“I’m Frances, River’s mom.” She pulls back from me, keeping a grip on my arm, gently pushing me toward her companions.“This is River’s Aunt Vera,” she says, and I shake the hand of a short, red-haired woman who has River’s same hazel eyes.“And this is River’s grandmother, Sue.” Sue’s about the same height as Vera, but with white hair almost as long as Frances’s, and she’s got clear blue eyes and a big smile that she’s aimed right at River, who’s got his head ducked in obvious discomfort.
“It’s nice to meet you all.River’s been doing a great job for us.” This probably doesn’t help the embarrassment factor, but it seems like the right thing to say to the kid’s mom, maybe grease the wheels for him to get back into her good graces if he’s been in trouble.
“That’s wonderful, absolutely wonderful!” She lets go of me and heads over to River, wrapping him up and kissing his head. I hear him groan.“He’ssucha talented boy. Do you know, I think it’s a gift from the universe that he got in trouble that day. A gift!” She raises one hand to the sky, and Vera and Sue nod.
This all seems a bit crazy-town to me, but it sure doesn’t look as if River’s neglected, and that’s something. I clear my throat, trying to diffuse some of the awkwardness, and nod toward him.“You’re back Monday after class, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Well, I’ll let you all get back to…ah…” I trail off, because I’m not sure what they were doing. Maybe a drum circle or something, because I definitely smell incense.
“You should come join us!” Vera exclaims, clasping her hands together.“We’re having a bean sprout casserole. Tofu for extra protein!”
I try not to let my expression reveal anything. I’ve got nothing against bean sprouts, but tofu is how I imagine eating a sponge feels. Plus, I’ve seen what River packs when he comes to the yard, and there’s not a bean sprout in sight, so I’m wondering if he’s resigned himself to packing his own lunches in protest.“Oh, that’s very nice of you, ma’am, but I don’t want to be intruding on your family party.”
“Family party?” laughs Sue.“This is a regular Friday night!”
“We all live here,” says Frances, in explanation.“And River, of course! I’m afraid he’s a bit outnumbered, aren’t you, honey? It’s a lot of estrogen, I’m sure.”
“Not from me,”Sue quips.“I’m all dried up!”
River looks like he wants to die, and I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing.
“Let me tell you what,” says Vera, reaching over to ruffle River’s hair,“He’ll make some woman a wonderful husband someday!”
“Vera,” Frances says,“that is an incredibly heteronormative thing to say.”
“Oh myGod,” River says.“I’m going inside.” He stomps away, sullen, disappearing through the back gate. I try to make my face smile politely, but it may be more of a grimace.
“You’re about the most heteronormative thing I’ve ever seen!” says Vera, and is it hot out here, or am I just mortally embarrassed?“Look at you in this suit!”
“Oh, now stop harassing him,” says Frances.“Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay? River has told us so much about you and your father.”
“Which means he’s told us about three things,” says Sue.“That’s a lot for River right now.”
“Right,” I say.“He’s a quiet kid.” All along, I’d figured River tended toward quiet because of the way he speaks, but now I think maybe he doesn’t really need to fill in much of the space with this crowd.“I really appreciate the offer, but I actually have this party to get to…” When I think of it, though, my mother’s party at the Crestwood—a big bunch of celebratory toasts for Richard—bean sprout casserole sounds all right, after all. Maybe I’ll call Kit, ask her to meet me here. We can just eat and talk about estrogen with these three nice ladies.
“A date! Do you have a date?” She claps her hands, a mini-celebration for something she knows nothing about. Oh, wow. First, never mind about having Kit here, because this would be worse than whatever’s coming with my mom. Second, is this how Frances is with River? Because if I had a hooded sweatshirt on right now, I’d be pulling it up and doing some hardcore moping.
“Yes, ma’am. Something like that.”
I quickly grab River’s bike from the bed of my truck, grateful when Vera moves to take it from me. They’re chattering still, asking questions about my work and I’m not even sure that I give a full answer to anything before they move on to the next question. Even when I’m back behind the wheel, Frances is talking through my open window, thanking me again, inviting my father and I over for dinner next week. I promise to get back to her about that, but I think Dad might have a moral opposition to tofu.
When I finally manage to back out of the driveway, though, I catch a glimpse of River in the front window. He’s holding up a piece of notebook paper to the glass, where he’s writtenSorry about thatin big letters. I give a quick nod, wave off his concern. But I wonder about the depth of embarrassment River—monosyllabic, shrugging River—must be feeling to actually go inside the house to make asignof apology to me. He’s living with three women—three obviously powerful, big-personality women—and no matter how nice they seemed, he’s at an awkward age, and probably the yard has been a bigger help to him than I’d considered. When I go, will River keep coming? Will he and I stay in touch? Would Dad be willing to go in for tofu and bean sprouts just to keep tabs on how he’s faring?
It’s surprisingly difficult for me to think about, and anyways, I have a terrible party to get to.
* * * *
I pretty much forget about whatever shit I’m in for when I pull up to Kit’s house and find her waiting on the porch in a black cocktail dress, fitted to her curves, cut wide across her shoulders and dipping down her chest so that perfect stretch of skin is on display, that lift of her collarbone that’s her favorite place for me to touch, to kiss. It’s a dress another woman would wear with pearls, but Kit wears nothing on her neck, and to me, it’s all the more arousing.
I beg her to let me take her inside, skip the party. I’ll let her keep the dress on if she wants. But it’s a no-go. Kit’s been excited for this, and I’ll do whatever she wants to keep her giving me that playful smile. She takes my hand as we walk into the hotel lobby—she’s been here before, she says. She’d done brunch with Zoe and Greer here a few times, but she’s never been to a private party. I want to tell her not to get her hopes up, that it’ll be good shrimp cocktail but terrible conversation, but I bite my tongue, on dickwad patrol of myself.
The party’s already been going on for about an hour, and so the room is buzzing with conversation. Catering staff circles the room with trays of champagne, small appetizers. Along one wall, an elaborately draped buffet table is laden with heavier fare, including a giant, multi-tiered cake, not yet cut. It’s over there where we spot my dad and Sharon. He’s looking good, up on his cane, more stable than I’ve seen him since I’ve been in town, and while Sharon clearly doesn’t care that she’s the only woman in this room not wearing a dress, she’s made a concession with a nice pantsuit and a silk scarf around her neck. Both she and my dad obviously have a strategy for this—they’ve piled their plates high with crab legs and oysters. My dad always says that the only way to take the sting out of eating off communal trays is by eating the most expensive stuff that’s on them. Since neither of them can wave, they both lift their plates in greeting, my dad winking at Kit.
Kit waves back, then turns her head to whisper in my ear.“It looks so nice in here,” she says.“Like a wedding reception.” Now that she’s mentioned it, it does look like that. The cake, sure, but there’s also elaborate centerpieces—white, mostly: big, fat peonies that look pretty bridal even to me—on the tables that are arranged around the dance floor.
Where Richard and my mother are dancing.
