Three

by McMan, Ann;

  “You don’t?”

  I stared down at the snow piling up around my feet. “No. I know she loves me.”

  “Exactly. Take a minute and just think about where you were last year at this time. How lonely and desolate. And how did that all end up?”

  I looked up at him. “You don’t really want me to furnish you with graphic details, do you?”

  “No thanks. I have an active imagination.”

  I shook my head. “I just love her so much, Frank. It scares the shit out of me to think about losing her.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Then do yourself a favor and quit working so hard to push her away. She has faith in you—and in all of that.” He fluttered a gloved hand toward the house. “Borrow a little confidence from her and a little courage from me. I promise it will all work out just fine.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He rolled his eyes and yanked open the front of his coat so his collar was plainly visible. “Duh. Connections . . . remember?”

  “Oh. Right. He who never sleeps.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Now let’s get back inside and get this party started.”

  The back door to the house opened and a collision of bright colors filled up the doorway.

  “Get in here you two,” Ma called out. “Clarissa is home.”

  I practically swooned. And not from excitement.

  “Come on.” Frank took hold of my arm. “There is nothing to fear but Dad’s creamed corn. The rest will take care of itself.” He chuckled. “And eventually, the creamed corn takes care of itself, too.”

  We trudged our way up the steps and into the house. The short journey felt to me like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow—only I was heading toward the horror, instead of away from it.

  When we got inside, I was shocked to see Clarissa standing at the center island in our kitchen and looking over my dad’s shoulder at the crab cakes he was forming.

  “How much Dijon mustard do you use?” she asked him.

  “It depends on how many you’re making,” he explained. “For this batch, I’m using about a tablespoon. The most important thing is not to use too much filler, and not to pack them together too tightly.”

  She nodded. “Can I try to make a few?”

  I pinched myself and looked around. Had we accidentally walked into someone else’s house? Nope. There were our coats and boots lined up in tidy rows near the back door. There was our wine fridge full of Chateau de Nages. There was our kitchen, with its bright red cabinets and tile floor. There was our ceiling fan covered with batter. And there was my dad teaching the love of my life how to make really big crab cakes.

  Clarissa looked up and saw Frank and me. Her hundred-watt smile warmed me up from the inside out.

  Give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death, guide our feet into the way of peace.

  Frank would have been proud of my memory.

  “Hello you two,” she said.

  Frank roared across the room and gave her a bear hug. “Hi ya, Red. Nice party.”

  She hugged him back. “Isn’t it? I’m thinking about becoming a full-time event planner.” She looked at me. “I think I have a gift for it.”

  I smiled back at her. “Don’t give up your day job just yet.”

  Ma handed her a bright yellow bistro apron with an enormous cartoon crab stenciled across the front. It read, “I got crabs at Art’s” in big, balloon letters. “Here you go, honey. That mess will ruin your cashmere.”

  Clarissa stepped back from Frank and took the apron from my mother. “Thanks, Maggie.”

  Maggie?

  “So I guess you all did your own introductions?” I asked.

  “No.” Clarissa was tying on the apron. “Christa introduced us all when I got home.”

  I looked around. “Where is she?”

  Dad pointed toward the common wall our house shared with Christa’s. “She went next door to get games for the kids.”

  “Kids?” I looked at my father with horror. “What kids?”

  Clarissa was watching me with an amused expression. “Marty called. Their sitter canceled, so they’re bringing the kids.”

  I was speechless. That was like saying the zombie apocalypse was commencing tonight at our house.

  “It ain’t Christmas without kids . . . right, Diz?” My father winked at me.

  “But . . .” I was practically sputtering. “Your parents?”

  Clarissa looked at her watch. “They should be here any minute.”

  I sagged against the counter. “Oh, god.”

  “Let me go and try to sweep the steps off again.” Frank headed toward the living room.

  “Yo, Frank?” Dad called after him. “Put on some music. I put a stack of CDs on top of the stereo.”

  “Roger, Dad.”

  A minute later, we heard the deep, smooth tones of Lou Rawls crooning about silver bells.

  Clarissa somehow managed to get hold of my hand. She gave my fingers a warm squeeze.

  I gave her a grateful look. “I need a drink.”

  “I can take care of that, Maryann.” My mom opened the refrigerator and pulled out a large Rubbermaid pitcher. “I found a great recipe for vegan eggnog. It’s surprisingly good . . . you just need to top it off with an extra shot or two of rum.”

  “Vegan eggnog?” I stared at my mother. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s from Veganomicon. You make it with almond milk and dates. You blend them all together and add pecans.”

  I was still confused. “But you’re not a vegan.” I gestured toward the food strewn around the kitchen. “There’s enough dead animal product in here to start a sausage factory.”

  “Your father has high cholesterol. We’re trying to cut back on eggs. And I’m power eating, now. You should try it too. You’re looking too pale.” She poured two glasses of the frothy mixture and added about four ounces of dark rum to each. I noticed that it didn’t sink into the liquid. It floated on the top like an oil slick.

  “Good thing he’s not worried about his liver,” I muttered.

  Clarissa kicked me on the shin.

  We heard a commotion coming from the living room. Frank ducked his head into the kitchen.

  “It’s show time. Your parents are here, Red.”

  Clarissa and I exchanged glances. I dropped my head to her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I just contracted a virulent case of malaria?”

  “Not so much,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  She took hold of my hand and pulled me along behind her. We were halfway across the living room before I realized that she was still wearing one of Art’s aprons.

  “There’s my little girl.” Bernard Wiley smiled at Clarissa, but quickly did a double take. “I think . . .”

  “Hello, Dad. Hello, Mom.”

  Bernard was helping Elspeth out of her coat. I noticed that she was carrying some kind of bundle—and that the bundle appeared to be . . . whimpering.

  Clarissa reached out to take her mother’s overcoat and the whimpers gained in intensity. She stepped back and eyed her mother’s oddly-shaped bundle with suspicion.

  “Please tell me that does not contain what I think it does.”

  Elspeth Wiley bounced the bundle up and down. “I couldn’t leave her at home alone. She’s simply too fragile right now.”

  Clarissa was incredulous. “You brought Maris to our party?”

  At the mention of its name, a tiny head popped out of its gray fleece overwrap and looked around anxiously. When Maris spotted me, she started growling.

  Elspeth glared at me. “However, she might actually have been safer at home by herself.”

  I sighed. “Hello, Mrs. Wiley. It’s nice to meet you . . . officially, and, hopefully, under better circumstances.”

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” She was looking us both up and down. Without her Jackie-O sunglasses, she looked a bit less . . . hysterical. But it seemed pr
etty clear that Clarissa’s dad must have given her the news about us. I half expected her to hand me a restraining order.

  Maris was still anxiously scanning the room. I noticed that beneath her blanket she was wearing a black-and-white hounds-tooth check coat. She looked like the Coco Chanel of dogs.

  She growled at me again.

  It appeared she had about the same disposition, too.

  Bernard had more class than I gave him credit for. He stepped into our conversational void and offered me his hand. “Diz, it’s great to see you away from the office.” He smiled and gave my hand a firm shake. “Thanks for inviting us to your home.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Wiley,” I replied. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Elspeth was sniffing the air in tandem with Maris. I watched their syncopated head bobs and realized that they were dressed alike, too. I wondered if Elspeth and Maris always wore matching outfits? I cut my eyes toward Clarissa, who was eyeing me with an amused expression.

  “What is that horrible smell?” Elspeth asked.

  I was tempted to tell her that our Glade Plug-In had malfunctioned, but I didn’t get the chance.

  “Crab cakes,” Clarissa replied. “Great ones. I hope you’re both hungry.”

  Elspeth looked at her daughter in horror.

  I heard my brother chuckle.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. Wiley, I’d like you to meet my brother, Frank Gillespie.” I paused. “But don’t be confused when we call him Father.”

  “You’re a priest?” Elspeth asked.

  Frank smiled. “It was either that or back-to-back stretches at Leavenworth. Those jumpsuits were a non-starter. Blaze orange has always been a bad color for me, so I opted for the career track that offered a more modest, ecclesiastical palette. Besides, black is so much more slimming, don’t you agree, Mrs. Wiley?”

  Elspeth and Maris both stared at him with their round dark eyes.

  Bernard chuckled. “It’s nice to meet you, Frank.” They shook hands.

  My mom rounded the corner from the kitchen. She was carrying a tray loaded with tumblers containing her vegan eggnog. Each of the glasses was topped with a suspicious-looking puddle of dark brown rum.

  “Hello, everyone,” Mom called out. “I’m Maryann’s mother, Maggie. Come on in and get settled by the fire. We’ll have the appetizers ready in a flash.”

  Appetizers? Oh, yeah. Nothing got a party started like a big bowl of dad’s signature, fried globs of creamed corn . . .

  Clarissa and I ushered everyone in to the living room.

  In fact, the place did look pretty homey and inviting. The gas logs were blazing, and the blue-and-white lights on the Christmas tree were a brilliant complement to the winter storm raging outside. Diana Krall’s sexy, jazzy voice was entreating the heavens to let it snow.

  Clearly, the heavens had decided to cooperate.

  Mom attempted to pass a tumbler of her frothy brew to Elspeth, who recoiled as if the glass contained hemlock.

  “I’m lactose intolerant,” she explained in a hushed voice.

  Mom beamed at her. “Me, too.” She handed Elspeth a glass. “Those dairy products cramp me up tighter than a snare drum. You’ll love this. It’s from Veganomicon.”

  Elspeth’s eyes grew wide. “I love that cookbook.”

  “So do I. But I can’t get Maryann’s father to try any of the recipes.”

  “Bernard is the same way. But Maris and I are lacto-ovo-vegetarians.”

  ‘It’s true.” Bernard smiled at us. “I’m an unredeemed flexitarian.”

  “Here, here.” Frank raised his glass in a toast. “Sometimes a man’s just gotta have a steak.”

  Mom hauled a big, leather-covered ottoman over and sat down near Elspeth and Maris. “You two look adorable in those matching jackets. Do you always dress alike?”

  Bernard rolled his eyes. “They do lately.”

  Elspeth shot him a dirty look. “You know that this is part of her recovery therapy.”

  Mom took the bait . . . of course. “Recovery from what?”

  Elspeth leaned closer to her. “Maris is in the throes of an identity crisis.”

  “Oh, honey, aren’t we all?”

  “Hers is a response to trauma.” She glared at me.

  Mom looked confused. “What kind of trauma?”

  Elspeth lowered her voice. “Maris thinks she’s a Siberian husky.”

  I choked on my drink. Clarissa patted me between the shoulder blades.

  “Maris’s entire world was turned topsy turvy by her wild jaunt across Baltimore with that undisciplined hound from hell.” Elspeth glowered at me. “Her identity is in shambles. She won’t eat. She won’t sleep. All she does is whine and stare out the window.” She gently stroked Maris’s head. “Dr. Finklestein suggested buying her the black-and-white coat as a way for her to access her inner husky.”

  “Why are you wearing one?” Clarissa asked. “Was there some kind of BOGO sale?”

  Bernard chuckled. “Maggie, this is intriguing eggnog. I’m not usually a rum drinker, but this seems to be hitting the spot.

  Mom beamed at him. “Let me get us some more.” She swiveled around on her ottoman and called out to Dad in the kitchen. “Art! Bring us some more eggnog.”

  Bernard gave me a quizzical look. “Art?”

  I nodded.

  “Your father is Art Gillespie?” He pointed at Clarissa’s apron. “Back River Art?”

  “You know him?” Frank asked.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” a voice bellowed from the doorway. “If it ain’t my buddy, Bernie.”

  Dad set down the pitcher of eggnog and strode across the room to greet Clarissa’s dad.

  “Artie!” Bernard set down his glass and met Dad halfway. They wrapped each other up in a huge bear hug.

  Clarissa and I gaped at them, then at each other. I looked up at Frank.

  “I got nothin’.” He shrugged.

  Dad and Bernie’s reunion was interrupted by the thundering sound of footsteps pounding across the front porch.

  The door banged open, and Alvin, Simon, and Theodore exploded through it in a swirl of snow like wild winter demons. They spread out across the room like a white stain.

  A beleaguered Marty followed behind them.

  “Guys . . . boots!” He shook his head and sighed. He saw me and gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, Diz.”

  “What about?” I asked.

  On the sofa beside Elspeth, Maris bolted upright. She was trembling and staring at the front door.

  We heard another rumbling.

  Marty raised a hand and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “This.”

  There was a blinding flash of something white. Correction. It was a blurry confluence of black-and-white. It roared into the room and headed straight for the tray loaded with eggnog.

  “Sadie—NO!” Marty yelled.

  It was too late.

  Sadie knocked Dad’s tray to the floor and proceeded to suck up a two-quart pitcher of Mom’s vegan concoction.

  I heard Elspeth scream. Maris bolted off the sofa and flew across the room to join Sadie.

  Marty danced around the two dogs, looking for an opening to reach in and grab the pitcher. It was futile.

  “Oh, jeez . . .” Dad looked at me anxiously.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I already pre-loaded it.”

  Mom slapped him on the arm. “Art. I did, too.”

  I looked at my glass. “Then why did you add these four-ounce floaters?”

  She shrugged. “It looks more authentic.”

  Elspeth was nearly hysterical. “Maris . . . Maris . . . come to mommy. Turn away from that creature . . .”

  It was useless.

  “Look at that funny dog dressed like Sadie.” Simon was giggling and enjoying the show. Alvin and Teddy didn’t notice. They were too busy yanking paper birds off the Christmas tree and throwing them at each other.

  “Marty . . .” I began.
<
br />   “I know, I know,” he said. He pulled out a bottle full of bright pink pills from his coat pocket. “Benadryl,” he explained. “Works like a charm.”

  The dogs finished their aperitif and took off for greener pastures.

  I was on my feet now.

  “Dad? You didn’t leave any food out in the kitchen did you?”

  “Uh oh,” he said.

  Bernard held out a hand to stop me. “Let me and Artie take care of this.”

  Me and Artie? I seriously doubted that Bernard Wiley had ever messed up a dependent clause in his life.

  Dad and Bernie disappeared into the kitchen. We all sat there, stupidly, like people at an Irish wake, trying to pretend we weren’t hearing the sounds of men shouting, plates crashing, platters clanging, and dog claws scuttling across the tile floor.

  Two minutes later, all the noise stopped. An eerie quiet filled up the house.

  All except for Vinnie Zummo’s bossa nova rendition of “Noche de Paz.”

  Even the kids noticed.

  Bernard emerged from the kitchen with two very subdued dogs heeling at his side.

  Marty was incredulous. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  Bernard smiled. “I wish I could take credit for it, but thanks are really due to a fifth of Captain Morgan and two pounds of red cabbage.”

  “Oh, my god.” Elspeth was nearly beside herself. “Maris—”

  “Is fine.” Bernard cut her off. “Look at her. No shakes and no trembles.”

  “He’s right, Mom.” Clarissa pointed at the two perfectly composed dogs. “She seems to have made a connection with her inner—and outer—husky.”

  Maris was pressed up against Sadie. Her black-and-white checked coat looked like a suburb of the larger dog.

  “How bad was the damage in the kitchen?” Frank asked.

  “Artie already had the crab cakes in the oven,” Bernard explained. “Everything other than the cabbage was out of harm’s way.

  “Two dogs zoned out on rum and red cabbage?” Frank shook his head. “There’s gonna be a heartache tonight.”

  Bernard looked down at them. “I think they’ll probably just sleep it off.”

  The two canine compatriots were starting to look a little unsteady on their feet. Sadie was beginning to sway slightly, and her normally active blue eyes were starting to droop.

  But Maris looked happy and content—albeit sleepy.