expect to when he’s outside the wire.”
Don’t you get sick of that? God,
I couldn’t stand not knowing.
Even this is better, I think.
“He promised he’d ask for stateside
deployment, or go into the reserves.”
She’s quiet for a minute. Chewing
on it. You don’t really believe that?
This is Cole we’re talking about.
I’M ABOUT TO ASK
For an explanation, when the radio,
which has been playing country
since San Diego, launches news.
Twenty-two-year-old Chandra Baird
was arraigned today, on a half-dozen
charges, ranging from child endangerment
to trafficking methamphetamine.
Baird, who plead not guilty . . . I don’t
want to listen to it all. But as I reach
to turn down the volume, I do hear
him say Soleil’s condition has been
upgraded to critical. Hang in there,
Soleil. She’s marginally improved.
Better than going the other direction.
“Thanks.” I send it to the universe,
mumbling the last word out loud.
You talking to me? asks Dar, knowing,
I’m sure, that I’m going to say, “Nope.”
But now I reconsider. “Well, yes.
Thanks for riding along. Thanks for
supporting me. Thanks for being you.”
I think I’m blushing. You’re welcome.
But when did you get God again?
Fair question. “I haven’t exactly
acquired Him again. Just hedging
my bets, you know? I figure if
He’s out there, I might as well be polite.”
Darian laughs. I don’t suppose
it could hurt. I’ve said a prayer
or two myself in the last few months.
If it worked for Spence . . .
“Like you said. Can’t hurt. Poor
baby. Some people just shouldn’t
have kids, you know what I mean?”
I turn the radio back up, encourage
Dar to sing along. Her voice is still
beautiful. “If you won’t take up wedding
planning, I think you should try out
for Idol, or The Voice, or one of those
shows. Even if you didn’t win, it would
give you great exposure. You could
make it in the business.” I mean every
word, but she acts like I’m joking.
Oh, definitely. And you know where
I’d get the leg up? Having a disabled
husband. “Please let me win. I need
to take care of my disfigured war vet.”
“Hey, whatever works. But just so
you know, you’re talented enough
to do it all on your own.” We fall into
idle conversation, and the day dissolves.
It’s late afternoon when we pull into
my parent’s driveway. It’s choked
with cars, so I pull around, park on
the street. “Wow. Wonder what’s up.”
WHAT’S UP
Is a reception for Troy and Gretchen,
who chose a quickie wedding in front
of a justice of the peace. The cars
belong to Troy’s friends, who are
here, I think, for the champagne
and nice, little canapés, care of
Mom’s favorite delicatessen. I know
they came from there because
the longtime owners, the Ellisons,
are here, celebrating with
the small crowd. I recognize a few
who were just behind me in high
school. Most are complete strangers.
Whatever. A party’s a party. Darian
and I mingle. I survey the house.
Nudge Dar. “Looks like my mom
is compensating for your dad going
overboard this year. We don’t even
have a tree. Or mistletoe. Or stockings
hung by the chimney, with or without
care.” The house is too obviously bare
of accoutrement, a rare occurrence
over the span of my lifetime. In fact,
it has never happened before. My mom
is the Martha Stewart of Christmas.
“I’d better go find her,” I whisper
to Dar. “Something’s up.” I leave
Darian to her own devices. Which
only worries me a little. These young
inebriated men don’t stand a chance.
I WEAVE, ROOM TO ROOM
Finally locate Mom, alone and sipping
tea, in the solarium. “There you are.”
The low winter sun lights the window
behind her, painting her platinum hair
with a gentle glow, almost like a halo.
It softens her features and I can almost
see the girl she was in our family photo
albums. Oh my God. I can almost see me.
You made it. How was the drive?
Generic. She makes no move to get
up, so I go sit beside her. “The drive
was fine. Definitely more interesting
with Darian along. She’s the life of any
party. And speaking of parties, what’s up?
This party’s out there. So, why are you
back here?” She sips her tea before
answering. It’s still a party without
me there. I just needed a little quiet.
This is so unlike Mom, who is ever
the hostess. “You okay? Where’s Dad?”
She shrugs. He’s here somewhere,
I guess. Didn’t you see him?
“No, but I didn’t look very hard.
And I wanted to talk to you first.
So, talk to me. Something’s wrong.
Tell me what it is. You’re not . . . sick?”
She smiles, but it’s a smile defined
by sadness. No. Nothing like that.
It’s just . . . everything’s changing.
Oh, news flash. The school district’s
cutting jobs. Librarians are at the top
of the list. I’m lucky, I suppose. They’re
only slicing mine back to part-time.
I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.
Find some insipid hobby? Volunteer?
She pauses. Thinks for a few seconds.
Once, I thought if we had the energy
and resources, your father and I would
travel together. But, unfortunately,
your father prefers to travel “alone.”
The last word is weighted, leaving no
doubt what she means. “Why do you stay?”
Where would I go? This is my home.
Anyway, you know me. Ms. Propriety.
THAT’S MOM, ALL RIGHT
Always doing the right thing.
Except maybe not for her.
I hate that. Mostly because
she reminds me of me—
always trying to please others
first. It’s an annoying habit.
One I’m struggling to break.
This probably isn’t the right
time to bring this up, but I doubt
there is a perfect time. So, here
goes. The new me. Ashley, who
is not worried about pleasing
everyone else first. “So, Mom.
I’ve been thinking things over
and I’m seriously considering
changing my course of study.”
I can’t say Ms. Propriety looks
totally surprised. Still, she says,
Now? But, Ashley, you’re halfway
there. Do you really think that�
�s wise?
Unbidden, my fingers start tapping.
Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Maybe not. But I think it’s necessary.”
I OUTLINE MY REASONS
“I just don’t believe I can spend my
life failing the people who most need
help. There’s too much at stake. I think
it takes a stronger person than me.
There are things I love about it.
Working at the VA Hospital, for one.
But I could still help out there, even
if it wasn’t in an official capacity.”
Mom has listened without comment.
Finally, she says, But creative writing?
What can you do with a master’s
except teach? Immediately, she answers
herself, Which is what you always
wanted to do, anyway. That was
your plan, ever since you were little,
wasn’t it? To be totally honest
here, your father is probably right
about teaching. Too little pay, less
respect, and that’s only getting worse.
I’m not sure how people expect
their children to succeed without
a good education. But that seems
to be the tenor of our country right
now. You need to understand that.
“I know, Mom. I’m not worried
about the money, although I guess
I should be. It’s more about making
a difference. If I can, that is.”
I’m sure you could. You’d make
a great teacher, Ashley. As long
as you remember you’ll probably
fail a few of your students, too.
I wish it were possible to save
them all. It’s not. Some will fall
through the cracks, same as social
work. You’ll see ugly things you might
not be able to change. But someone
needs to try. Your father, of course,
will be livid. But if this is really what
you want, I’ll support your decision.
My fingers quiet. “Thanks, Mom.”
I change the subject, before she can
reconsider. “Hey. What happened
to Christmas? Did the Grinch come by?”
Her smile is sad. I figured I should
get used to it. Both you and Troy
are starting new lives and will build
your own traditions. It doesn’t make
sense to go crazy with decorating
if I’m going to spend the holidays
alone. The last word is worrisome.
Why would she spend them alone?
I WANT TO PROMISE
That would never happen,
that Troy or I or both of us
will always come home
for the holidays, with spouses
and maybe children, who
knows? That Dad would
never leave her solo on
Christmas, if for no other
reason than to show up
at mass and let Father
Frank see him there.
But I don’t know for sure
if any of that is true. Cole
might insist we spend
Christmas in Wyoming.
And Troy could very well
be in Germany. Those two
things could happen at
the same time on any
given year. And as for Dad,
he’s always been a wild
card. Not to mention,
a selfish bastard. Mom
deserves better. A lot better.
THE PARTY GOES
Until the champagne is gone.
Dad has been drinking right
along with the younger crowd,
getting sloppy and slurring and
outright flirting with a few of
the girls. They seem to find it
funny, maybe even flattering.
I think it’s disgusting. No wonder
Mom wasn’t anxious to join
the party. She finally emerges
from her sunroom asylum,
takes one look, and hustles
off to the kitchen, ostensibly
to refill the goody trays. She
doesn’t reappear until Troy
and Gretchen see their guests
to the door. Ever the hostess,
after all. With the other girls
gone, Dad comes over, sits on
the recliner adjacent the sofa
where Dar and I are talking.
Great party, huh? he asks.
A jolt of anger zaps me. “Looked
like you were having fun. Poor
Mom got stuck with kitchen duty.”
Right where she belongs. Right
where all decent women belong.
THE JOKE
If it was a joke, it was so not funny.
It was ignorant. I chalk it up to
booze. Dad sways slightly, and
his eyes have a hard time focusing.
This is not the time to discuss
anything of importance.
“It’s been a really long day, Dad.
I’m going to bed. You coming,
Dar?” On the way to my room,
we pass Troy and Gretchen.
I hug my brother. “I’m so happy
for you guys. Sorry about Dad.”
He gives me a “so what’s new?”
shrug. Dar doesn’t have to follow
me. She knows the way to my room.
Wow. It hasn’t changed at all.
First thing my mom did was paint
mine blue and make it the guest room.
Mine is still lavender, with white
furniture, curtains, and throw
rugs over the hardwood floor.
The same framed prints of irises
and white roses hang on the walls.
“It’s kind of like a shrine, isn’t it?”
Darian laughs. I like it. Sort of
comforting to know everything
doesn’t have to change. Hope
the mattress is still comfortable. We
change into warm pajamas, fall
into bed, and barely talk at all.
DAR MAKES UP
For the lack of conversation last
night as we tour the foothill wineries,
seeking the perfect combination
of amenities, availability, and price.
Darian knows all the right questions
to ask. Basic venue fees. Vendor
recommendations. Hours weddings
are allowed. Some places make you
wait until their tasting rooms are
closed, which can push a wedding
pretty late into the evening. It takes
all day. Some wineries are close
together. Others require a good deal
of driving time. And while we’re on
the road, we talk. I mention I told
Mom about changing my major.
Good. I’m glad she’s in your corner.
About my dad, his inappropriate
behavior. What a jerk he can be.
Your poor mom. She’s so complacent.
Which leads to a discussion about
fidelity. If it’s necessary. If it’s possible.
If a marriage can survive without it.
It’s possible. Look at your parents.
“Thirty years. But was it worth it?”
WHICH SOMEHOW BRINGS US
Around to Jonah. Not sure why
it took her so long. I expected
her questions before today.
So, what’s up between you
and your cute poetry teacher?
“Jonah?” Like there’s another
one. “Nothing. What do you mean?”
First of all, you call him Jonah.
Pretty friendly, if you ask me.
Plus poetry slams. Surfing?
Since when do you own a board?
“Since you moved out and I quit
going to the gym. I decided I prefer
exercise that doesn’t involve inhaling
other people’s sweat stench.”
Fair enough. But when did you
start hanging out with Jonah?
“We don’t hang out. He asked me
to help judge a poetry competition.
Took me to dinner and a slam after.
We’ve only been surfing once. That’s it.”
Sounds like hanging out to me.
Come on. What else? Any, you know?
“Absolutely not! He’s never even
tried to kiss me. Let alone, you know.”
Okay, fine. But, just in case you don’t
know, and I’m not sure how you
couldn’t, he’d “you know” with you
in a hot damn second. I’d consider it.
“Hello, Darian? I’m getting married.
To Cole, remember? That’s why
we’re uh . . . here.” We pull into
the final winery of the day—a huge
Spanish-style stucco affair on a hill
with a magnificent view. “Ooh. I like
this one, don’t you?” She agrees,
and we go inside to do some talking.
Driving back to Lodi, we go over
copious notes. Discuss pros and cons
of the five possible venues. “Now
that we’ve narrowed it down, I’ll see
if Mom wants to check them out
with me. She still isn’t too excited
about the whole idea. But at least
she isn’t trying to talk me out of it.”
Darian reflects. Says softly, I wish
someone would have talked me out
of it. I love Spence. Then, and now. But
I don’t love much about being married.
LATE CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING
I drop Dar at her parents’ house.
Stay long enough to say hello
and walk with her out to the paddock
where her aging bay mare, Snaps,
is sniffing the ground, looking for
grass. Not much out there this time
of year. When she hears Dar’s voice,
her head springs up and she whinnies
a greeting, comes over for a scratch
behind the ear. “At least she’s the same.”
Yeah, but getting up there. One day
I’ll come home and she’ll be gone.
“Way to mess up my high, Dar.
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