“Ah yes, Grisha,” Tom said. “I try not to take his devotion for granted.”
“Grisha was very helpful,” I managed to add, making a mental note for later conversation that “meatball creature” equaled “Grisha.”
“And Thomas tells me that you realized that there was a calf left behind,” his mother continued. “How did the possum feather your nose?”
I plunged on. “I just knew it,” I said, “that Margo—sorry, the elephant—had a baby.”
I couldn’t look at Tom.
“My namesake,” said Margo Pennington with great humor. She leaned toward me and lowered her voice in a gesture of confidentiality. “I know Tom named that elephant after me. I know all about it. I’m not happy that he did, but he tells me that your mother took your naming the baby after her quite gracefully!” She gave Tom a fond look. I gave Tom a bewildered look. I hadn’t told my mother about Abbie. He raised his eyebrows, in an effort to send me a message. I said nothing.
“Well, they say elephants are wonderful mothers,” his mother continued. “So I’ll take it as flattery. Bean shoes?”
“Of course,” I murmured. My plan was to continue doing neutral-speak, commenting on nothing, agreeing to everything.
Now we were being served hors d’oeuvres and wine. “Cook makes wonderful little things,” said Mrs. Pennington. “Care to fry a hat today?”
“Hat?” I asked.
“Pâté,” said Tom.
“Thank you.” I took a small point of toast with pâté.
“And how about aghast divine?” She reached out toward the tray. Was I supposed to be aghast at something? I put my hand at my throat as though I could be aghast, but said nothing, in case I shouldn’t be.
“I think Neelie could use a glass of wine,” Tom said, getting up to pour one. “Yes?”
“Thank you,” I said, now hoping to have a sudden, silent heart attack and instantaneous death, instead of the slow, gruesome one I was now experiencing.
I spent another twenty minutes courting disaster as we discussed coconut trimmings and rodeo roses and blue lamp pencils, until, much to my relief, dinner was finally served.
If the hors d’oeuvres were a mine field, dinner was a target range. I was asked if I was tempted to knit doily palm trees, if my cat guns were firing, if turtles ate corn chips. My answers were no, no, and maybe.
“Are you busy with turkey?” Mrs. Pennington asked, while we were eating a lovely dinner of boeuf bourguignon.
“Turkey?” I repeated, quickly scanning the table.
“Oh! Would you prefer turkey?” his mother asked. “I could find out if we have any.”
“No, no,” I said. “I love this.” I gestured to my dinner.
“I thought you mentioned turkey,” she replied with a little laugh.
“I thought you mentioned turkey,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah!” She nodded. “I asked if you were working.”
“Just working with—uh—Mar—the elephant—and some riding students right now,” I said. “But I have a master’s in social work. I was a therapist. I used to have my own practice.”
“Marvelous,” she said. “No wonder you’re so simpatico. And you gave it all guppies?”
“Yes.” I pressed on, even though I didn’t quite understand her question. “Marriage counseling, problem solving, life strategies.” Everything I was failing at, I realized miserably.
“Neelie prefers working with animals because she has a wonderful gift to give them.” Tom took my hand. “She has a uniquely intuitive knowledge of what they need, and she knows how to reach out to them. She understands their language.”
Yeah, I thought, that special intuitive gift that leaves me totally in the dark when it comes to human language.
“And you ride, too.” His mother smiled and looked over at me with approval. “There’s nothing lovelier than a beautiful horse.”
I sighed happily. Here was something I could talk about. And I did. I told her about Mousi and Conversano, and how I trained horses, and she told me about her first pony, and the last hunt she had ridden in, only two years previously. And I thought, Horses are great equalizers.
The evening passed, and I actually enjoyed myself. After coffee and dessert, his mother gave me a warm embrace good-bye and a little kiss on my cheek.
“You are always welcome here,” she said graciously. “I haven’t had such fun conversation in a long time. You know, horses are always going to be tropics of pollywogs.”
“They are,” I replied. “They certainly are.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I must have sounded like an idiot,” I agonized to Tom in the car as he drove me home.
“Well, you gave some interesting responses,” he said. “Mother was certainly intrigued.”
“I’ll do better the next time,” I promised, already dreading it.
“I know you will,” Tom said. “I have two married sisters and tons of nieces and nephews, and my son, so you’ll have lots of opportunities. Of course, they’re probably all going to be waiting for my mother’s report.”
“Ah yes, the Mother’s Report,” I said. “The one that’s titled ‘How I Met the Village Idiot.’”
“My mother loved you,” Tom reassured me. “She knew you were very nervous, but she did ask me, when you went to the powder room, whether English was your first language.”
“I ruined everything,” I moaned over the phone the next day to Alana.
“Don’t feel bad,” she said. “You were nervous. Lots of people get flustered when they are nervous.”
“Next time I’m going to use a ventriloquist,” I said. “I don’t think I got anything right.”
“You got Tom,” she said, laughing. “And that’s all that matters.”
Chapter Forty-eight
TOLSTOY WAS right when he said that happy families are all alike. I guess it’s because they all have that certain open friendliness that invites people into their hearts.
Tom’s mother had been warm and very gracious, and though I knew my own parents would reciprocate in kind, I kept postponing their meeting Tom, because just thinking about it put me in a panic. His mother was elegant and dignified; I couldn’t imagine what he would make of my mother, who, though elegant and dignified in her own way, was sure to be filling his pockets with crumb buns. Then there was my father, Northeastern spokesman for the beef industry; Jerome and Kate, and their twin Einsteins; and Reese, ever ready with his tacky elephant jokes.
But, despite my procrastination, the opportunity for Tom to meet my family presented itself before long.
Reese and Marielle made a big announcement during a barbecue at my parents’ house the next weekend. Though it was fall by now, my father barbecues straight into winter, in the firm belief that people sitting around and shivering make the food taste better. Kate and Jerry were there together, the twins were together, Reese and Marielle were together, my parents were together, I had come alone.
Reese summoned everyone around the grill to break the news. “We plan to get married in two weeks.”
My mother, who had been helping my father flip steaks the size of Utah, sank into a patio chair. “You can’t be serious,” she gasped. “This is so sudden. There won’t be any time to make plans.”
“We don’t want anything fancy,” said Marielle. She gazed adoringly at Reese. “Just the families.”
“You can’t be serious,” my mother repeated. She started fanning herself with a handful of big blue napkins that featured a smiling cow with “Come and Get It” printed on its side. “Everything will be booked.”
“We’ll use a justice of the peace, and then we’ll have a nice dinner in a restaurant,” said Marielle. “We want to save our money for more important things.”
“You can’t be serious,” said my mother once more. “What’s more important than getting married?”
“Now, Abbie,” my father cautioned. “It’s their choice. I personally wouldn’t mind a nice steak house. There�
�s nothing like a good piece of meat to start a marriage off on the right foot.” He held up one of the steaks and nodded with satisfaction.
“Actually, I was hoping to spend our money on new paddock fencing instead of a big reception,” Marielle explained.
“Who gets married in a restaurant?” Kate asked. She pulled the twins close to her, as though protecting them from the trauma of an untraditional wedding.
“We’d rather do some work on the new house,” Reese said.
“And make a few repairs on the barn,” Marielle added.
“What kind of priorities are those?” my father asked, now pressing Frisbee-sized mushrooms onto the steaks.
“What’s wrong with my barn?” I asked.
Jerome turned to me. “Will Matt be coming?”
“Of course not,” I retorted. “I’m not going to even tell him, because, as you might have noticed a few months back, we’re not together anymore.”
“But that’s what weddings are for,” Kate said, “to bring people together.”
“Only people that want to be together,” I said. My father handed Kate a plate with steak overlapping two inches all around.
“Here’s your first piece,” he said to her.
“You can’t leave Matt out,” Jerome continued. “He’s still family.”
“He’s not family anymore,” I said. “His lease is up.”
Jerome kept at it. “He’s the twins’ uncle,” he said. “They love him.”
As if on cue, the twins started crying. “Where’s Uncle Matt?” they wailed. “We want Uncle Matt.”
“See what I mean?” Jerome handed them a “Come and Get It” napkin to mop their tears. “You can’t just de-uncle them like that without warning.”
“Yes, I can,” I said. “That’s what divorce does.”
“There’s nothing really wrong with the barn,” Marielle said, struggling through her steak. “We just thought we’d add on a stall or two.”
“Well, I won’t have my child getting married in a restaurant,” said my mother. “We can have the ceremony and a nice reception right here in the yard. In my rose garden.”
She pointed out a corner of the yard. We all looked over at a barren patch of land, the roses long dead.
“Where are the roses?” Reese asked.
“We’ll just buy some potted flowers from a nursery and have your father plant them,” she replied.
“It sounds like too much work,” Marielle said.
“She’s right,” said my father. “It is too much work. I vote for the steak house.”
“No one mentioned a steak house,” said Reese.
“My mother had a nice French restaurant picked out,” said Marielle.
“I know just the right caterers from my work with Loaves to the World,” said my mother. “Please let me handle it.” She began writing things on a napkin.
“Divorce affects the whole family,” Jerome pointed out to me. “Have you ever considered that?”
“I’m sorry it’s been so hard on you,” I snapped. “I didn’t intend to be so thoughtless.” My father handed me a steak-covered plate.
“Eat,” he commanded. “Those steak houses can’t compare to my cooking. We should just have a barbecue after the ceremony.”
“So—what do you think about the reception my mother suggested?” Reese looked at Marielle.
“My mother will be disappointed,” she said. “But I suppose the rose garden sounds okay. That is, if your mother can pull it together.”
My mother was already manning the phone, ordering a tent and a large heater.
“I guess everything’s settled,” Reese announced.
“Not everything,” Jerome said sullenly. “The twins are heartbroken.” The twins in question were setting marshmallows on fire and throwing them at each other and shrieking.
Marielle gave Reese a beatific smile. “Your family,” she said. “I love them.”
We were in Tom’s apartment. He had picked me up from the sanctuary the next day and brought me back to the city, and now I was following him through his enormous, sun-filled penthouse. It was beautifully decorated with Kilim rugs and designer furniture, and filled with pictures of famous movers and shakers from all around the world. I couldn’t move or shake a baby rattle, and I felt woefully out of my league.
“Wait up,” I called after him, “I’m not used to jogging through a house.”
“It’s just my home,” he said, leading me into a cavernous kitchen.
“And the Atlantic Ocean is just a puddle,” I said. “No wonder you hated my apartment.”
“Sit right there.” He planted me in a chair. “I’m making us dinner.” He opened the door to a huge refrigerator and began rooting around.
“You cook?” I said, surprised that he had found the time to learn.
“Actually, no,” he said, turning around and looking sheepish. “I reheat. My housekeeper made everything. I hope you don’t mind.”
He pulled out a few covered containers with written directions taped to them and began putting things in a commercial-size oven.
“I’m actually relieved,” I said. “I was getting scared that you were too perfect.”
“But I wouldn’t mind if you tell your family that I’m perfect,” he said.
I took a deep breath. “Actually, now that you brought up my family, my brother’s getting married, and I would like you to come.”
He stopped putting little white ceramic containers of food in the oven and turned around with a look of surprise. “I’ve been waiting for you to crack,” he said. “Yes. I’d love to.”
“Great,” I said, getting up to help him with dinner. “You’ll get to meet my family and watch it enlarge at the same time.”
“I look forward to it,” he said. He peered at a package of food. “What does ‘sauté’ mean? In French, it means ‘to jump,’ but I don’t think she meant for me to jump up and down while I cook these appetizers.”
“Where’s a pan?” I asked. “I can do it.”
We reheated dinner together, and then sat across the table from each other to eat. I tried to find a sense of coziness, but it was a little like cuddling up in Windsor Castle. Tom looked at me and smiled.
“To us,” he said, holding up a forkful of penne alla vodka.
“To us,” I repeated, clicking his fork with my own.
I watched as he ate and thought how happy I was feeling. How much I liked him. His sense of dignity and ethics and kindness. His gentleness, his strength. Truth to tell, maybe a little of it was the giddy sense that, of all the women in the world he could be with, he was with me. And I liked that underneath his trappings of wealth was a good, decent man. And, I thought, we did have something in common, because underneath my trappings of poverty was a good, decent woman.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
And I thought, so what if my mother plied him with bread, she would welcome him to the family. So would my father, after plying him with Angus beef. And eventually Jerry and Reese would accept him, and the twins, too. And if I allowed myself to think it, maybe we would marry someday and have our own children, and add to the unique and complicated weave of my happy family.
And I realized maybe happy families aren’t all alike. Maybe, since Tolstoy never met my family, he couldn’t know that happy families are happy in their own peculiar ways.
Chapter Forty-nine
I WAS so proud of Abbie. She was my baby. I thought she was incredibly smart, incredibly adorable, and, like my twin nieces, precocious even. I couldn’t wait for another family dinner so that I could outdo Kate and Jerry with an honor roll of all her accomplishments. I planned to wrap my life around her, set up a college fund for her, save money for her wedding day, and not let her date anyone until she was thirty and found just the right well-bred handsome Prince Charmephant.
“I don’t want to hear another word about Abbie,” Alana warned me. I had spent the whole of our lunch together d
escribing her latest antics. “I have two adorable girls,” she continued, “and I don’t talk about them half as much as you do about that elephant.”
She was going to help me shop for the perfect outfit—a dress that I could wear to Reese and Marielle’s wedding and then to Bretagne, since we would be leaving for France right after. It had to have green in it, because Marielle had made me the lone bridesmaid and requested I wear something with green, and it had to be versatile—something that could withstand plane rides without wrinkling, keep me cool on warm days, warm on cool nights, suitable for hiking on French country roads, attending fancy dinners, or boating on the Seine, and open like a parachute to save me, should I fall off of the Eiffel Tower. My budget was that small.
“If I were you, I’d be rolling on the floor with agita. I don’t think you’re going to pull it off,” Alana warned me as I pored over racks and racks of clothing. “I mean, a dress that will go to a wedding and spend two weeks in France without getting wrinkled or dirty?”
“What does one wear to the French countryside anyway?” I said. “I keep picturing lavender dirndls and little white aprons.”
“I think that’s Switzerland,” she replied. She held up a simple sleeveless floor-length green velvet dress and its accompanying shawl. The shawl had a print of tiny lavender flowers against the requisite green background. “How about this?”
“Perfect,” I said, taking the dress from her. “Wish I could solve all my problems that fast.”
“What other problems could you possibly have?” Alana asked. “I mean, besides losing all your money, your husband, and your home?”
“I could lose my elephant, too,” I said worriedly. “What happens if, while I’m away, Richie realizes that he doesn’t need me for Abbie anymore?”
“Then you come back to the therapeutic world and open up your office again,” Alana replied. “There seems to be an epidemic of dysfunction going around, and I have more potential clients than I can take on. I could send some to you. You have to think about getting back on your feet again financially. You really do.”
Still Life with Elephant Page 24