he panicked when they announced the last song—I think it was ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’”
My mother breaks off her narrative to warble a bar: “‘They asked me how I knew my true love was true …’”
“What's the matter with you?” my father demands, noticing my suddenly crumpled demeanor. Philomena and I used to love that song in its Bryan Ferry version.
“And when another boy asked me to dance,” Mom resumes, “his face just collapsed.”
My father snorts in disapproval. “Oh, come on.”
“Well, after it ended, I dragged my feet on the way out. If I'd walked any slower I think I would have taken root in the pavement, and I was just about to give up on him when I felt a hand on my shoulder in the parking lot.”
“What'd he say,” asks Brooke.
“He asked me if I wanted a tour of the campus.”
Brooke hoots with laughter. “At least he didn't ask you to see his etchings.”
The Japanese family aim their solemn dark eyes at the strange, noisy gaijin. “I didn't say that,” Dad insists.
“Well, I didn't really need to see the campus, but I told him I'd love to go somewhere where we could talk. So we ended up sitting in his roommate's Buick. And of course the talking led to kissing. I thought he was just a wonderful kisser, and after about ten minutes I realized he was just in agony, so of course I wanted to help him. It seemed like the least I could do.”
“Lillie!”
“And the poor sweet boy was so grateful he proposed to me right there in the back of that Buick.”
“What?” Brooke blurts. “You gave him a blow job?”
“Young lady!”
“Well,” says Mom, “I just, you know, used my hand.”
Dad Demurs
“This is not family conversation!” Dad thumps the table with his fist, making shimmery waves on our beverages.
“You got a proposal out of a hand job?” Brooke is impressed, Doug is nonplussed.
I am thinking back on a time when Philomena and I were still mad for each other and she gave me a hand job in a cab. Why didn't I propose to her then? Why didn't I ever? If only I had, she would be here now, having Thanksgiving dinner, comparing notes on post-ejaculatory proposals with my mom.
Word from Ralston
My phone rings. My caller ID shows an incoming call from Los Angeles. “Hello?”
“Hello, could I please speak to Collin McNab?”
“You can and you are.”
“What?”
“This is Collin McNab.”
“Oh, this is Cherie Smith. Chip Ralston's assistant? Hello? What was that noise?”
“Nothing, really,” I say as I write down the number. “It was probably a gasp of disbelief.”
“Oh. Well, Chip just wanted me to tell you that he's changed his mind about the article. He doesn't want to do it after all.”
“Wait just a New York minute. We had an agreement.”
“I'm sorry. I don't know anything about that. He just told me to tell you, is all.”
“Let me talk to him,” I say. It's not that I'm dying to write a fucking article about Chip fucking Ralston, but I don't have enough money in my checking account to pay my half of the rent next month, let alone Philomena's.
“I'm sorry, but he's very busy right now. I'm sure it's nothing personal. Well, have a really nice day. Bye.”
I'm not going to give up that easily. I wait fifteen minutes, then call the number I'd written down.
“Hello?”
I am stunned silent.
“Hello,” says the familiar voice again. “Who is this?”
“Phil?”
“Collin?”
“What the … what are you doing there?” I demand, but the answer seems obvious enough, if somewhat incredible.
“How did you—”
“Jesus. I can't believe this is happening.”
“I … didn't want to hurt your feelings,” she says.
“You didn't want to hurt my feelings. So. That's why you're fucking Chip Ralston? To spare my feelings? What would you do if you actually wanted to hurt me and crush my spirit beyond repair?”
“I mean, that's why I didn't want you to know.”
“And that's why he blew me off for the stupid fucking interview?”
“Well, you could hardly write objectively about him under the circumstances.”
“I thought you were in Montana.” I think I'm hoping that if I find a hole in her story, an inconsistency, the whole thing will turn out to be a joke.
“We were.”
“We were.”
“I'm going back up there in a few days.”
“It must be just lovely.”
“I told you I wanted a simpler life.”
“Simpler life? You're moving to Livingston fucking Montana with Chip fucking Ralston. Do you have any idea what a cliché that is? I've got it in my computer. Control MONTANA