by Mary Carter
I stewed on this for a long time. Why didn’t she say “You will understand when you have children”? Is she assuming I’ll never have children? Does she think I’m an unfit mother because I highlight my hair? She has big Bambi brown eyes and a small eyetooth that stands out against a row of otherwise perfectly shaped choppers. I constantly find myself wanting to cap it. More than once I’ve stopped myself from telling her to get it done. Once I suggested it to Zach and he had a fit.
“I love my wife exactly the way she is,” he said to me in a huff. “Do you get that? Exactly.” I guess that means I shouldn’t mention exercise or a wardrobe change either.
Corinne wears pastel polyester suits. Today she is in a soft yellow suit with huge yellow buttons. The top button is missing, and she’s replaced it with a gold angel pin. I mean, it’s just down right cruel no one says anything to her. If Kim is religious, Corinne is a fanatic. I always leave family gatherings with bruises on my shins because my brother Zach has to kick me under the table every time I say something inappropriate. I guess he’s afraid if Corinne blushes once too often she’ll overheat and blow. She’s still gushing over the gravy boat, hanging onto it like it is Noah’s Ark. It’s not as satisfying as I thought it would be.
Chapter 14
I’ve been at Zach’s for twenty minutes now and I know something is up. Everyone is being incredibly nice. Mom and Richard didn’t bring “the boys,” and Zach hasn’t once asked me about my future plans. Even Corinne and the kids are tolerable and there are only three pink ribbons on little Corinne’s head (usually the kid is so loaded down with ribbons I’m surprised she can hold her head up straight) and to top it off, Zachary Junior has yet to make another mention of my “stint in the psyche ward.” Maybe I love my family after all!
From now on, they will treat me like an adult and we will pass brief but pleasant visits, say once every six months. Then Corinne asks if I would like a drink, and that’s when I know something is drastically wrong. You see, Corinne doesn’t drink alcoholic beverages and Zach hates it when anyone wants to drink wine before we sit down to the table. But when I say, yes, I’d like a glass of Chardonnay, everyone just smiles at my request. I smile back—the kind of smile you would give your captors if you’ve been kidnapped and chained to a post.
“So,” my mother says, clasping her hands to her chest. “How is the law firm, Melanie?”
I continue smiling and sip my wine while everyone waits for my reply. “It’s wonderful,” I say. “My boss is an amazing man. He even donated school supplies to the children of School PS 47 when they were caught in a flood.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asks. “Were they on an expedition?”
“No,” I say. “The janitor left their sink running.” Richard looks like he’s about to ask me another question, so I’m gearing up to launch into a description of my flexible, affordable health plan when the doorbell rings.
“Melanie, would you mind getting that?” Mom says with a look of pure contentment.
“Sure,” I say and walk to the front door like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Surprise!” he says.
Greg Parks is on the doorstep holding three red roses and a bottle of wine. He looks incredibly handsome in black dress pants, a maroon sweater, and a black leather jacket. I look down at my jeans and T-shirt and curse the Saint of Rebelling Against Your Mother that I didn’t follow her advice and wear something nice.
“Don’t just stand there with the door open, Melanie, let the man in,” my mother urges.
“Come in,” I say, obediently standing aside. The moment we step in, my mother rushes him like a linebacker.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” she gushes, taking the bottle of wine. “Isn’t this a lovely surprise?” she adds, linking arms with me.
I pray to the Saint of Orphans to crash through the roof and whisk me away to my real mother. Instead the old one grips my arm tighter and whirls me around to face Greg Parks. I smile and wrench my arm away from my mother.
“Lovely,” I say. “How did this come to be?”
I try to catch Greg’s eye so that he knows how mortified I am, but my mother has hustled him into the living room where she’s taking the leather coat off his back.
“I just thought it would be nice to meet the man my daughter talks so much about,” my mother says.
Kill me God. Kill me now.
“We’re so proud of her,” she continues, taking the roses and handing them to me.
“Uh, there’s one for each of you,” Greg says.
“Did you know she types ninety words a minute?” my mother replies, taking two of the roses out of my hands.
“Ninety-five words a minute,” I correct. Good God, have I really sunk to bragging about my typing skills in front of my mother’s captive?
“Ninety-five words a minute?” Greg asks incredulously. “With how many errors?”
“Zero,” I shoot back. I could tell he didn’t believe me. It was everything I could do not to let the stubborn streak in me take over and march us all to Zach’s office where I could show off my speedy fingers. Instead, I pour myself another glass of wine.
We sit stiffly around the table like pegs in wooden holes. Richard leads us in grace and of course thanks God for “the boys.” It was everything I could do not to dump the pot roast in his lap. My mission was to stay quiet, stuff my face, and catch the next train to Manhattan. I pretend not to notice Greg staring at me from across the table.
“Do you have any of Melanie’s clocks here?” Greg asks Zachary when there’s a lull in the conversation. Everyone stares at me. I looked vaguely around the room, and everyone else follows suit. I shrug and shake my head slightly.
“Clocks?” my mother says loudly. “Did you say clocks?”
Greg looks to me for help. I make a cutting motion across my throat and he nods. “I’m sorry. That’s not exactly the term I should be using is it?” My mother’s left eye begins to twitch. “What do you call them, Melanie?” Greg continues. “Sculptures? Is that right? Art that tells time.”
“They haven’t seen the sculptures we were discussing the other day,” I say quickly.
“I’ve seen them,” little Corinne pipes up.
“Have not,” Zachary Junior blasts her.
“Have too,” she sings louder. She starts to pound her spoon on her plate. “Have too, have too, have too.”
“Young lady, do you want a time out?” Corinne hisses under her breath.
“Melanie, what sculptures are we talking about here?” Zach asks. Zach never misses an opportunity to show off his vast knowledge of any topic. Conversations with him turn into a trivia game. The blah, blah, blah was built in blah blah blah at the turn of the century.
“Artists never talk about their work until they’re ready,” I say vaguely, hoping it will be enough to choke the conversation.
“What artists?” Richard asks.
“What clocks?” my mother echoes.
It is getting hot in here. I try subterfuge one more time. “Greg has a sculpture in his office,” I say slowly. I’m still receiving blank, attentive stares. Why don’t they pay this much attention to me when I want them to? “I told him his sculpture reminds me of my clocks,” I conclude. “Mom, can you pass me the green beans?”
Several agonizing seconds go by. Corinne is the first one to nod like it makes sense.
“I see,” Richard adds. My mother smiles at Greg and then focuses on her plate like she’s a scientist unraveling the secret of DNA. Zach is the only one who continues to stare at me, waiting for clarification.
“We think it’s wonderful what you’ve done for the children,” my mother says loudly. Greg, startled, looks over at Zachary Junior and little Corinne. I giggle.
“Was the janitor fired?” Richard says suddenly.
“I don’t think so,” I say to Richard. “More wine?” I ask Greg.
“Please,” he says helplessly.
“Did you know Melanie’s also an actress?” my
mother volunteers after another round of awkward silence. Zach snorts. He’s never supported my ambitions to be an actress, ever.
“Really, an actress?” Greg says with admiration. “I think that’s great. Not everyone has the courage to follow their dreams. That says a lot about you.”
My mother erupts in laughter. “Oh, Melanie always does exactly what she wants,” she says. “Just like her father.”
I can’t believe she just compared me to Dad. Did I run off to Florida and dump her for tan, skinny women and peel-and-eat shrimp?
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she continues. “I’ve always tried to support Melanie’s dreams. But it’s not like she’s making her living as an actress.”
“Still, she’s doing it and you have to admire that,” Greg says.
“Oh, it’s not her fault,” Mom says. “They want extremely thin women in the movies these days. My children tend to be a little on the heavy side.” Zach and I glance at each other and we both push our plates slightly away. “Don’t get me wrong—Melanie’s a beautiful girl—it’s the standards I tell you. The standards are too high. It’s a losing battle. That’s why we’re so happy she’s in your firm now. Do you have a career ladder for Melanie, Mr. Parks? Because I’ve always encouraged her to take night classes. I suppose she could even take one of those on-line classes. I don’t really understand how they work and I’m quite suspicious of them, but at this point we’ll take whatever we can get.”
This is how I die. Large blocks of ice crash down from the ceiling impaling me with a million frozen shards. Blood gushes from my heart like a geyser drowning the happy little dinner party. My mother screams, Corinne covers her eyes, and Zachary Junior shouts “Cool!”
“Melanie looks thin enough to me,” I hear Greg say. I could jump him right here and now for saying that. And I would too—except it would send Corinne into a therapeutic frenzy—Zachary Junior and little Corinne would have to be whisked away to a private institution in the country and subjected to years of vigorous psychotherapy and horseback riding just to drive out the memory of slutty Aunt Melanie. “Have you been in anything I might have seen?” Greg asks.
I was still imagining the kids in the psyche ward, finger painting depictions of lewd sexual acts in front of tense psychiatrists.
“Melanie, Earth to Melanie, did you hear what Greg asked?” Zach says as if I’m one of his children.
I stare at Zach while counting to ten in my head in Spanish. Then, I pointedly look at his forehead. Whisps of gray hair hang over his unibrow. I silently thank the Saint of Healthy Hair for skipping me in the early gray category, and the Saint of Separate Eyebrows for spacing mine appropriately above my eyes with skin in between them.
“I’m sorry—Greg—what did you say?” I say with a frozen smile. My mother clears her throat. It’s her way of reprimanding us in public. She’s been clearing her throat at me for twenty-nine years. I wonder if she’ll eventually lose her vocal chords. One could only hope.
“I was just wondering if you’d been in anything I might have seen.” He looks genuinely interested, but now I want him gone. I want all of them gone but my mother, who I want to nail down to the table until she explains exactly what she meant by, “Melanie always does what she wants, just like her father”—although I know she would slip away from my question like an eel in handcuffs. I tilt my head as if I’m considering his question and hold up my index finger.
“One second please,” I say with a frozen entrée smile.
“Mom,” I turn toward her. “What do you mean, I’m ‘just like my father’?”
Mom sighs loudly and sets down her fork. “Oh Melanie, don’t start with me. It was just something to say.”
Zach kicks me underneath the table. “Tell Greg what shows you’ve done,” he pleads.
I’m still staring at Mom, but she has that vice-grip look on her face; I’m not going to pry anything else from her in front of all these people.
“Yes Melanie, tell me,” Greg says again. “Have I seen you in anything?”
I put my fork down and stare at his biceps. “I’m not sure you would have seen me in anything,” I begin. “What bars do you hang out in?” We hold eyes for a moment. I can tell from his stare and the gleam in his eye that he knows I’m bluffing and he’s more than happy to play along.
My mother clears her throat again. “Melanie,” she titters. “Remember this is a birthday party.”
“The children, don’t forget the children are here,” Corinne whines.
“I’ve done mostly off-, off-Broadway stuff and a few low-budget films,” I say, dismissing the subject.
“Like what?” Greg prods.
What is this, twenty questions? Why weren’t we badgering the birthday girl instead? “Let’s see. I played a whore in an Edward Albee play last year,” I announce. I should stop while I’m ahead, but I can’t help it—my anger has caught up to my head. How could they invite my boss to dinner? This is humiliating. My anger is churning around like a pig on a spit.
“What’s a whore?” little Corinne asks in a singsong voice.
“Look at the lovely gravy boat Melanie bought me,” Corinne says, holding it up with shaking hands.
“Everything in the Garden,” Greg says out of the blue, slapping the table. All eyes turn expectantly toward him, but he’s looking at me. I have to admit, I’m impressed. I hadn’t taken him for a theatre buff. “That’s the name of the play, isn’t it?” he adds with a huge grin.
I nod my head and stuff more pot roast in my mouth.
“That sounds familiar,” my mother says.
“It should. That’s the play I was in last year,” I sulk.
“No, it’s not darling, the play was about a garden—and uh—the things that grow in it. That’s what you said.”
“I said no such thing, Mother. You just assumed it from the title.” None of them came to the play either but I refrained from saying so.
“So it’s not about a garden?” my mother persists.
“No. It’s about housewives who become whores,” I say pleasantly. In actuality it’s a brilliant play, and I feel a bit guilty that I’m making it sound more like a pay-per-view movie than a work of art, but this is war.
“Whore, whore, whore,” little Corinne sings while dipping her fingers into the gravy boat.
“Well I wish I could have seen you,” Greg says.
I don’t reply. Even though he’s studying me like I’m an insect in a jar, I feel sorry for him. It’s not his fault I’m being launched on him like a love rocket. I can tell my mother has visions of me marrying him and buying a Victorian house on their block. Ray would have never received this type of red carpet treatment. The words hurl through my head and fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Fond of whores are you?” I say to Greg.
“Melanie Ann, enough!” my mother yells.
Greg looks a bit startled, but I have to hand it to the guy, he recovers well.
“I would say I’m fond of interesting dynamics, Ms. Zeitgar,” he says, poking his fork in the air toward me. For a moment it feels like he and I are the only ones in the room. We stare at each other. I don’t know if he’s putting me in my place or coming on to me. What really bothers me is that I’m not sure which one I would prefer. Corinne drags the dinner conversation back to child-appropriate topics, and although I appear to be listening, I’m thinking about Ray. How would he have handled it if I had thrown something like that on him at a dinner party?
Someone kicks me under the table. I’m ready to throw a dirty look at Zach, but it’s Junior. Like father like son. I look at him and he mouths something at me. What? I mouth back. I can see his little lips moving but I have no idea what the kid is saying. Greg leans across the table and whispers, “What is a whore?” When he sees the look on my face, he lets out a low, seductive laugh that stretches to eternity and back. “His question,” he says, throwing his head toward Zach Junior and winking at me. I want to die.
/> “How do you know so much about the theatre?” Richard asks Greg during Neapolitan ice cream and ladyfingers. “Do you attend regularly?” We had just finished a hearty round of happy birthday, and I’d be able to leave in less than an hour. Do you attend regularly, I repeat in my head. I hate how Richard talks. He behaves as if he were an actor reciting a script, covering for the rest of us who were constantly missing our cues and flubbing our lines. What in the world does my mother see in this man? And if she likes Greg Parks (which she obviously does from the way she’s smiling at him and nervously glancing at me) and hates Ray—my beautiful, creative Ray—then I don’t need to think twice about it. Ray is definitely the way to go.
Not that there was ever any doubt. Not that I’m thinking about Greg in any romantic sense, mind you. I’m not. Even if he is easy on the eyes. Besides, he’s a stuffy, wealthy lawyer. I’m a creative, starving artist. Although at the moment I’m quite full largely due to the fact that I had shoved dinner into my mouth like a contestant on Fear Factor. I can’t help it. My family stresses me out, and stress makes me eat like a banshee. I’m going to take up smoking, I think as I stir my ice cream into soup.
“I have to admit, I don’t go to shows as often as I’d like,” Greg says, looking at me. “How often do you go to shows, Melanie?” Shame rises in my cheeks. Because you see—the answer would be—never. It’s horrid I know. I live in Manhattan—just a short subway ride away from “Broadway!” and I am after all an actress. I talk about going to shows, I make lists about going to shows, I vaguely suggest that perhaps I’m going to go to shows—but somehow I never get around to actually going.
In fact, somehow I always end up going to bars instead. So by all rights, I should be a bartender. That way I could impress everyone with how well I know my craft. I could laugh huskily and say, “If you want a good Irish pub try Murphy’s on Second, but if you’re in the mood for a cellar and a night of whipping then try Pussies on Bleeker.” I shrug and mumble something about being too busy studying my craft to attend any shows as of late.