I make a mental note to call him Roy as much as possible.
Do you have a hockey nickname, Cleo? she asks.
I speak loudly and clearly. I have a ton of them. Nellie, Motormouth, and Clutch. You can call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for dinner.
Marjorie laughs at that old joke, which makes up for Mats staring at me like I’m some new species of cockroach.
I understand the first two nicknames, but how did you get the third one? Marjorie asks.
Great, I’ve been here five minutes and she already knows how much I talk. It’s the way I play hockey; I come through in the clutch. If you need a big goal, I’m your girl, I boast.
Mats winces slightly, like he can’t believe how enormous my ego is.
Do you have something to add, Roy? I ask.
He smiles blandly and shakes his head.
Then Geraldine rolls in an honest-to-god drinks cart loaded with crystal decanters and appies.
Sherry? Or scotch? she offers.
I prefer rum-based cocktails, but since they’re not on offer, I settle for what Marjorie is having. Sherry, please.
Mats asks for water, which earns him a scornful look from Geraldine. Then she passes around the appies, which consist of Ritz crackers with cream cheese and olives. They look more like Frankenstein eyeballs than food. I see Mats take one and put it down on a napkin without taking a bite. Hmmm, isn’t he one of those clean-eating fanatics? That’s not going to go down well with Geraldine, who obviously spent hours over a cold cutting board. I eat two to show my dining superiority. They’re not terrible.
Barb Peachy might not be able to come to dinner, I explain loudly.
Marjorie nods. Yes, poor thing. She called to let us know. Hockey can be a dangerous sport.
I’ve never been injured, I boast.
Perhaps the women’s game isn’t as tough, she replies.
I inhale sharply. Before I completely lose my cool and yell at a little old lady, Mats jumps in. The women’s game is as intense and hard-fought as men’s hockey. They have lots of injuries too; Cleo’s just been lucky.
Contrarily, even though everything he’s said is true, I resent him for saying it. It takes more than luck to dodge a big defender trying to separate me from the puck as well as my jill.
Are you a senior, Mats? You look quite mature, Marjorie asks.
I’m a sophomore, actually. But I’m twenty-one years old, he says.
Oh, failed a few grades, did you? she asks, and I almost spew my drink.
He remains unruffled. Not at all. Colleges prefer older players. I played junior hockey back in Canada before I came here.
Oh, a Canadian. What about you, Cleo?
I’m a junior; Minnesotan born and bred, I brag. I’m sure this will gain me points with Marjorie. I’m going to win her over, leave Mats in the dirt, and snag the whole donation for the women’s program. Okay, I may be a leetle competitive.
A gong sounds down the hallway, and I startle. What’s that?
Dinner, announces Marjorie. She rises from her chair and leads us down another hallway until we arrive at a dining room with striped wallpaper and more wood panelling. There’s an enormous chandelier that’s sparkly and ancient. I hope it doesn’t crash down on us during dinner. Correction: I hope it doesn’t crash down on Marjorie or me.
The polished table could easily seat a dozen people, but we’re all at one end, with Marjorie at the head and Mats and I flanking her. There’s a lace tablecloth and, just as I feared, a serious amount of cutlery. No fish forks though, which I looked up last night.
Geraldine places a bowl on its own plate in front of us. It’s soup, and I dip in. Then I notice that Mats is waiting for Marjorie to eat first. Shit. At our house, it was snooze-and-lose when it came to food. But I can’t spit out my soup, so I hold it in my mouth until Marjorie takes a spoonful.
The soup tastes a lot like Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom to me. Maybe fancy suppers aren’t so different.
