This is one of those moments when we are painfully, clearly, different. Different tastes, different manners, different socioeconomic classes. Everyone in the room feels it, and is uncomfortable. It is nearly impossible to believe that we belong to the same family, until we hear Gram’s voice at the door. The sound turns each of our heads, wraps us all together, puts us back into our proper places. Under the sound of her voice, we are again, simply and only, Catharine McLaughlin’s children, sons and daughters-in-law, grandchildren.
“It’s getting cold out there,” Gram says. “Do you mind if I join you?”
AND WITH THIS, the third and final phase of the family gathering begins. Gram’s children follow her into the house, and a chill has fallen over their clothes and faces. They have apparently left the childhood stories behind; perhaps one among them has already turned mean. The people who are going to get drunk are well on their way.
We uncover the cold dinner the caterers left on the dining-room table: a cooked ham, fruit salad, macaroni salad, potato salad, loaves of bread, and miniature sandwiches. We put out large paper plates, with real utensils. Papa couldn’t stand to eat with a plastic fork and knife, and we still always use real utensils. With the plates loaded with food, we sit scattered around the living room and eat off our laps. I try to figure out who has been drinking too much, because that roster always changes. This time, I choose Mom first, because her cheeks are red, and she keeps looking up from her plate with a stupid grin. She gets emotional when she is drunk, and sentimental is always the first stop. My suspicion is confirmed when she crosses the room for another serving of macaroni salad and stops to squeeze Gracie’s shoulder and mine.
“I just want to thank you girls for throwing such a wonderful party for the family,” she whispers, just loudly enough so that everyone hears her.
Gracie and I smile and nod politely. Everyone knows we did not throw this party. We reluctantly agreed to let it take place here, and that was only because Gram asked. I just hope everyone knows that we know our true involvement and that we don’t think we’re any better than we are. I hope they know that I wanted this gathering to take place anywhere but here. I want that now more than ever because I have stumbled upon yet another unexpected negative. Watching the family sit where I have been living, breathe beer and wine into my air, crisscross my space, put my forks into their mouths, has made the usual identity crisis—the question of who am I this year with these people compared to who I was last year and how much do I have in common with these men and women who share my blood—even more acute. It does not help that Gracie has removed herself and left me alone. It also does not help to know that my memory will undoubtedly brand this day, and this sight, into my brain. I will not ever be able to walk into this house without thinking of this onslaught of McLaughlins and the shaky way it has made me feel. Thank God I am moving out. Thank God it is soon.
“Ryan, why aren’t you eating?” Theresa asks.
Ryan is sitting in his wheelchair with his hands folded, pointedly not touching his plate. “Nobody said grace. I refuse to eat food that has not been blessed. Something terrible is bound to happen.”
This stops most of us, forks in the air, mouths full.
“Goodness,” Gram says, “you’re right, Ryan. Please, someone say grace.”
“Grace,” John says, and gives an open-mouthed laugh that falls off in the middle when he realizes no one else is amused. He follows up quickly with, “Dina was smoking out front.”
“She most certainly was not,” Meggy says, without even looking at her daughter.
“That’s right,” Dina says, reeking of Marlboro Lights.
“I’ll say grace,” Pat says.
Everyone sits up straight. Mom points her goofy grin right at him and I watch her eyes fill with tears.
“Lord, please bless this food and bless this family. Amen.”
“That’s my brother, man of few words,” Johnny says, and I put him on the drunk list, too. I imagine that with all the antidepressants he’s on, he probably doesn’t have to do much imbibing to get a buzz.
“Pat said all that needed to be said,” Gram says. “Son, you do remind