Next came the women’s list—assorted charitable causes, volunteer work, church and club awards—followed by a long pause, a wide grin, and the announcement of a pregnancy. “Only one,” Winslow said. “A rarity.” Much laughter and then a hush as heads turned in search. “Parker Sutherland,” Winslow continued, “and his wife, the lovely Kimmie, are expecting their first child in October. Parker, take a bow. You too, Kimmie.”
Harley slapped his cousin on the back as Parker took his wife’s arm and helped her to her feet. They smiled briefly to acknowledge the applause and quickly sat while Harley leaned in to offer a comment. Jennalee, watching from across the room and without any cousin of her own, studied this elusive bond.
“And we all know,” Winslow was saying, “that you can never have too many sons.” Laughter now while Kimmie poked a fork at her uneaten apple pie.
“Lastly,” Winslow said, now down to the note his mother had given him, “we have a somewhat unique achievement. It seems our own Harley Laidlaw, gifted violinist, has become a finalist in the prestigious Wohlford Competition, to be held next week in New York City. Harley is one of six finalists selected from a field of more than one hundred. As it is with Academy Awards, we understand it a great honor simply to be a finalist. Congratulations, Harley. We wish you well and look forward to your playing tomorrow night.”
All eyes were turned to Harley, whose own gaze was locked on his mother. Jennalee could see the woman attempt to repair the breach of telling Marian as applause rang through the room. When Harley moved as if to flee, his mother’s stricken face was enough to capture even Jennalee, and Harley, who had scooted back his chair, relented. Parker affectionately nudged his cousin.
“And I think that’s about it for now,” Winslow said. “A wonderful year. We’re proud of all our Sutherlands. Congratulations one and all.” The final applause was brief and half the crowd left immediately. Vaughn Southerland, who had returned midway through the announcements, pulled his father’s wheelchair back so roughly that Anita called for caution, only to
be visually chastised into silence by her husband. They were gone in seconds.
Troy and Carl stayed on, as did the Southerlands sharing their table, all now quite animated. Jennalee noted they’d kept John Witherspoon busy and the two gorgeous men seemed well on their way to inebriation. She cleared their table as slowly as possible and heard bits about plays in San Francisco, a trip to Barbados, and a thriving software business, none of it enough to make the announcements. “God forbid they include a Southerland with an O,” Carl observed.
When this group rose and started out the door, it left just a small cluster at the bar, John Witherspoon now drinking with them, and Harley, Parker, and Kimmie at the Laidlaw table. “Are we done?” Jennalee asked.
Her mother nodded. “Benita said they’ll finish the cleanup in the morning.”
“Then I’m gonna go hang out.”
Jane started to inquire, then stopped. “Not too late,” she said. “Busy day tomorrow. We’ll need you at the barbecue.”
“No problem,” Jennalee said. “Where’s Dad anyway?”
“He went to lie down and I think I’ll join him. And Lee…”
“What?’ Jennalee saw the gathering behind her mother’s eyes, all the don’ts and be carefuls. When Jane kept them inside, Jennalee kissed her cheek. “See ya,” she sang and sauntered toward the Laidlaw table.
She had seen Garth leave earlier and was trying to figure a good way to ask his whereabouts when Harley waved her over. “Park and Kimmie, this is Lee Preece,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Her folks own the place and she plays a mean piano.”
Jennalee shook hands and found Kimmie cool and tentative, trembling slightly. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll get some rest,” she said, and she rose and slipped away before anyone could protest.
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