Play Dates

by Leslie Carroll

  Scott nods toward the house where Serena is sitting, making small talk with Brendan. “Well, the damage is done for the day. I’m sorry about this. I didn’t think, after almost half a year, that her presence would have such a negative effect. I’ll make it up to you, I give you my promise.”

  “It amazes me how such a brilliant man can be so clueless about some things. Like human nature. Your promises to me mean nothing, Scott. Make it up to Zoë.”

  My mother pokes her head out the kitchen door and beckons us inside. “We’re just about ready to sit down,” she tells us. Scott and I agree to an amicable détente for the remainder of the evening. We go into the house and I send him to speak with Zoë. A few minutes later, they come tromping down the staircase, Zoë riding piggyback.

  “Soup’s on!” Mommy announces, and we gather in the dining room. “I made little place cards, so everyone can find their own seat. You’re over there, Claire,” she says, “and Serena, we’ve added a chair down by my end of the table. I’m sorry you won’t be sitting with Scott tonight, but I thought he should be next to his daughter.” She smiles at me. “First, we’ll say grace and then I’ll get the first course and the bread.”

  We sit, join hands, and bow our heads. “There is a force beyond us, the power of which can never fully be comprehended by humanity,” my father says in his rich baritone. “Let us thank this power for its inscrutability. And be thankful, too, that, somewhere between free will and the concept that everything happens for a reason, we are all able to join together at this table together to healthily—and happily—celebrate another Thanks-giving and another natal anniversary for Claire.” Daddy raises his eyes and winks at me. “Okay, folks, now we can dig in!”

  My mother, Mia, and I jump up from the table to get the soup. “Carrot-ginger, so Zoë will eat it,” Tulia tells everyone. “And I made cheddar brioches. Zoë, would you like to get the basket?” My daughter hops off her chair, eager to participate. “Now that’s what I like, all my girls helping!” Mia places a bowl of soup in front of Serena and stands back, waiting.

  “This is cooked, isn’t it?” Serena asks.

  Mia gives a little snort. “Can’t you see the steam?”

  “Then, I’m so sorry, but I can’t eat it.” She waves away the warm bread, too.

  “You’re crazy!” Zoë says to her, her mouth full of fresh brioche. She tastes her soup, which is pretty sophisticated stuff for a second-grade palate. Still, it’s orange, and so are the rolls.

  “Z, that’s not very nice,” I say, trying to keep the peace while suppressing a smile.

  “She eats even more weird than I do!”

  “For your information, my dietary choices are healthy ones and it would benefit mankind and the environment if we all thought about the beasts of the field and the birds of the air when we sat down to a meal.”

  The conversation picks up speed. “—And speaking of birds of the air,” my father says, elegantly gesturing to Serena to zip it, “where’s the turkey?”

  “You’re silly, Grandpa Brendan. Turkeys don’t fly!”

  “Zoë, don’t call your grandfather ‘silly,’ it’s not nice.”

  “It’s fine, Claire. I was doing what’s called a segue.”

  “Oooh, can I have a Segway for my birthday?” Zoë asks me.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Just for kicks and giggles and old times’ sake, why don’t we go around the table and share what we did today,” my father suggests. Mia glares. She’s never liked this manifestation of familial bonding. My father acknowledges her look, but says nothing. “Zoë?”

  “I went to the parade with MiMi today and I rode on the float with the Powerpuff Girls and I had the best time,” she beams.

  “That sounds very exciting!”

  “It was,” she nods.

  My father turns to me. “Claire?”

  So we are going in reverse birth order, according to Marsh tradition and custom. “I had a lovely day until…” No, I won’t spoil this dinner for the others. Not after my parents have worked so hard. “I waved to Zoë from the living-room window this morning and spent half the afternoon on the Long Island Expressway singing show tunes. But I’m glad to be here sharing the holiday with people I love,” I say, ruffling Zoë’s hair.

  My father smiles. “Your turn, Mia.”

  “Pass.”

  Brendan is about to say something when Charles jumps in, leaping to Mia’s rescue. “I’ll take Mia’s turn. I spent the day slaving over a hot stove and a pastry bag, because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my best friend’s ageless baby sister, the best tour guide in New York.”

  I blow him a kiss. “Second best. On a good day.”

  Scott and Serena exchange glances. “Well, after a successful meal last night at Eden’s Garden, where we served a full Thanksgiving dinner with a turkey made out of chopped walnuts and pecans, I closed the restaurant so I could spend the day with my…with Scott.”

  Now it’s the Marshes’ turn to exchange looks. “Should we kill her now?” Mia mutters. She may sound like she’s got a chip on her shoulder, but that’s just my sister being loyal, which is one of her loveliest qualities.

  “And I thought it would be delightful to see my daughter on Thanksgiving,” Scott says.

  My mother gestures toward the kitchen. “Well, you all know what I’ve been doing today,” she says, her voice gay, trying to lighten the mood.

  “And the fruits of my labor today will be shared after dinner,” my father says, referring to the birthday poem, I assume. “See, Mia, that wasn’t so bad.”

  “On that note, I think I’ll get the turkey right now,” my mom says, our cue to clear the soup plates. “Mia, Claire, you get the potatoes and the veggies!” Well, at least we’re working off the calories by running back and forth from the dining table to the kitchen. Mia ladles the carrots into a bowl and I don the oven mitts and dive for the yam casserole, Tulia’s secret recipe, made with Marsh-mallows, as Zoë calls them. For years she thought the candy was named for our family.

  Mommy wheels out the turkey on an antique wicker bar. “Ladies and gentlemen…meet Hedda Gobbler and her very special dressing, just for my granddaughter!” Yes, dressing, as opposed to stuffing. The turkey is wearing an orange paper dress that resembles a frilly Victorian apron. My mother is a highly creative fashion designer, but I’ll bet this is the first time her client was a fowl. Leg of lamb paper booties have nothing on Tulia’s couture’d bird.

  Zoë bursts out laughing. “It’s a girl!”

  “And it’s orange. So, you’ll have some, right?” Tulia says playfully.

  “I want a wing!”

  My father grips his favorite carving knife as if it’s Excalibur; and, as he does every year, proclaims, “At last my arm is complete again!” Those of us who have seen Sweeney Todd shudder and laugh, also an annual ritual. Brendan carves and Zoë gets her wish, waving the wing in lazy circles above her dinner plate, until I suggest that she might try eating it. She’s having such a good time that she forgets to mention that the meat isn’t orange anymore, now that its paper apron has been removed.

  Basically, we’ve got an all-orange meal and we’re doing just fine until…

  “Zoë, did you know that carrots have feelings?”

  She looks at Serena, mid-forkful, wide-eyed. “Really?”

  “Really. And when you pull a carrot from the ground to eat it, it’s just like killing an animal for the same purpose. It has feelings. And it feels pain.”

  Zoë pushes her plate away, leaving most of her food untouched. “You mean it cries?”

  “More or less, yes.”

  “And do its friends cry because it died?”

  “Yes, I imagine they do.” Six pairs of eyes, including Scott’s, turn to glare at Serena.

  “Zoë’s right about your being crazy. You’re a fucking nut, you know that?” Mia says, throwing her napkin on the table.

  “Mia, language!” my mother cautions.

  “
Yes, Mia, think of something more creative than ‘fucking,’” my father says, abetting her cause.

  “Fucking can be really creative, Dad,” Mia mutters under her breath.

  “Sweetheart, eat your dinner,” I say, gently nudging Zoë.

  “I can’t. All my vegetables are crying. And Hedda, too.” Now she’s crying. As if Serena isn’t doing enough damage, this is what we get for anthropomorphizing the turkey.

  The words start flying across the table again. “Don’t listen to her, Zoë, Serena’s full of shit!”

  “Mia!”

  “Yeah I know, Dad, ‘shit’ isn’t creative enough. Do you really want me to run through a bunch of synonyms right now?”

  I try to play peacemaker. “Serena, you’ve upset my daughter. Please tell her that you have a silly sense of humor and that you were making it up.”

  “She’ll have to learn sometime that an unenlightened diet makes mankind an accessory to murder.”

  “Honey, you don’t need to be the prosecutor for vegetabular homicide,” Scott jests, placing his hand on Serena’s forearm.

  “Don’t patronize me, Scott!” she snaps.

  “Don’t raw things feel pain?” Mia challenges. “Don’t they feel more pain when you bite into them, because they’re still alive?” I bet if I bit Ulysses right now, he’d get real vicious. “While Hedda, here,” she says, spearing a slice of tender breast meat, “is long past caring.”

  “It’s different,” Serena says defensively. She shifts into the touchy-feely good karma voice that makes me gag. “You see, when you ingest raw food, you’re absorbing all its nutrients while becoming one with it.”

  “What?” This is insane.

  “Your body absorbs its good energy, Claire. You take on the living spirit of the carrot or the squash or the walnut. When the food is cooked, its karma or spirit dies with it. But when you eat it in its raw state, it understands that by your doing so, you are celebrating its existence and accepting the power of its gift to you—the painful sacrifice of its life—you’re accepting the power of its body and soul. It’s much the same idea as those practiced by the tribal cultures who believe that when a young man kills a certain animal—a bear, for instance—in a hunt or ritual, he assumes that animal’s spirit. Tomato plants are remarkably smart. When we eat the raw tomato instead of a cooked one, we take on its native intelligence—to repel pests, for example.”

  I find myself wishing tomatoes were more orange so they could have been on the menu. “I’m getting a splitting headache,” I announce, but no one is listening. “Isn’t it enough that you’re ruining my family’s Thanksgiving and my birthday celebration by showing up uninvited and then refusing to eat my mother’s cooking? Isn’t that enough?” I glare at Serena. “No, I guess it’s not, because you’ve decided to take up a crusade to embarrass the lot of us and terrorize my daughter!”

  Zoë switches allegiances with alarming alacrity, from believing Serena’s malarkey about vegetables in mourning and smart fruit to acting as my champion. “You’re a mean lady and I hate you,” she yells, lobbing a brioche at Serena. The roll doesn’t make it as far as the intended target, but knocks over Serena’s water glass instead.

  “What have I told you about throwing food?” I say, reaching across her body to grab her wrist just as she’s about to toss another missile. “You’re making Granny Tulia very unhappy. She worked so hard to make this meal extra special for you.” In attempting to intercept the second flying roll, I succeed only in knocking over my own wineglass. A deep claret-colored stain spreads across the linen tablecloth. “Mommy, I’m sorry,” I sigh, knowing it needs to be dry-cleaned. “Send me the bill.” It’s the last thing my budget needs, but it’s the least I can do.

  Zoë becomes immediately chastened. “I’m sorry, Granny Tulia. Everything was delicious.”

  “Maybe you should go out and sit in the car,” Mia tells Serena.

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart,” my mother says to Zoë, evincing no anger whatever. The Marsh volatility has never fazed her in the least. “We even have a special orange dessert.”

  Serena glances across the table at Scott, but doesn’t budge.

  Zoë looks confused. “But Happy Chef made Mommy a birthday cake. With real buttercream. And flowers.”

  “Oh, dear, and I thought you might not want any birthday cake because it doesn’t have orange frosting, so I went and made a pumpkin pie.” My mother’s poker face is masterful. So much so that Mia hasn’t even caught on.

  “From scratch?” Mia asks. Tulia nods.

  “But…but…but…I want birthday cake,” Zoë says. Whenever she’s working out a difficult situation in her head, she has a tendency to repeat the first word of a sentence until she’s got her thought organized.

  “Even though it’s not orange?”

  Zoë takes a dramatic pause, first realizing, then acknowledging and accepting the consequences of her response. “Uh-huh. I want pumpkin pie, too, but it’s bad luck not to have birthday cake.”

  My mother rises and Mia and I begin to clear the dinner things and get ready for dessert. Happy Chef joins us in the kitchen so he can set up the candles in my cake.

  “Just be symbolic, okay? Don’t go sticking twenty-six candles in that or you’ll burn down the house,” I tease.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins. “Twenty-seven. One to grow on, remember?”

  “You’re evil, you know that?”

  “Shut up. You’re a kid,” Mia says. “You’ve got another four years before you hit the big three-oh. Now that’s depressing!”

  My mother laughs. “Yes, Mia, you’re sooooo old. I’m surprised your bones don’t creak when you sit. Get over it, both of you!”

  “Ladies—and Charles—aren’t you forgetting something?” my father calls in from the dining room.

  My mother’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, God, his big moment. Wait, we’ll bring the desserts inside, but we can’t light Clairey’s candles until the end of her poem.”

  I look at Happy Chef, artfully arranging the candles so as not to spoil the lettering or the roses. “That’s the tradition.” I shrug. “We’ve been doing it since forever.”

  Mia and I bring out the plates and forks, Tulia’s got the pumpkin pie, and Charles carries the cake, resting it in front of my place setting.

  My father shuffles to his feet, rising as though the birthday poem isn’t a big deal at all. I feel a shudder of excitement as my mother rushes back to the kitchen to turn off the light, leaving us illumined only by candleglow. The shadows flicker on the wall and the bayberry scent seems even more intense when the tapers themselves become the stars of the show.

  “I’ve been doing this since Tulia first consented to make me the happiest man alive—for her birthdays, and then, when the girls came along, for theirs—and now, for Zoë, too. You all know that I tend to play fast and loose with the classical forms when I write, but I thought, for Claire this year, that I would revisit the sonnet—the Shakespearean, not the Italian—for those of you keeping score. So, be kind, as it isn’t my usual thing—”

  “Disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer,” I tease, knowing that whatever he’s chosen to write, to say, is quite a gift.

  “Well, then, the birthday girl has spoken. So without further ado, ‘A Sonnet for Claire on the Occasion of Her Twenty-sixth Birthday.’” Brendan clears his throat and lets the words flow, his voice like velvet in the near darkness.

  “’Mid Hunters’ Moon and russet-colored corn

  And autumn days that wax too short for mirth,

  A fair-haired child, a pilgrim soul, was born.

  We called you Claire, for ‘lighting’ up the Earth.

  You worshipped wonder in your golden youth,

  Chased shooting stars and mourned them when they fell.

  Along the yellow highway you met truth

  With dauntless courage, heart, and brains as well.

  Your path is arduous, but with your strength And dint of will, you sure
ly will prevail. To reach the pot of gold at rainbow’s length you should fail.

  With child in hand, surmounting double strife You’ll beat the odds—and win the game of life.”

  “That’s really beautiful, Daddy. Thank you.” My eyes are wet, my vision blurred by tears. Tulia and Mia murmur their compliments. Scott looks uncomfortable, Serena more so.

  “I could really use a cigarette,” she says, getting up from the table. She glides out of the room and leaves the house.

  “She doesn’t smoke, does she?” I ask Scott, thinking how hypocritical it would be for Miss Raw Food to be having a nic-fit.

  “No, Claire, she doesn’t. She just said she could really use a butt right now. She’s under a lot of pressure this evening.”

  “And I’m not? Thanks to you?”

  “I liked Mommy’s poem a lot, too,” Zoë says.

  “Well, fire her up, Charles,” my mother instructs Happy Chef. He strikes a match and lights the candles while everyone, minus the missing Serena, sings Happy Birthday. Zoë, the little wench, insists on taking a solo, singing the “how old are you now?” verse, thereby compelling me to reply. I wish I could lie about my age, but the cat’s already out of the bag, and besides, it would be teaching my daughter a bad lesson, so I’m screwed, and warble the truth.

  “Make a wish, Mommy! And don’t forget to close your eyes. And don’t say it out loud or it won’t come true.”

  Once, it would have been for a great pair of shoes or a bracelet, or a fabulous vacation. World peace is out of my control. Come to think of it, I could still use that vacation. I shut my eyes and send my little prayer to the birthday gods, then take a deep breath. Everyone knows that if you don’t blow out all your candles in one shot, your wish won’t come true. Why do you think I didn’t want twenty-seven candles? But I wish and I whoosh and I get ’em all.