conch meat, onions, garlic, and parsley to Malabar’s precise specifications. She seasoned our mix with cayenne, salt, and pepper, then folded the meat concoction into a batter of flour, eggs, and milk. When the oil was hot enough, she lowered in rounded tablespoons of batter, which bobbed and spat furiously. She nudged them around with a wooden spoon, turning them over until they were an even golden brown. We ate the fritters piping hot with a spicy lime-mayonnaise dipping sauce.
Ben, Lily, and I were used to the Malabar Show, but I could tell that Jack was impressed. And why wouldn’t he be? He’d just been served sublime appetizers made from creatures plucked from the ocean’s floor hours earlier. Our drinks had been blended with fresh pineapple and lime juice. My mother had even made potato chips.
It occurs to me now that Jack might have noticed the chemistry between my mother and his father that very night had we not become engaged in a serious flirtation of our own. Ripping a page from Malabar’s book, I wore a turquoise-batik bandeau top and matching sarong, not my typical cutoffs and T-shirt. I wasn’t so much competing with my mother as racing alongside her; I wanted to have some of the fun that she always seemed to be having. Ditzy with rum, I felt Jack’s eyes scan my bare midriff and, with his gaze, the tug of some invisible current.
Jack’s voice was sonorous and low, in every way the opposite of his mother’s little scratch. As the evening wore on, Jack became aware of his mother’s frailty. He witnessed her several times having to tug at Ben’s arm to get his attention, and he seemed struck by the change in their dynamic. His father had been hard of hearing for as long as Jack could remember, likely the result of Ben’s love of hunting and consequent lifetime exposure to the concussive energy of gunshots near his ears. Jack hadn’t been home in a couple of years, so he hadn’t observed the progressive toll that these failing body systems—Lily’s voice, Ben’s hearing—were taking on his parents’ ability to communicate.
“Exactly how does this work for you two?” Jack asked.
We had moved on to wine and were now assembled on sofas and chairs in the living room. Malabar was in the kitchen, separated only by a counter, preparing dinner. The pungent fragrance of Cajun spices and sautéed garlic had started to infuse the room.
“It’s not a big problem,” Ben assured him.
“How’s that?” Jack asked.
“Well, for one thing, I took a lip-reading class,” Ben said.
“Seriously?” Jack asked.
“He actually did,” Lily said, though she rolled her eyes. “Your father took a single lip-reading class and when the instructor told him he had natural talent, he understood that to mean he didn’t have to come back.”
Jack shook his head and laughed, a chuckle tinged with cynicism. “Pally, you know you can’t lip-read, right?” he said to his father. “You’ve missed nearly everything Mom’s said tonight.”
The room got strangely congested, quiet.
My mother lifted her cocktail napkin and seemed to wipe the smile off her face. She was pulsating with displeasure at Jack’s interference. I could not lip-read either but I could practically see her thought bubble: Ben hears me just fine.
In an effort to lighten what was becoming a tense moment, I proposed an on-the-spot lip-reading test.
“You’re on,” Ben responded gamely. “I told you she was a peach,” he said to Jack.
I blushed and looked at Jack.
“You were right about that,” Jack replied and winked at me, causing that inner current to pull again, every molecule in my body shifting toward him.
Ben and I rearranged our chairs to face each other while the rest of the group assembled behind him so that they, too, could read my lips.
“Ready?” I asked.
Ben nodded.
How. Are. You? I mouthed with prominent exaggeration.
Jack, Lily, and my mother nodded in unison, indicating they understood my simple sentence.
Ben, however, looked momentarily confused.
Then he grinned wolfishly. “You want me?”
After dinner, I asked if anyone wanted to go on a constitutional. The question was reflexive at this point in my life; there was never a meal with the Southers that didn’t end with my proposing a walk. Tonight, relaxed and a little drunk, I found myself eager to take one, which wasn’t always the case. I wanted to go to the beach and listen to the waves.
“I’m in,” Jack said.
My mother and I looked at each other with surprise. We didn’t have a contingency plan for interlopers. No one