the flowers and grab two soda bottles. Then I make my way to the backyard.
A handful of bridge tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths are spread across the grass. People are milling around with drinks in their hands. I spot Dad leaning against the useless grill with an amber bottle of beer in his hand. The grill itself is a marvel of modern technology. It’s a silver gargantuan covered in dials and indicators. I’m surprised Dad can ever even work it at all.
I wade through a sea of cheek kisses that I’m sure leave lip-shaped impressions all over my face. I field questions about my job and my new townhouse, and I try to answer politely without having to stop and chat for too long. Finally, I reach Dad. He’s drinking his beer, his usual placid expression in place, but I can see that the muscles around his mouth are tight.
“I hear you’re in the doghouse,” I comment.
He shrugs. “I don’t see why we have to have this barbecue every year. It’s too much work.”
“Not for you--today,” I say. Then I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t sabotage the grill, did you?”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“Hello Laura. I hear congratulations are in order.”
I turn to see Uncle Jerry squinting at me. Laura is nowhere in sight.
“I’m Andrea.”
He appears confused for a moment, but recovers quickly and grins at me. “Oh, Andrea. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
He purses his lips together. Above them, a pair of thick glasses balance on the bridge of his red bulbous nose. “You know. Doing the best I can.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” I tell him.
“Don’t get old Andrea,” he instructs, pointing a weathered crooked finger at me.
“It’s better than the alternative,” I suggest.
Uncle Jerry blinks at me, looking confused again behind his coke bottle glasses. He’s my dad’s uncle, which makes him my great uncle. I glance over at Dad, trying to make eye contact with him, hoping for a rescue. But he is oblivious to my discomfort as he takes another pull on his beer.
“How’s Ashley?” I ask Uncle Jerry after a brief conversation lull. Ashley is his twenty-something granddaughter, rumored to have an alcohol problem, who never turns up to family events.
“Good. Very good. She’s working at the registry of motor vehicles. Saving money to go to college.”
“That’s great.”
“She wants to be a teacher.”
“How nice.” I glance around, thinking of a way to escape.
“Her boyfriend works for the registry, too. He got her the job,” he continues.
“Oh, lucky for her.”
Uncle Jerry nods. “How about you?” he asks.
“What about me?” I answer, distracted as I spot Laura coming toward me.
“Have you got a boyfriend?”
“No,” I smile sweetly. “Excuse me. I think my sister is looking for me.” I turn before leaving and say, “Hey Dad, did you know that Ashley is now working for the registry of motor vehicles?” Uncle Jerry moves toward him, more than happy to expound on the topic. That’s when I grab Laura’s elbow and turn back to the house with her. “Good timing,” I whisper.
“Mom wants us to cut up the fruit for her.”
“Great!” I exclaim, happy for a valid excuse to go back inside.
Laura gives me a funny look.
This is how I spend the afternoon. I keep my head down and work my butt off, bustling around the kitchen, carrying food in and out of the house, washing dishes, appearing far too busy to chat with anyone.
“Andrea, let me do that,” Mom offers, coming to stand beside me at the sink. “Go outside and enjoy yourself.”
“It’s okay. I’m almost done,” I reply before glancing around for more dishes to wash.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she says. The she puts an arm around me and squeezes. “You’re really terrific. You know that?”
“Yes, I do,” I joke, feeling guilty. My motives aren’t exactly pure.
When Mom leaves, Laura appears with a dishtowel in hand, and she starts drying the pots I’ve laid on the counter.
“Where’s Jonathan?” I ask. I realize that I haven’t seen him all afternoon.
“Mr. Kates got a hold of him. They’re out front looking at his Mustang.” Mr. Kates is one of our parents’ friends. With unnaturally black hair and jeans that are inappropriately tight, he has a death grip on his youth. The Mustang is part of the illusion.
“Does Jonathan care about his Mustang?”
“Not a bit,” she replies. “I may not get him to come to another one of these.”
“If he can come up with a viable excuse, I will be in awe.” I plunge