by Emily Rinkema
When our son tells us he is getting married, we’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the neighborhood party. George looks up from the table where he is slicing lemons, knife in one hand and half a lemon in the other, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up. David is in charge of the salsa, and after he says it, says, I’m getting married, just as if he is saying, I’m going to step outside for a second, or, great day for a party, he just goes on chopping the onions into tiny cubes.
“To Tom?” George asks, and I barely let him get the question out.
“Of course it’s to Tom,” I say, and wipe my hands on my apron and rush over to David. “Congratulations,” I say and hug him.
“We were going to tell you together,” David says, putting down the knife for the first time, “but Tom can’t be here tonight. And I just thought you should know.”
“Of course we should know! We’re your parents,” I say, and immediately am embarrassed by that we’re your parents part. That’s not what I should have said, too obligatory, too reminiscent of of course we love you, but it’s out and now I have to make it better, because George has started slicing again and it’s all up to me to make this right.
“So when’s the date? Do Tom’s parents know? Did you tell anyone else?” I can’t think of any more questions, even though I know there must be more. I try to remember what my own parents asked when I told them I was marrying George.
“I don’t know, Mom. We just decided and wanted you guys to know right away. Nobody else knows yet.” Now he seems frustrated. “Maybe I should have waited.”
“Don’t pressure him, Laura,” George says, but he doesn’t look at me when he says it. David is chopping the onions again, even though they are small enough already for the salsa.
“Well, we’re just so happy for you, honey,” I say, wiping my hands again, and then my eyes start stinging from David’s onions.
“Where are the avocados?” David asks me, and even though I just bought the avocados this morning, I can’t remember where I put them.
*
When David returns from picking up Poppi at Riverside, most of the food is ready, in bowls and on plates in the refrigerator, on platters around the counters, waiting for our neighbors. We have six kinds of cheese, four of which come from local organic farms and the other two are imported from France. I made shrimp rolls with ginger dipping sauce, and stuffed mushroom caps. Of course we also have homemade salsa, David’s favorite, and George insisted on a bowl of mixed nuts. Dinner will be mostly grilled foods, though I have three different kinds of salads. Last year it was the Fitzgeralds turn for the end of summer party and their dinner was really a disappointment. George is so good at the grill, so it’s unfair of me to judge others, but I can’t help it when I eat chicken that is overcooked. Chicken should be tender. That’s just the way it is. And Don Fitzgerald’s chicken was not tender. Ann’s salads were fine, but just not very memorable. I told her I would give her some of my recipes, but Ann doesn’t really care about salads, not as much as she should anyway.
George is puttering around the garage, getting his grilling tools out. I want to talk with him for a moment, so when I hear David settling Poppi into his chair on the back porch, I sneak into the garage and shut the door behind me.
“Do you know where I put the grill brush?” George asks without looking up. His hair is getting long. He should have had it cut by now, but he won’t go unless I make the appointment and I keep forgetting. “Last time I saw it was when I put it away right here,” he says. I can see the grill brush over to his right, but that’s not why I came in here.
“Should we make a formal announcement tonight?” I ask him, and then, “There’s the brush, right there, right where you put it.”
“No,” George says. “Let him tell people if he wants to. It’s not our responsibility.”
George is wrong, but his answer will make dinner easier. Unless of course David decides to tell everyone, in which case we will look terrible for not announcing it. I tell George this.
“You care too much what people think,” he says. He picks up the tools and walks out of the garage.
David finishes making Poppi’s drink, a scotch and soda, but I stop him before he gets to the door.
“Here,” I say, “I’ll take it to him.” I’ve been making this drink since I was a little girl. My mother hated that he taught me how to make it and never let me do it when people came over to the house. “She’s not a party trick,” she said to him.
Poppi sits in the same place every time we bring him over. I always ask him if he wants to move, or sit in a more comfortable chair, but he is just as stubborn as he always was. He’s been forgetting names lately, our names, and the names of things slip his mind. On Thursdays I have dinner with him at Riverside, and every night he orders the same dinner. Only last Thursday he stared at the menu too long and so I said, “Do you want the linguini again?” And he said, “I hate linguini.” I just took a big sip of my chardonnay and ordered for him.
On the porch, I hand him his drink. “Here you go, Poppi. You having a good day so far?”
“Great!” he says, looking out at the yard. “Danny’s getting married!” He takes a drink.
“David, Dad. It’s David getting married. Danny is Betsy’s son. He’s already married. To Claire. And has two kids. Remember? Your great-grand kids.” But Poppi is now trying to fish a black fly out of his drink, and then I smell something burning in the kitchen, which just reminds me never to put George in charge of anything but the grill.
*
Our neighbors all arrive late, even though they’re neighbors. I stand at the door and greet everyone, six couples, eleven kids, and Melanie from church, and then I move into the kitchen to check on the food before going outside. Within five minutes Sue has shown me a picture of her new granddaughter. She has three grandkids now. This one looks like every other baby, which is what George always says. Except when David was born, George held him for the first time and cried. I see David through the window. He looks so much like George used to look. A bit taller perhaps, a bit thinner, maybe, but he has the same stance, the same way of looking away when he’s angry. The same crooked tooth, despite two years of braces, two years of head-gear which he hated us for. He is setting up the croquet set, talking to Don as he puts the wickets in the grass. Don smokes a cigar, one hand on his belly. He grins, and with the cigar hand pats David on the back.
David must have told him. Which means I should say something, because if David were marrying a woman I would break out the champagne and we’d have a toast. This is the same thing. This is no different.
George comes into the kitchen to get some matches and I say, “We need champagne, George. I’m going to run out to Cleaver’s. I’ll be back in five minutes.” I shouldn’t leave, but it’ll just take me a few minutes, and people are just settling in so no one will even know I was gone.
“What do we need champagne for?” asks George, looking right at me for the first time in hours, and I can tell he’s about ready to start something.
“Because he’s our son, George,” I say and walk out the door, knowing that reason should be enough.
*
There are cars backed up over the small bridge leading towards Cleaver’s. Must be an accident, but the next closest store is fifteen minutes in the other direction, and I’m already feeling guilty for leaving the party. Cars ahead of me are honking. Nobody has any patience any more. People used to have more patience. When we moved here there was never any traffic. It only took a few minutes to drive David to school, or soccer, or karate. Now everything is different. Everything is so much more complicated. Now I’m going to be late and George is alone at the party.
All the cars are completely stopped now, and people are getting out to see what’s happening. I’ll never make it back before people notice I’m gone if the accident is bad, so I get out of the car to see if I can find out how long it’ll be.
“It’s a goose,” says the man in the mini-van in front of me, who is walking back from the bridge.
“A goose?” I say, not sure what he means.
“Someone just hit a goose.”
“A goose?” I say again, because why would a goose be on the bridge, and then, “Is it alive?”
“I think so,” says the man. “They’re trying to help it, but,” and he laughs, “geese are nasty. Its mate is throwing a fit.” The man laughs again and opens the minivan door. “Someone should just shoot the poor thing,” he says, and gets in his car. I’m not sure whether he means the goose that’s been hit or the mate.
I leave my car door open and walk up to where people are starting to gather. I can see a few people crouched around something in the middle of the bridge. I see Mrs. Kline, David’s old teacher standing off to the side holding her grandson’s hand. He’s trying to see something behind him, but she pulls him and starts walking away.
And then I see what he’s looking at. It’s the other goose, standing a few yards away reaching its neck towards the injured one, making a noise somewhere between a honk and a scream. I turn away.
“Terrible,” says a man next to me, who is out of his car and walking towards the geese.
“How long is this going to take?” asks another man. “I’m already late.”
“Me too,” I say, my throat constricting, and then, before I can stop myself, before I can think about it, “My son’s getting married.”
“Right now?” says the man.
And I burst into tears, standing there on the bridge amidst strangers.
“It’s just a goose,” says a woman who has arrived, and the man says, “No, she’s late for her son’s wedding,” and now it’s too late to correct them, and I’m crying too hard to say anything even if I wanted to and the other goddamn goose just keeps screaming and screaming and I have to get home, back to my party.
“This will be cleared up in a few minutes,” says the man, and he pats me awkwardly on the back. “They’ll wait for you.”
*
I get back to the house twenty minutes later and Poppi is standing in the driveway with a rake in one hand. I honk once, lightly, just to get him to move out of the way, but he just smiles and waves at me with his other hand. I roll down my window and take a deep breath.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why aren’t you out back with everyone else?”
“They needed me up here,” he says, as if I should know that. He turns and walks to the middle of the yard and takes up his post again. I know I should bring him back inside, but I’m already so late and the champagne needs to be put on ice, and I’m sure everyone is wondering where I am, and George must be in a panic about the food by now, so I just say, “Thanks, I will.” I pull the car up and check my eyes once more. No one will be able to tell, I’m sure.
David meets me at the door, which is good because my arms are full and there’s no way I could open it myself without dropping a bottle.
“What’s all this?” he asks, taking two of the bottles from my arms. And then he sees Poppi. “Oh, there he is. I’ll get him. You better go back there—Dad’s had a few and is talking about buying that boat again.”
“Poppi! Come on out back with me. We’ll get a game of cribbage going,” he says. He’s still holding the champagne and he shifts both bottles to one hand and with the other takes Poppi’s arm. “No more letting you win,” he says to his grandfather.
“I’ll kick your ass, Danny,” Poppi says, and David smiles at me.
*
George is in the kitchen getting another beer out of the refrigerator when I come in. He has taken off his flannel shirt, and is wearing that t-shirt with a hole in the side that I need to remember to throw away.
“You’re late” he says, not offering to help with the bags.
“There was an accident on the bridge,” I say, and then, knowing that it will upset him, I add, “Maybe you should slow down a little, George.” He ignores me and opens the bottle.
“Don and I are going to buy a boat,” he says. We’ve talked about the boat and he knows we can’t afford it right now, not with the recession and the mortgage on the condo in Arizona. And now a wedding.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say, and when I turn around I see David settling Poppi into a porch chair and then he starts towards the kitchen door, so I say to George, quickly and quietly, “I’m going to announce it, George,” and he says, “Announce what?” and passes David in the doorway.
*
Don is sitting to my right, and because he has just finished his plate, I ask him if he’ll help me with something in the kitchen. George doesn’t look up from his conversation with Melanie. The kids have already finished eating and they are playing croquet, making up their own rules. The balls crack as they hit each other.
“Of course,” says Don.
When we’re in the kitchen, I tell him that I’m going to make an announcement about David getting married.
“You and George are great,” he says. “David’s such a great kid and it’s so great how you’re all so supportive.” He has said great too many times.
I gather the plastic flutes I bought at Cleaver’s, and Don opens the bottles.
“I mean,” he goes on, “Everyone admires you guys. The whole neighborhood.” And he pats me on the arm.
“Thanks,” I say again, and look out the window at my backyard.
*
Once everyone has champagne, I ask for attention.
George pushes back from the table and I think that he’s going to get up and walk away. But he stands and stops.
“I have something to say,” he says.
“George,” I say, sharply.
Everyone around the table is smiling. They think we’re great. We’re the family they always wanted to be. They look at the pictures in the foyer, the three of us in white shirts and khaki pants, same pose each year, smiling, holding each other’s hands, and they think how lucky we are. They compliment our food and admire our yard and tell us we make it all look easy.
“Dad,” David says.
George pauses and I look at David. I see him at six years old, sitting in the backyard at our old house. He had found a dead bird, a robin, and he asked me to help it, to bring it back to life. I told him I couldn’t. I haven’t thought of that moment in decades. I step back.
George raises his glass. “My son,” he says, “is getting married.”
Melanie is the next to raise her glass and then everyone at the table is saying “Congratulations!” and, “We knew it was only a matter of time,” and, “Where’s the lucky man?” and, “Way to go, David!” and everyone is drinking and smiling and laughing, and George is right in there, drinking and smiling and laughing, and I should be rushing forward to join in with them.
But I’m exhausted, can barely stand up.
*
After the guests have left and the dishes are stacked in the sink and David has taken Poppi back to Riverside, I look for George. He isn’t in the backyard, where I last saw him folding up the chairs. He can’t be in the house because he would have come through the kitchen and I would have seen him. We haven’t spoken since the toast.
I hear something in the garage, and of course, that’s where he must be, putting away the grilling tools, and when I open the door a moment later, yes, there he is. He’s leaning on the tool bench, his back to me. He doesn’t turn around, and I just watch him. He brings his hand to the back of his neck and slowly rolls his head from side to side. I don’t know whether to go to him or to turn away.
George turns around.
“Great that the weather held,” he says, looking at his hands.
“Yes,” I say, and we go inside to finish cleaning up.
Emily Rinkema lives and writes in northern Vermont, USA. Her writing most recently appeared in X-R-A-Y, Variant Lit, Flash Frog, and Mudroom Magazine, and she won the 2024 Cambridge Prize and the 2024 Lascaux Prize for flash fiction. You can read her work at https://emilyrinkema.wixsite.com/my-site
