by Doxer, Debra
He nods. “For now. That’s why I’m here. I need to see the white papers before you guys post them. We were just told to slash some features.”
I roll my eyes. I now have to rework the white papers, again. “Why?”
“Napa wants it out the door next month.”
“But the deal hasn’t even officially been approved yet.” Nate moves outside the perimeter of his cube walls. “How can they start telling us what to do?”
“I think they’re already making a lot of changes by proxy,” Phil answers, having to crane his neck back to talk to Nate.
Nate’s face is beginning to flush.
“I’ll tell Rob to hold off on posting them, and I’ll send them to you by email this afternoon,” I offer. I’m already composing the email as Phil thanks me and strolls off.
“Karthik bailed pretty fast,” Nate comments, wanting to chat. He’s leaning against my cube wall. With his size, it is a move that always makes me nervous. Today he has on a bright blue T-shirt that reads I beta tested your mom.
I reluctantly stop what I’m doing. “Karthik is a smart guy. He must have had all sorts of offers. He never had to stay here one second longer than he wanted to.”
Nate leans in toward me. “Are you going to start looking for a job?” he asks in a whisper.
I was afraid that question was coming. I hesitate. “I don’t know. Are you?”
He sits back on his heels and pushes his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “I don’t know.”
We’re at an impasse. I smile sympathetically at him. He returns the gesture, but it’s a ghost of a grin that doesn’t reach his worried eyes.
News of Karthik’s departure is the impetus for the afternoon call I put in to the recruiter. Perhaps my job search now requires more urgency. Maryanne tells me that there is nothing new and asks if I want to change my location or salary requirements. I don’t. Not yet. Although, if a layoff is imminent, I need to get out before it occurs. When interviewing for a new job you’re always more attractive if you currently have a job.
Today is Friday, and it’s the last day of August. Monday is Labor Day, part of the three-day weekend that signals the unofficial end of summer. I hate Labor Day. Mainly because it means fall and then winter is on its way, but also because it signals the arrival of the annual Whitman family barbecue. This much-dreaded barbecue is a seasonal mainstay for my parents. Attendance has slowly dwindled as the older aunts and uncles have passed away, and various cousins have moved away or begged off. But the barbeque will not be deterred by a lack of attendance or the inability of my father to use the grill. “It’s a new grill. I’m still getting used to it,” he complains every year.
On Saturday, I sleep late and then putter around the house, cleaning up, doing laundry, and eventually getting out to run some errands. On Sunday, I have plans with Katie.
I meet her downtown at a sandwich shop on Arlington Street. With everyone soaking up the last days of summer, the streets of Boston are packed with people, and the line for the sandwich place is out the door. All the sidewalk tables are taken, and waiting patrons hover around diners hoping to swoop in the moment anyone makes a move to leave.
I examine the line when I arrive and see Katie standing in the middle of it. As she turns to greet me, she smacks the guy behind her with her oversized handbag. She looks great in a spaghetti strap sundress with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail.
“Hey,” we say to each other in greeting as we hug.
The man Katie hit with her handbag glares at me as I get in line beside her.
“You look nice,” she tells me smiling wide.
I’m wearing a tank top over a flowery print skirt that stops just above my knees. I have my favorite flip-flops on my feet and now that the humid summer air has dried up, the only good thing about the impending fall season is that I can wear my hair down with some confidence. The tight, frizzy curls of summer have loosened into shiny waves, making my hair suddenly appear several inches longer. I always receive compliments on my hair in the fall and winter. Unfortunately, they only serve to confirm my belief that my hair looks terrible the rest of the year.
“You look great yourself.” I return her compliment and mean it. “How was your doctor appointment?”
“Good, everything is fine. I started my prenatal vitamins this morning.”
We shuffle forward a few inches with the rest of the line.
“How do you feel? Any morning sickness?”
She shakes her head; her ponytail sways behind her. “Not yet. But it’s still early.”
The line shifts again, and we are now inside the sandwich shop. The distinctive deli aroma, a combination of pickles and salted meats, surrounds us. Katie leans in close to me. “I’m telling him tonight,” she informs me quietly with a smile.
“Oh, great,” I say. Although, I’m not sure whether it is or not.
“I’m too happy to keep this to myself for another day. I have to tell him about the baby.”
I smile at her. Her joy is contagious.
“No matter what Mike says or thinks, I’m thrilled about the baby. That won’t change,” she declares.
Katie’s tune has evolved from indecisive and insecure to optimistic and overjoyed. Perhaps the baby has become more real for her now that she’s been to the doctor. I feel both relieved and apprehensive for her.
The line inches forward again, and it’s finally our turn. Katie orders a warm eggplant submarine sandwich because pregnant ladies can’t eat deli meat she explains, something about catching listeria. I choose to live on the edge and order a possibly listeria-laden turkey on rye with lettuce, mustard, and a half-sour pickle on the side. We have them bag our food and we walk toward the Commons, intending to sit on the grass with our makeshift picnic.
“Mike said he might come by. I told him we’d be by the swan boats,” Katie informs me.
“He’s in town?”
She nods, and her blonde ponytail bounces behind her. “He’s at his office today.”
We find a shady spot that provides a view of the swan boats. I haven’t been for a ride on a swan boat since grade school. It’s calming to watch their slow, steady progression across the still pond.
The grass is warm and soft beneath us. The breeze forces us to anchor our napkins as we attempt to bite into our oversized sandwiches. I want to ask Katie what she’ll do if Mike isn’t happy about the baby, but I don’t want to dampen her mood.
As we eat, she inquires about the state of my job, nodding her understanding of the situation. Then she asks if I’ve seen Ryan again. Since Thursday I’ve been checking my cell phone for messages far too often, still not quite believing that I’ve been blown off by him. But there has been no sign of Ryan since our day at the beach. I tell Katie that I haven’t seen him, and I redirect the conversation back to her. I’m not really interested in talking about it. Talking about things never makes me feel better about them. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Repressing my feelings is what keeps me going most of the time.
I’m crumpling my empty sandwich bag in my hands when Katie glances up and grins at someone behind me.
“Hello, ladies.” I hear.
“You found us,” Katie calls as she hoists herself up.
I turn my head to find Mike towering over me in a pair of casual, well-worn khakis and a short-sleeve button-down shirt. His stylishly long, wheat-colored hair blows in the breeze. His magnetism is palpable, and I notice that every female in the vicinity is aware of him.
Katie kisses him and then pulls him over to where she was sitting. Mike lowers himself onto the grass beside me.
“Hey, Andy.” He reaches across me and tugs on my shoulder to bring me in for a cheek kiss.
I compliantly peck his scruffy cheek, and then I pull back and smile my hello to him.
His hand lingers a moment longer as he gives me a quick shoulder rub. Then he turns his attention to the remnants of our lunch. “Where’s mine?” he asks.
Kat
ie’s eyes go wide. “When I asked you this morning, you told me not to get you anything because you weren’t sure if you’d make it.”
Mike places his hands behind him on the grass and he looks up into the clear sky. “I don’t remember saying that.”
Katie blinks her surprise at him. “Well, you did. Do you want me to go get you something now?”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t bother. But when you asked me to meet you in the park for lunch, I thought you were bringing lunch.” He shrugs and closes his eyes as he soaks up the warm rays of the sun.
Beside him, Katie’s hands are clenched in her lap. “You must be hungry. Let’s walk back to the sandwich shop and get you something,” she says as she begins to gather her things.
“I’m headed that way, too,” I offer in an effort to help.
“Nah. I’ll just head back to the office. I can grab something from the vending machine.”
“That’s not lunch, Mike,” she says. “Come on. The place is right there.”
“It’s fine,” he insists. “I really didn’t have a lot of time anyway.” He stands suddenly and brushes at the seat of his pants.
Katie and I stand, too, but I can tell from the look on her face that she’s not finished. She is about to continue arguing when Mike drives his point home by kissing me on the cheek again.
“Bye, Andy. Good to see you”
“You, too,” I reply hesitantly with my eyes on Katie.
He turns and pecks her on the lips. “See you at home,” he says before pushing his hands into his pockets and sauntering back the way he came.
Katie sighs and shakes her head. “He told me not to get him lunch.”
I nudge her shoulder with mine. “Don’t feel badly. Your wires got crossed.”
“I guess.”
We toss away our trash and head back toward Arlington Street. Katie is quiet. Her peppy mood from earlier has all but disappeared. It was just lunch, but still, it feels as though Mike has manipulated her into feeling this way. I want to talk to her about it. I want to do some serious Mike bashing, but I won’t. Both her expression and her current situation do not welcome any further commentary from me.
When we part ways that afternoon, I hug Katie I and make her promise to call me tomorrow to let me know how Mike takes the baby news.
fifteen
Barbecue day dawns clear and cool. The plan is to drive over to Laura and Jonathan’s apartment and then leave together from there. Safety in numbers is the general idea. Making an early escape is another idea.
Mom and Dad always encourage us to invite our friends to the barbeque, but we know without asking that none of our friends would be interested in attending. With mostly friends of my parents, and relatives who suffer from various physical ailments and want nothing more than to describe them in detail to us, my sister and I don’t even want to be there, never mind torturing our friends.
“Will your mom have some backup food this time?” Jonathan asks. He’s driving. Laura sits beside him and I’m in the back.
“Maybe we can convince Dad to let you man the grill this year,” Laura suggests.
This is Jonathan’s second appearance at the barbecue. Last year, when he noticed my dad putting cooked hamburgers back on the same plate he had retrieved them from when they were raw, his half-eaten burger nearly made a reappearance.
“Please don’t suggest it,” Jonathan pleads, a hint of panic in his voice.
“Okay, I won’t. Relax.” Laura replies, sounding annoyed. From the backseat, I can picture her rolling her eyes at him.
For some reason, Jonathan believes that my father doesn’t like him. Jonathan is a friendly, gregarious person--as is his entire family from what I can tell. He seems to think that because my father never speaks to him or acknowledges him, that my father doesn’t like him. We’ve explained that my father never really speaks to anyone, including us, but that hasn’t changed his opinion.
Cars are already filling the driveway when we arrive. We take a spot on the street, and I lead the way, carrying the flowers we’ve bought for my mother. When I pull open the screen door and step into the foyer, I can hear voices coming from the backyard, and I smell something cooking that I can’t quite identify. We find my mother in the steamy kitchen donning a white apron and looking frazzled.
“Hi,” I say, surprising her.
She turns abruptly, her disingenuous smile disappearing once she realizes it’s us.
“What’s going on?” Laura asks beside me.
Mom wipes a hand across her forehead and places the spatula she’s been holding on the counter. I see pots on the stove behind her. “Ask your father,” she scowls.
“What do you mean?”
She places a hand on her hip. “I asked him to check the grill last week. Then I asked him again yesterday. With everything going with the wedding, we haven’t had a chance to use it this summer. So, I asked him to please check to make sure it was working. What do you think he did?”
“He didn’t check it,” we mumble in unison.
“No, he didn’t.”
“It’s not working,” I say needlessly.
“Of course it isn’t!” She picks up her spatula again.
“Do you want Jonathan to take a look at it?” Laura offers.
“No, it doesn’t matter now.” She turns back toward the stove. Obviously, the barbecue has moved inside. At least the cooking part has. On the stove, hot dogs are boiling in one pot, corn-on-the-cob in another. The hamburgers are sizzling inside the oven.
Quietly tiptoeing around Mom as though she’ll ignite and explode if we get too close, we apply ourselves to helping. Laura lifts a vat of potato salad and takes it outside. Jonathan follows wordlessly. I put down the flowers and grab two soda bottles. Then I make my way to the backyard.
A handful of bridge tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths are spread across the grass. People are milling around with drinks in their hands. I spot Dad leaning against the useless grill with an amber bottle of beer in his hand. The grill itself is a marvel of modern technology. It’s a silver gargantuan covered in dials and indicators. I’m surprised Dad can ever even work it at all.
I wade through a sea of cheek kisses that I’m sure leave lip-shaped impressions all over my face. I field questions about my job and my new townhouse, and I try to answer politely without having to stop and chat for too long. Finally, I reach Dad. He’s drinking his beer, his usual placid expression in place, but I can see that the muscles around his mouth are tight.
“I hear you’re in the doghouse,” I comment.
He shrugs. “I don’t see why we have to have this barbecue every year. It’s too much work.”
“Not for you--today,” I say. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t sabotage the grill, did you?”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“Hello Laura. I hear congratulations are in order.”
I turn to see Uncle Jerry squinting at me. Laura is nowhere in sight.
“I’m Andrea.”
He appears confused for a moment, but recovers quickly and grins at me. “Oh, Andrea. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
He purses his lips together. Above them, a pair of thick glasses balance on the bridge of his red bulbous nose. “You know. Doing the best I can.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” I tell him.
“Don’t get old Andrea,” he instructs, pointing a weathered crooked finger at me.
“It’s better than the alternative,” I suggest.
Uncle Jerry blinks at me, looking confused again behind his coke bottle glasses. He’s my dad’s uncle, which makes him my great uncle. I glance over at Dad, trying to make eye contact with him, hoping for a rescue. But he is oblivious to my discomfort as he takes another pull on his beer.
“How’s Ashley?” I ask Uncle Jerry after a brief conversation lull. Ashley is his twenty-something granddaughter, rumored to have an alcohol problem, who never turns up to
family events.
“Good. Very good. She’s working at the registry of motor vehicles. Saving money to go to college.”
“That’s great.”
“She wants to be a teacher.”
“How nice.” I glance around, thinking of a way to escape.
“Her boyfriend works for the registry, too. He got her the job,” he continues.
“Oh, lucky for her.”
Uncle Jerry nods. “How about you?” he asks.
“What about me?” I answer, distracted as I spot Laura coming toward me.
“Have you got a boyfriend?”
“No,” I smile sweetly. “Excuse me. I think my sister is looking for me.” I turn before leaving and say, “Hey Dad, did you know that Ashley is now working for the registry of motor vehicles?” Uncle Jerry moves toward him, more than happy to expound on the topic. That’s when I grab Laura’s elbow and turn back to the house with her. “Good timing,” I whisper.
“Mom wants us to cut up the fruit for her.”
“Great!” I exclaim, happy for a valid excuse to go back inside.
Laura gives me a funny look.
This is how I spend the afternoon. I keep my head down and work my butt off, bustling around the kitchen, carrying food in and out of the house, washing dishes, appearing far too busy to chat with anyone.
“Andrea, let me do that,” Mom offers, coming to stand beside me at the sink. “Go outside and enjoy yourself.”
“It’s okay. I’m almost done,” I reply before glancing around for more dishes to wash.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she says. The she puts an arm around me and squeezes. “You’re really terrific. You know that?”
“Yes, I do,” I joke, feeling guilty. My motives aren’t exactly pure.
When Mom leaves, Laura appears with a dishtowel in hand, and she starts drying the pots I’ve laid on the counter.
“Where’s Jonathan?” I ask. I realize that I haven’t seen him all afternoon.
“Mr. Kates got a hold of him. They’re out front looking at his Mustang.” Mr. Kates is one of our parents’ friends. With unnaturally black hair and jeans that are inappropriately tight, he has a death grip on his youth. The Mustang is part of the illusion.