In the distance, I heard my father saying, "Just kill it with a broom, Christina. I'll be there in a minute."
"Not a spider, George," she yelled. "Stella's bringing a boy to dinner."
It didn't matter that Cal was very much a man. Holy fucking fuck, he was allman. But in my parents' book, any guy I brought home was a boy.
"What? What about Stella? Where is she? She's bringing what? She's here?"
"She's not here," my mother shouted.
I held the phone away from my ear. The driver shot a curious glance at me over his shoulder. "Sorry," I whispered.
"On the phone, George. She's on thephone," my mother yelled.
Chances were good my mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen. That was her spot. At any point in the day, my mother could be found standing there, trying to remember why she went into the kitchen. Chances were also good my father was in the basement. That was his spot. He kept an old television down there—the kind with rabbit ears—and every copy ofSports Illustratedpublished since 1975. He also had a punching bag he never touched and a recliner that would one day digest him into the dark abyss of that chair.
"What does she need?" he yelled back.
The problem with their kitchen/basement spots was the acoustics. He couldn't hear a damn thing down there and she believed he wasn't trying hard enough.
"She's bringing a boy to dinner," my mother called.
"A what?"
"Dammit, George. She's bringing a boy home."
"What's wrong with her? Where is she?" he asked.
"She's on thephone," Mom repeated.
I heard another extension pick up, probably the old wall-mounted phone near the washer and dryer in the basement. It was a terrible place to take calls because the washer rattled relentlessly and the dryer—which was always fluffing something—smothered the area in white noise. "What's happening?" he asked.
"I'm—" I started.
"Stella's bringing a boy home for her birthday dinner," she cut in. "Can you believe this? I looked outside just now and I don't see any pigs in the sky so I don't know what's going on."
"You better not be pulling one over on us, Stella," he warned. "This sort of thing isn't a joke."
I laughed, not certain I understood the unrestrained shock from my parents. "I'm not joking," I replied. "I called to make sure it was all right to bring him and—"
"Oh, would you stop it with that?" Mom snapped. "We'll need the folding table unless we seat Toby with the kids in the kitchen."
"Good place for him," Dad muttered, referring to Serina's husband. Nice guy, Mets fan. Couldn't get past that one.
"And we need to get some good wine. Not the shitty kind you usually buy," Mom continued. "What kind of wine does he like, Stella? Red or white?"
"Men drink red wine," Dad argued.
"Enough of that," Mom chided him. "I'm asking Stella."
"Red wine is great," I replied. "Or beer. Honestly, you don't need to worry about Cal. He'll be fine with whatever you have."
"I'll get red wine," Dad said. "Beer too."
"You don't need to do anything different," I cautioned. "Really. He'll be fine."
"Stella, please," Dad replied, his tone heavy.
"You need to cut the goddamn grass," my mother announced. I assumed that was directed at Dad. I didn't cut grass. The small patch of lawn at my house was handled by a professional and I preferred it that way. "We should get those flower boxes filled too."
