“No,” I say evenly. “Because you were never the banker when we played Monopoly.”
Joy laughs. Fearful Anne will take that the wrong way, too, I eye her sharply, but she is all innocence. “What? That’s hysterical. What other hidden talents do each of you have?” She grows a grin as she looks from face to face. “It’s Truth or Dare. I mean, that’s a perfect question. What’s your hidden talent?”
“No dares,” Margo says. “I know what those are like.” She’s thinking of her boys, for whom dares typically involve burps and farts. I suffered through one of those games and agree with her. No dares.
Looking awkward, Bill stands. “Well, folks, it’s been nice, but I’m outta here.” After holding Anne’s eye for a minute, he is gone.
Taking a cue from him, Dad wanders off.
“Okay, no dares,” Joy concedes—and still I think to stop her, remind her that this isn’t a group bonding event during school vacation at the Y, that we’re adults, that we don’t need an ice-breaker. Only I want to hear what my sisters say.
“No dares,” I remind them, then concede, “Anne’s hidden talent is business. Margo, what’s yours?”
“Writing obits,” Margo says.
Anne looks like she may laugh.“Obituaries?”
“Someone has to,” I reason to forestall that laugh. “It’s providing a service at a time when people need help.”
“I’m talkingpublicobits,” Margo tells Anne, “the kind that run when a national figure dies. We do them ahead of time so that they’re ready to run. I’m good at it.” Dismissing Anne, she looks at Joy. “What about you?”
Joy jolts back and points at herself. Apparently, she hadn’t thought she’d be in the game. “Hidden talent? Uh, uh.” She shoots me a defiant look and sits straighter. “Folding socks.”
“What kind of talent is that?” Anne teases.
I answer for my daughter. “You’d be amazed the shapes her socks take.” I’m being facetious, of course. Her socks come out of the dryer in the shapes they went in, meaning pulled off in a wad inside-out. “Deer, rabbits,cats—”
“Your turn, Mom,” Joy cuts me off. “Hidden talent?”
I consider. “Making chicken soup.”
“But you don’t cook,” Anne argues.
“From scratch?” Margo asks.
“My daughter insists on organic, so yes, it’s from scratch.”
Before Anne can say that the meal we’ve all just eaten is far from organic, Joy raises her hand. “Okay, next question. Dream birthday gift.”
“Breakfast in bed,” Margo says. “I’m always the one who has to make breakfast.”
Anne snickers. “Me, too, but I choose to do it.Mydream gift is a horse.”
“A horse?” I ask. “Where did that come from?”
“I’ve always wanted a horse. Remember the horses in the Fourth of July parade?”
“Remember the street sweeper that followed them?” Margo asks.
“Remember us sitting on the curb watching?” I add.
“And laughing,” Anne says. “Remember the candy the riders threw?”
“To distract us from what was happening at the other end of the horse,” Margo says. Standing to gather dishes, she asks Anne, “Is Dad okay?”
Anne reaches for the drinking glasses. “He’s good. He’ll be reading or puzzling or staring. It’s his usual after-dinner thing.”
“My dream birthday gift,” Joy announces in a loud voice, “is my father’s name.”
