Goblins by Rozanne Charbonneau
Jen must face up to her relationship with her troubled father when they plan to attend her brother's wedding.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, running my fingers over my evening gown from Nordstrom's in Boston. My two-year-old son pulls at the hem.
"Soft?"
I lean down and stroke his hair. "That's right, Charlie. The vel-vet is as soft as moss."
The side seams need to be let out another two inches. My daughter Eleanor is arriving in two months, and she has already busted the zipper. At least the blue will give me authority for my role as officiant. The bridesmaids - poor ducks - will be dressed in a hue called "champagne."
On New Year's Eve, my younger brother Benjamin will marry Marianne, his childhood friend from the sandbox in our old neighborhood. I was thrilled when they finally asked me to join their lives together. They'd been so mysterious about their intentions for weeks.
"No one knows me better than you, Jen," he said. "I'd trust you with my life."
Marianne took a long sip from her gallon of iced coffee. "We want to keep the priests and the patriarchy out of the ceremony. You're the woman for the job."
I put my hand on my heart, hoping to appear humble. "This is such an honor..."
She texted my responsibilities on the spot. "Done and done. I can't wait to gain a sister."
Truth be told, if they'd chosen any other layperson, there would have been hell to pay. My phone screen lights up with my father's face. I sit on my bed and let it ring eight times.
"I need my girl to come over to the apartment, pronto," he says. "It's time I got my affairs in order."
"I'm exhausted. Christmas Day was very dramatic."
"Your mother screwed me out of everything."
"Boundaries, Dad."
"She pretends to be a saint, but she took all the chips."
"Well, you still polished off her ham and cheese strata."
"Forget the sass. I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks."
I want to say, "And whose fault is that?" but this will only open old wounds. Yes, he'd picked fights with everyone, but when I handed him his coat, his eyes looked so desolate and lonely. My mother comes over to babysit, and I drive to the south side - the wrong side - of Providence.
The front door of my father's 70s brick apartment is ajar. I pick up the sea of mail strewn all over the hallway floor. The sound of boiling water hisses out of the kitchen. The breakfast table is covered with empty take-out containers, menus, and laundry. Soy sauce and mustard have stained his socks and the frame of his diploma from Yale. Phi Beta Kappa, for God's sake.
I kiss my father on the cheek. "Where are your slippers?" I say, nodding at his bare feet. The once-peach linoleum floor is as gray as the hide of an alligator. "You can't afford to get sick before the wedding."
"As if anyone cared."
My father follows me out of the kitchen. Giant Hefty bags of clothes dot the living room. An age-old habit. As a child, they reminded me of pot-bellied goblins squatting on his bedroom floor.
"Welcome back, little girl. Why don't you put your feet up? A roll around in the filth is just what the doctor ordered," they seem to say.
I loosen the tie top on the fattest goblin, whose name is "Fancy Clothes." We're T-minus three days until the wedding. If my father hasn't dry-cleaned his tuxedo, I still have time to drop it off at Chang's. But he flings open the closet, where a single hanger holds his evening wear in plastic. Classic, black - de rigueur for all WASPs of his generation.
"Ta-da!" He extends his arm like a circus master.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"You're the only father I know who can still fit into the tux he was married in."
He pats his washboard stomach but does not smile. Usually, compliments about his physique turn him to putty.
"The DMV wants you to renew your driver's license," I say, opening the first envelope. "Why don't we make an appointment?"
He snorts as if I'd told a lame joke. "I won't need a license where I'm going."
I turn on his computer. "I can only stay for two hours today. Charlie is at my mother's."
"You'll tell him I loved him, won't you?"
He hands me a copy of his will and a piece of paper with all the codes and passwords to his computer.
"I've left him my coin collection."
Eleanor presses against my bladder. I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. "That's very nice of you, but you're only sixty-two..."
He hands me another folder. "You and Benjamin can split my life insurance."
My left eye begins to twitch. "Dad, what's going on? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm not sick." He turns his head toward the safe in the wall. "Your mother's engagement ring and your grandmother's pearls will of course go to you."
I squash myself next to Fancy Clothes on the sofa and place my head in my hands.
"Do you have a plan, Dad?"
I follow him sideways down the rickety stairs to his basement, both hands gripping the railing.
He flicks a switch. A bulb casts a dim glow over his washing machine, dryer, and the beaten-up sofa with the springs sticking up in the air. An array of dust-covered tools sits on the shelves. Yes, he used to own a house, a yard. He was a diligent gardener. No more.
He strokes his Poulan 306A. Is he serious? The Texas Chainsaw Massacre comes to mind. I push past him to pull the beast off the shelf. My back stiffens under the weight and I let it crash on the floor.
My father observes the dislocated chain. "I'm touched, but there are plenty of other ways..."
"Please put this in the trunk of my car, Dad."
He sighs and puts his hands in his pockets. "None of you need me anymore."
"That's The Falcon talking. Don't listen to him."
I hoist my body up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. In the bathroom, I open his medicine cabinet and inspect his pills. His bottle of lithium is half full. His Ambien is almost out of date, barely touched. I pour them into the bottom of my purse but leave two in case he decides to take one. My arms feel cold. Goosebumps erupt on my skin like the nibs of strawberries - a fruit that has always repulsed me. In the mirror's reflection, gray water lies stagnant in the bathtub. Unopened mail floats on its surface.
Outside, my father loads the chainsaw into the back of my trunk.
My teeth begin to chatter. "You've got to call Dr. Feldmann. He can help you."
He shakes his head. "Dr. Feldman has never tamed The Falcon. No, dear girl, I'm not calling him. The son of a bitch would lock me up."
"Benjamin will be destroyed if you leave us. You can't do this to him."
The corners of his lips turn up in a smirk. "You'd do fine, though. You're the tough one."
I peel wheels down the street away from him and make a beeline to the only place that feels safe.
The North Providence Swimming Pool is deserted on a late Wednesday afternoon before New Year's Eve. I ease my body into the water and float into the middle lane. Ahhh buoyancy! My arms swoop forward into the blue. The crawl is safe for Eleanor. Last week, a cramp formed in my hip while kicking my legs outwards. The breaststroke is no longer possible. My head turns for quick sips of air that never fill my lungs to capacity. Back underwater, I exhale deeply and erase the day. The black line tempts me to pick up my pace. I should keep steady, but the blurred tiles on the wall ahead sharpen into focus. They have always been irresistible. I am a machine now, reaching for control and mastery.
Water churning in a frenzy. Voices rumbling "Go, go, go!" Coach O'Malley blew her whistle as my hand hit the tiles on the wall. I hoisted myself out of the pool.
"Twenty-two seconds," she said, giving me a high five.
My teammates gathered around me and cheered. There we were, a group of young women with red eyes, wide shoulders, and tiny butts in speedos, all striving for a life beyond Providence.
Over the past six months, the seconds had diminished. Twenty-two was the number that turned a female swimmer into a contender for the big league. Division 1 colleges were now within my grasp.
My father was waiting for me outside the locker room with a peanut butter sandwich. "You did great today, now, down the hatch."
My jaws clamped into the bread.
"You're raising your right shoulder an inch too high. We'll need to work on that."
My voice was thick with peanut butter stuck in the back of my throat. "Coach O'Malley says my stroke is perfect."
"And that's why she's only coaching high school students. Don't get complacent."
His eyes were focused that day, his face clean-shaven for his new job with the City. When he was well, no one was smarter.
"Any tricks from Yale?" I asked, flexing my bicep. "I'll train the same way. I can take it."
My father twisted the old class ring on his finger. "You've got more stamina than all of those frat boys put together."
"So, what's the plan?"
"I'm not sure yet." He put his arm around my rogue shoulder. "But as God is my witness, we're going to shave another second off Coach O'Malley's stopwatch."
I leaned into him, already tasting victory.
My mother stands in my kitchen with her arms folded.
"Don't tell Benjamin. It will ruin his bachelor party."
I would never tell him. He deserves a perfect wedding.
She cuts a quarter of a sheet cake that she'd whipped up during the afternoon. "The poor man. I'll drop this off with him on my way home."
I stop her at the door. "Hey Mom, did he ever talk like this to you?"
"He always loved my spice cake."
I burst into tears, and she leads me to the sofa.
"Yes, once or twice when he was between jobs," she says, taking my hands.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You were children. End of story."
"I don't know what to do."
My mother reminds me that none of us can control my father's illness. No one knows when he will begin to cycle or how long the spell will last. She advises me to concentrate on my tasks as an officiant. I ask her why he didn't go off the rails at my wedding. She sighs and looks me in the eye.
"You have no idea..."
Before I can ask her for details, my husband Jack's face lights up my phone.
"Hey babe, Lou Belson signed."
I wave to my mother as she slips out the door. "Oh, that's wonderful. When you get back, we'll open champagne."
"You sound tired. Is everything alright?"
I hesitate before answering. He has just convinced the best basketball player in the South to join his team at Harvard next year.
"Oh, I'm a bit keyed up about my speech... I'll give it another go in the morning."
Night falls. The moon is full, and beams of light illuminate the snow in the garden. The branches of the trees stretch like ink quills toward the sky. I sit in my favorite chair by the fireplace, finally able to collect my thoughts. My living room has taken on an indigo hue, and no goblins lurk in the corners. I have created a life of order and abundance. Nice house, nice husband, nice job, nice children - everything is "nice." By grace, I have so far been spared an unquiet mind. But what if I wake one day with The Falcon soaring through my head? What if he swoops, swoops, and swoops then hurls me to the icy ground? This bird of prey could come for me anytime.
My son pokes his fork into the syrupy dough of his pancakes while I pace around the kitchen island. In thirty hours, I must deliver my speech.
"This room, however, is physically missing some very important people. Elizabeth, Marianne's mother, and her uncles Ken and Pete are surely here in spirit..."
My breath becomes short. I coax my son to finish and grab our coats.
My father kneels on the ground with Charlie at the petting zoo. They laugh as a billy goat gobbles dried dandelion weeds out of their hands. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Two white stripes extend in a V from his nose to his crown. His horns spiral backward like the shells of giant snails. My father's face is covered in silver stubble and he wears yesterday's clothes. After the wedding, I will be diligent and schedule quality time like this every week.
"His eyes look dead," he says, staring at the feasting creature. "Don't his little slits for pupils make him look dead?"
Charlie clenches his fists. "What's dead?"
I motion to my father to zip it. "Do you want him to have nightmares?"
My father sighs. "I've forgotten how to be around kids. If you'd let me babysit, I could build a rapport."
I turn my head away from him, unable to answer.
Three inches of snow have already fallen onto the windshield. Charlie and I climb into the car while my father gets to work with the scraper.
Two feet of snow on the driveway before dawn. The yellow tinge from the light over the garage. My father thrusted his shovel into the ice.
"Stay inside, honey," he called to me on the porch. "You need to keep warm before hitting the pool."
In the car, he drilled me on my Latin declensions.
"Puella..."
"Puella, puellam, puellae, puellae, puella, puellae, puellas, puellarum, puellis, puellis."
He nodded in approval. "Every American should learn Spanish, but Latin will get you into pre-med."
"Veni, vidi, vici," I said.
"You are a WARRIOR. Who will you conquer next Saturday?"
"The team from Darian Connecticut."
He honked his horn three times. "You will whip their ass." Commuters honked back, mad at the world.
"Verberabo eorum clunes!"
He roared with laughter and hit the gas. Salted snow plumed like angel wings in the air.
"This knight is slayed by your beauty and intelligence. Tu es principessa mea."
We drove to every swim meet in New England with a goblin called Fuel for the Tank on the back seat. The smell of bananas, crackers, and chlorine. The sky the color of tin over the streets of Pawtucket.
My mother has rented out the dining room and kitchen of the Providence Women's Club for the rehearsal dinner. She is cooking chowder and lobster for the twenty invited guests to control the costs.
"Our money may be gone, but we still have class," she always says with a laugh.
She has decorated the tables with bowls of lemons and ivy. The thrifted blue-and-white striped tablecloths and napkins whisper "casual elegance."
The guests wander in. Both the young and the old have opted for cable-knit sweaters and cords. Jack carries Charlie on his shoulders. Tomorrow, they will wear matching tuxedoes. Oh lord, I forgot to let out my dress. And where is my father? Young men with nametags from Johnson and Wales Culinary School place carafes of water on the table. When Marianne's grandmother jostles the corner with her walker, they rush to her aid. The kitchen door swings open and the aroma of butter and brine floats into the room. Of course, I should mingle, but the people might as well be fish floating behind an aquarium's glass. I take out my phone and send my father a text. Benjamin breaks away from Marianne and puts his hand on my stomach.
"How's my favorite niece doing?"
His face is flushed. Yesterday's debauchery at the bachelor party must have continued this afternoon.
"Getting fatter and sassier every day."
"Dad isn't answering his phone. Do you think he's mad at me?"
My screen is blank.
"Of course not. I'm sure he's stuck in the snow and traffic."
He takes a deep breath and puffs out his cheeks. "Maybe I should have invited him to the bachelor party, but it was old school. A stripper sang 'Santa Baby' and draped her lovely limbs on our laps."
"Don't fret. He would have cramped your style."
My screen is still blank. Fortunately, our cousin Tom - Ben's best man - calls out to him for a photo.
"You keep Eleanor safe in that oven," Benjamin says.
He hurries back to Marianne and gives her a twirl. "Awwwww," Tom shouts, pointing his cell phone at the turtle doves. Benjamin is stocky, just shy of six feet. Marianne is petite, a firecracker of wit and intelligence. She puts her arms around her father for another photo. He beams and wipes a tear away from his eye. They seem so easy with each other. No drama. No rollercoasters. My husband lowers Charlie into a chair and waves at me. I shake my head and hurry to the deserted library. My father's line is busy, so I send him another text.
The party has started. Where are you?
I watch the dots on the screen. Benjamin won't show it, but he will be hurt if our father doesn't come tonight.
I want to eat your pussy.
I drop the phone on the desk. More dots appear on the screen. I lean over and peek at the words.
I want to fuck you 'til you see stars.
Bile rises in my throat. With shaking fingers, I tap out my response.
Dad, this is Jen.
The smell of weed and barbecue potato chips. A lawn as vast as a stadium. Stars winking, glasses clinking. The tiles in the shallow end of the pool felt cool and slick on my back. I wrapped my legs around my boyfriend Dan's waist, his cock stiff as a paddleboard against the crotch of my bikini. I took a swig of beer. Were my classmates watching? Nope. They were standing in a circle on the lawn, fireflies flicking light around them in the darkness.
"Boom sha ka, boom sha ka, boom sha ka," they chanted in worship to the keg.
Another couple laughed on the other side of the pool. Shaking limbs sent a ripple over the surface. Could we get away with it, too? I wondered. After a week of exams, I deserved to be impaled.
The chants faltered and came to a halt. A hand grasped my shoulder from behind.
"Get out." My father's voice was low.
I hoisted myself out of the water. Dan waded into the middle of the pool. The coward. I slipped into my flip-flops and grabbed my towel.
Ever so nonchalant, I waved to my staring classmates. "Bye... family emergency."
Our basement playroom smelled like a stagnant pond. My father ordered me to lay stomach down in my wet bikini on the wooden platform he called "the springboard to victory." The hazel had disappeared from his eyes. His black pupils darted around the room, as if bats were nesting on the beanbags. He put two five-pound disks in my hands, placed his whistle in his mouth and blew. I stretched my arms forward and pulled backward, mimicking the crawl.
"Puella," he said.
"Puella, puellae, puella, puella..."
"Accusative, damn it. You forgot the accusative."
He pressed his finger into my rogue shoulder to correct it. The weights were becoming heavy.
"Puellam..."
"Now decline the plural."
"Puellae, puellas, puellarum, puellis, puellis."
Sweat dropped onto the rubber mat below.
"Okay."
"Then kick those legs like you mean it!"
I throw a satin bolero over my evening gown to cover the broken zipper in the back. The black is a little harsh with blue velvet, but it will have to do. Everything is in motion. I have ordered the marriage licenses, presented a selection of readings to the future couple, over-rehearsed my speech, held auditions for musicians, and double-checked the direct guest seating at the Biltmore Hotel. My father is still MIA.
Jack and Charlie enter the room in their tuxedoes.
"Oh, you both look so cute." I run my fingers over Jack's lapels and he kisses my cheek.
"I'll go check on your father. You need to get to the Biltmore by seven."
"No... it's my responsibility. I can't do this without him."
Jack puts his hands on his hips. You can do anything without him."
I hesitate, then grab the car keys. "I'll be quick."
"Jen," my husband calls after me.
I let myself in with my spare key. Walk over the sea of mail on the floor.
"Dad?"
Goblins stuffed to the gills on the furniture in the living room. Wine glasses on the coffee table, one tainted with purple frost lipstick. So tacky. Several empty jewelry boxes lie under crumpled napkins and potato chips. I turn toward the safe in the wall. The door hangs open.
"It was an eventful night, little girl, but all is well that ends well," the Goblins seem to say.
My father lies in his bed under the covers. His eyes are glazed over, make-up all over his cheeks. When I shake his shoulder, he waves his hand in the air, as if swatting away a fly. I take a glass of water off the bedside table and throw it in his face.
"Hey, knock it off!" he says, sitting up in the bed.
I hand him a towel. "You are so selfish."
As I hang his tuxedo on the back of the bathroom door, the open zipper of my dress digs its metal fingernails into my back. The mail in the tub has turned to pulp.
"You've got ten minutes to pull yourself together."
"Why didn't you come earlier?" he asks, rubbing the stubble on his face.
"I wish I had." I show him the empty jewelry boxes. "Mom's engagement ring, Grandmom's pearls, all gone."
He shakes his head in a daze. "Joanie wouldn't steal -"
I burst out laughing. "I'll be outside."
A red 911 Turbo S. Porsche glows in the shadows of his driveway. Curves as lean as a panther's. I shiver and circle the creature. European. Suspicious.
"What the hell have you done?" I ask my father as he locks the front door.
He lowers his eyes to the ground. "I was feeling good. The salesman threw in the winter tires."
"Well, there goes your retirement," I say, opening the passenger door of my secondhand Volvo.
The streets are full of cars. Shop windows offering last-minute deals to the curious and desperate. Rib eye steaks, eight dollars a pound. Two cases of Bud for the price of one. Firecracker prices slashed for the big bang.
"I'm sorry I lost the jewelry. I wanted you to have it," he says.
I purse my lips. "I hope she was worth it."
"Don't give me that sass. It's disrespectful."
I beat my hand on the steering wheel. "Mom would never have left you, but oh no, you thought you could do better? You trashed your marriage, your kids, our house... Everything you touch turns to trash."
He sinks into his seat and looks ahead. Berating him has only made me feel small.
The lobby of the Biltmore Hotel is decked with a forest of holly. My father stares at the Christmas tree, tall as Goliath in ribbons and lights.
"Marianne's father really pulled out the stops. Did you know the son of a bitch made Benjamin sign a prenup?"
"Drop it. It's showtime."
I usher him into the receiving room, where my mother stands alone behind a long table covered in white linen. A single red boutonniere lies in the center like a cardinal in the snow.
"Oh, thank heavens," she says, putting her hand to her chest.
Her curls cascade to her shoulders. Her black dress cinches her waist, then swells to the floor like a wave. Eleanor kicks and I touch my side. Will I ever look like a woman again? My father nods to my mother and picks up the rose. He tries to pin it on his jacket, but his hands are shaking. I bite my lip. Why didn't I check if he took his lithium? He turns to me in frustration.
"Jen?"
Music begins in the distance, and I dig deep into my handbag for my speech. My mother hurries over and pins the symbol of honor onto his lapel. Her fingers are brisk and efficient - the sign of a woman who has moved on.
My father laughs and offers me his arm. "Ecco nos, sacra familia."
The music becomes louder. I turn fast on my heel, leaving him to find his seat by himself.
Around one hundred guests have taken their seats in the Biltmore Ballroom. A chandelier the size of Uranus hangs from the ceiling. City lights from skyscrapers flicker in the panes of the twelve French windows. I can only hope these doors to darkness are locked.
Mendelsohn's wedding march begins. The guests rise to watch Marianne enter the room on her father's arm. Her late mother's gown floats like an iceberg above the ocean's surface. A few of the gray-haired guests begin to cry. Most likely, they're remembering their old friend walking up this same aisle so many years ago. Benjamin's face is full of hope and awe. I keep my eyes on these souls determined to live. If I even glance at my father, he will swallow me alive.
The guests take their seats, and my cousin Tom recites the Irish Blessing. "No-one knows anything at twenty, but I knew you. I knew we would be soft and wild and strong..."
I take a deep breath. The words of my speech become ants on the page, but I know what needs to be said. I tell the guests how these two people started off as friends in the sandbox, how they have remained connected no matter where life took them. I speak of my brother's compassion and Marianne's grit - the most considerate, hardworking people I know. I advise them to put pride aside and always say sorry first. When I tell them that marriage feels both like an adventure and coming home, my father guffaws. A few of the guests stare at the culprit. Benjamin bites his lip. He does not turn around.
I give him the same imperious look I gave when we were children and I wanted him to build a teepee out of our bed sheets and sticks in the garden. "You may read your vows."
The rings are exchanged. With no further outbursts.
"By the power of the State of Rhode Island, I pronounce you man and wife. May you have many years together side by side." I raise my arms in the air. My mouth is dry. The velvet digging into my underarms is soaked.
Benjamin and Marianne kiss. My brother whispers his thanks, and they both wrap me in a hug. Yes, I am the tough one.
Jack pulls out my chair at the kiddie table. "You did great. Is my wife becoming a minister?"
I laugh and shake my head. "I need a mocktail."
Charlie runs with his cousins around the other tables. The pack dashes past my father, who holds court with a gaggle of widows and divorcées. They hang on to his every word. I approach him, determined to put our fight in the car behind us.
"And this, dear ladies, is my better half." He extends his arm with a flourish.
I shake the women's hands and introduce myself. The sight of my swollen belly causes their voices to rise an octave, as if I were a fawn.
Lucinda, the brunette next to my father, keeps hold of my hand. "That was a very moving ceremony. Your brother must be so pleased." Most likely, she wants to get on my father's good side.
He raises his glass in the air. "Jen is a ruthless materialist, but I still love her."
Lucinda touches her brooch. "Well, all women like nice things."
"She's obsessed with diamonds and pearls."
I flash a fake smile and hope that the other chatting women have not heard his dig.
"So?" Lucinda leans back. "My thirty-year-old son still lives in my basement, trying to find himself. You're lucky your children are doing so well in this economy."
My father raises his voice. "Nobody ever finds themselves. We're all lost between the twat and the grave."
Lucinda's jaw drops to the silverware. The other women go silent.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," I say, before retreating across the floor to my family. Fuck him. Better yet, "Eum Pedica."
My stomach feels like an empty canyon. Both Eleanor and I are starving. Jack watches me dig into the shrimp cocktail and roast beef with gusto.
"I'm glad to see your appetite is back," he says, buttering me another piece of bread. "I was ready to hook my babes up to an IV."
I pop the carbs in my mouth. "You'll have to roll us out of this joint in a wheelbarrow."
My father knocks back his wine, barely touching his plate. The women have crushed their chairs together as far away from him as possible.
Waiters wheel in a cake decorated with roses and swans. It puts the floats in the Providence Easter Parade to shame. I pull a chair next to my mother, who sits at the table of honor with Marianne's father and his friends. The guests shower me with compliments, and I regale them with stories about Benjamin and his sweetheart in college. My father glares at our table. I put my arm around my mother's shoulders, just to twist the knife.
Benjamin and Marianne cut the cake while photographers take pictures of their first sweet bites. The band plays the first notes of Etta James's "At Last," and the couple moves onto the dance floor. Other couples join them, welcoming the opportunity to canoodle. I feel a twinge of envy. The bride and groom will fly to St. Kitts tomorrow, unaware that The Falcon has returned.
My father stands up from his table, indifferent to the women's nudges and whispers. Will the lout ask one of them to dance? Before I have time to think, my father cuts in on Benjamin and grabs Marianne by the waist. People open their mouths in surprise but then glance at each other, impressed. Years of dances at Yale have kept his moves elegant and smooth. He smiles at his audience - the paterfamilias claiming center stage. My dress cuts into my ribs like a corset of whalebone, but I slip into a solemn Benjamin's arms.
"I'm sorry, Ben."
"Thank God we scheduled the father-daughter dance at the end of the reception." He rests his hand on the small of my back. "Is he off his meds?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Everything will be fine. It's best we pretend his stunt is part of the show."
"Just like old times."
The band switches up the tempo for "Love Me Do." More couples crowd the floor. My father holds Marianne too close and dips her too low, her head barely missing the floor. Ignoring the look of panic on her face, he lifts her high in the air. Benjamin loses his cool and pounces on my father from behind.
The sound of a rip cuts over the beat. Marianne screams, and the music stops. The guests gasp at her late mother's dress, torn all the way up to her thong. Sadly, my father's foot is planted on her hem.
"You had to trash this too, didn't you?" I whisper.
I hurry after him through the lobby, but my body is slow, as if caught in the undertow of the tide. He stops in front of the Christmas tree, lights twinkling on the branches. He looks like a lost boy, staring through the window of a house where he used to live.
"Dad."
He zips through the revolving doors and down the front steps. Cars honk in drunken protest as he staggers into the traffic.
"Dad!"
My foot lifts off the curb, but someone grabs me from behind.
"Oh God, Dad!"
I try to break free, but Jack holds me tight. "Think of Eleanor, Jen."
Benjamin walks with care into the traffic, motioning to the blaring cars to be patient. He chats with my father for a few minutes and hands him a cigarette. My father puts it to his lips, and Benjamin gives him a light. After a few puffs, my brother puts his hand on his shoulder and guides him back to safety.
My father and I sit in the admissions office of the psych ward at Butler Hospital. Our evening wear has seen better days. A male intern on the graveyard shift assures him that he can leave in seventy-two hours if he does not like the care, however, his colleagues can do wonders if he sticks it out with them for two or three weeks.
My father bites his lip and signs the final documents in the fluorescent light.
"I'll bring your clothes as soon as I can visit," I say.
He gives me a wink. "Just grab the goblin near the computer. I'm already packed."
I burst out laughing.
"Puella," he says, raising his brow in jest.
"Puella, puellam, puellae, puellae, puella..."
The words bring comfort. Eleanor kicks and my breath slows to a steady pace. I am his warrior and princess, and he is my knight.
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"Soft?"
I lean down and stroke his hair. "That's right, Charlie. The vel-vet is as soft as moss."
The side seams need to be let out another two inches. My daughter Eleanor is arriving in two months, and she has already busted the zipper. At least the blue will give me authority for my role as officiant. The bridesmaids - poor ducks - will be dressed in a hue called "champagne."
On New Year's Eve, my younger brother Benjamin will marry Marianne, his childhood friend from the sandbox in our old neighborhood. I was thrilled when they finally asked me to join their lives together. They'd been so mysterious about their intentions for weeks.
"No one knows me better than you, Jen," he said. "I'd trust you with my life."
Marianne took a long sip from her gallon of iced coffee. "We want to keep the priests and the patriarchy out of the ceremony. You're the woman for the job."
I put my hand on my heart, hoping to appear humble. "This is such an honor..."
She texted my responsibilities on the spot. "Done and done. I can't wait to gain a sister."
Truth be told, if they'd chosen any other layperson, there would have been hell to pay. My phone screen lights up with my father's face. I sit on my bed and let it ring eight times.
"I need my girl to come over to the apartment, pronto," he says. "It's time I got my affairs in order."
"I'm exhausted. Christmas Day was very dramatic."
"Your mother screwed me out of everything."
"Boundaries, Dad."
"She pretends to be a saint, but she took all the chips."
"Well, you still polished off her ham and cheese strata."
"Forget the sass. I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in weeks."
I want to say, "And whose fault is that?" but this will only open old wounds. Yes, he'd picked fights with everyone, but when I handed him his coat, his eyes looked so desolate and lonely. My mother comes over to babysit, and I drive to the south side - the wrong side - of Providence.
The front door of my father's 70s brick apartment is ajar. I pick up the sea of mail strewn all over the hallway floor. The sound of boiling water hisses out of the kitchen. The breakfast table is covered with empty take-out containers, menus, and laundry. Soy sauce and mustard have stained his socks and the frame of his diploma from Yale. Phi Beta Kappa, for God's sake.
I kiss my father on the cheek. "Where are your slippers?" I say, nodding at his bare feet. The once-peach linoleum floor is as gray as the hide of an alligator. "You can't afford to get sick before the wedding."
"As if anyone cared."
My father follows me out of the kitchen. Giant Hefty bags of clothes dot the living room. An age-old habit. As a child, they reminded me of pot-bellied goblins squatting on his bedroom floor.
"Welcome back, little girl. Why don't you put your feet up? A roll around in the filth is just what the doctor ordered," they seem to say.
I loosen the tie top on the fattest goblin, whose name is "Fancy Clothes." We're T-minus three days until the wedding. If my father hasn't dry-cleaned his tuxedo, I still have time to drop it off at Chang's. But he flings open the closet, where a single hanger holds his evening wear in plastic. Classic, black - de rigueur for all WASPs of his generation.
"Ta-da!" He extends his arm like a circus master.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"You're the only father I know who can still fit into the tux he was married in."
He pats his washboard stomach but does not smile. Usually, compliments about his physique turn him to putty.
"The DMV wants you to renew your driver's license," I say, opening the first envelope. "Why don't we make an appointment?"
He snorts as if I'd told a lame joke. "I won't need a license where I'm going."
I turn on his computer. "I can only stay for two hours today. Charlie is at my mother's."
"You'll tell him I loved him, won't you?"
He hands me a copy of his will and a piece of paper with all the codes and passwords to his computer.
"I've left him my coin collection."
Eleanor presses against my bladder. I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. "That's very nice of you, but you're only sixty-two..."
He hands me another folder. "You and Benjamin can split my life insurance."
My left eye begins to twitch. "Dad, what's going on? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm not sick." He turns his head toward the safe in the wall. "Your mother's engagement ring and your grandmother's pearls will of course go to you."
I squash myself next to Fancy Clothes on the sofa and place my head in my hands.
"Do you have a plan, Dad?"
I follow him sideways down the rickety stairs to his basement, both hands gripping the railing.
He flicks a switch. A bulb casts a dim glow over his washing machine, dryer, and the beaten-up sofa with the springs sticking up in the air. An array of dust-covered tools sits on the shelves. Yes, he used to own a house, a yard. He was a diligent gardener. No more.
He strokes his Poulan 306A. Is he serious? The Texas Chainsaw Massacre comes to mind. I push past him to pull the beast off the shelf. My back stiffens under the weight and I let it crash on the floor.
My father observes the dislocated chain. "I'm touched, but there are plenty of other ways..."
"Please put this in the trunk of my car, Dad."
He sighs and puts his hands in his pockets. "None of you need me anymore."
"That's The Falcon talking. Don't listen to him."
I hoist my body up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. In the bathroom, I open his medicine cabinet and inspect his pills. His bottle of lithium is half full. His Ambien is almost out of date, barely touched. I pour them into the bottom of my purse but leave two in case he decides to take one. My arms feel cold. Goosebumps erupt on my skin like the nibs of strawberries - a fruit that has always repulsed me. In the mirror's reflection, gray water lies stagnant in the bathtub. Unopened mail floats on its surface.
Outside, my father loads the chainsaw into the back of my trunk.
My teeth begin to chatter. "You've got to call Dr. Feldmann. He can help you."
He shakes his head. "Dr. Feldman has never tamed The Falcon. No, dear girl, I'm not calling him. The son of a bitch would lock me up."
"Benjamin will be destroyed if you leave us. You can't do this to him."
The corners of his lips turn up in a smirk. "You'd do fine, though. You're the tough one."
I peel wheels down the street away from him and make a beeline to the only place that feels safe.
The North Providence Swimming Pool is deserted on a late Wednesday afternoon before New Year's Eve. I ease my body into the water and float into the middle lane. Ahhh buoyancy! My arms swoop forward into the blue. The crawl is safe for Eleanor. Last week, a cramp formed in my hip while kicking my legs outwards. The breaststroke is no longer possible. My head turns for quick sips of air that never fill my lungs to capacity. Back underwater, I exhale deeply and erase the day. The black line tempts me to pick up my pace. I should keep steady, but the blurred tiles on the wall ahead sharpen into focus. They have always been irresistible. I am a machine now, reaching for control and mastery.
Water churning in a frenzy. Voices rumbling "Go, go, go!" Coach O'Malley blew her whistle as my hand hit the tiles on the wall. I hoisted myself out of the pool.
"Twenty-two seconds," she said, giving me a high five.
My teammates gathered around me and cheered. There we were, a group of young women with red eyes, wide shoulders, and tiny butts in speedos, all striving for a life beyond Providence.
Over the past six months, the seconds had diminished. Twenty-two was the number that turned a female swimmer into a contender for the big league. Division 1 colleges were now within my grasp.
My father was waiting for me outside the locker room with a peanut butter sandwich. "You did great today, now, down the hatch."
My jaws clamped into the bread.
"You're raising your right shoulder an inch too high. We'll need to work on that."
My voice was thick with peanut butter stuck in the back of my throat. "Coach O'Malley says my stroke is perfect."
"And that's why she's only coaching high school students. Don't get complacent."
His eyes were focused that day, his face clean-shaven for his new job with the City. When he was well, no one was smarter.
"Any tricks from Yale?" I asked, flexing my bicep. "I'll train the same way. I can take it."
My father twisted the old class ring on his finger. "You've got more stamina than all of those frat boys put together."
"So, what's the plan?"
"I'm not sure yet." He put his arm around my rogue shoulder. "But as God is my witness, we're going to shave another second off Coach O'Malley's stopwatch."
I leaned into him, already tasting victory.
My mother stands in my kitchen with her arms folded.
"Don't tell Benjamin. It will ruin his bachelor party."
I would never tell him. He deserves a perfect wedding.
She cuts a quarter of a sheet cake that she'd whipped up during the afternoon. "The poor man. I'll drop this off with him on my way home."
I stop her at the door. "Hey Mom, did he ever talk like this to you?"
"He always loved my spice cake."
I burst into tears, and she leads me to the sofa.
"Yes, once or twice when he was between jobs," she says, taking my hands.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You were children. End of story."
"I don't know what to do."
My mother reminds me that none of us can control my father's illness. No one knows when he will begin to cycle or how long the spell will last. She advises me to concentrate on my tasks as an officiant. I ask her why he didn't go off the rails at my wedding. She sighs and looks me in the eye.
"You have no idea..."
Before I can ask her for details, my husband Jack's face lights up my phone.
"Hey babe, Lou Belson signed."
I wave to my mother as she slips out the door. "Oh, that's wonderful. When you get back, we'll open champagne."
"You sound tired. Is everything alright?"
I hesitate before answering. He has just convinced the best basketball player in the South to join his team at Harvard next year.
"Oh, I'm a bit keyed up about my speech... I'll give it another go in the morning."
Night falls. The moon is full, and beams of light illuminate the snow in the garden. The branches of the trees stretch like ink quills toward the sky. I sit in my favorite chair by the fireplace, finally able to collect my thoughts. My living room has taken on an indigo hue, and no goblins lurk in the corners. I have created a life of order and abundance. Nice house, nice husband, nice job, nice children - everything is "nice." By grace, I have so far been spared an unquiet mind. But what if I wake one day with The Falcon soaring through my head? What if he swoops, swoops, and swoops then hurls me to the icy ground? This bird of prey could come for me anytime.
My son pokes his fork into the syrupy dough of his pancakes while I pace around the kitchen island. In thirty hours, I must deliver my speech.
"This room, however, is physically missing some very important people. Elizabeth, Marianne's mother, and her uncles Ken and Pete are surely here in spirit..."
My breath becomes short. I coax my son to finish and grab our coats.
My father kneels on the ground with Charlie at the petting zoo. They laugh as a billy goat gobbles dried dandelion weeds out of their hands. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Two white stripes extend in a V from his nose to his crown. His horns spiral backward like the shells of giant snails. My father's face is covered in silver stubble and he wears yesterday's clothes. After the wedding, I will be diligent and schedule quality time like this every week.
"His eyes look dead," he says, staring at the feasting creature. "Don't his little slits for pupils make him look dead?"
Charlie clenches his fists. "What's dead?"
I motion to my father to zip it. "Do you want him to have nightmares?"
My father sighs. "I've forgotten how to be around kids. If you'd let me babysit, I could build a rapport."
I turn my head away from him, unable to answer.
Three inches of snow have already fallen onto the windshield. Charlie and I climb into the car while my father gets to work with the scraper.
Two feet of snow on the driveway before dawn. The yellow tinge from the light over the garage. My father thrusted his shovel into the ice.
"Stay inside, honey," he called to me on the porch. "You need to keep warm before hitting the pool."
In the car, he drilled me on my Latin declensions.
"Puella..."
"Puella, puellam, puellae, puellae, puella, puellae, puellas, puellarum, puellis, puellis."
He nodded in approval. "Every American should learn Spanish, but Latin will get you into pre-med."
"Veni, vidi, vici," I said.
"You are a WARRIOR. Who will you conquer next Saturday?"
"The team from Darian Connecticut."
He honked his horn three times. "You will whip their ass." Commuters honked back, mad at the world.
"Verberabo eorum clunes!"
He roared with laughter and hit the gas. Salted snow plumed like angel wings in the air.
"This knight is slayed by your beauty and intelligence. Tu es principessa mea."
We drove to every swim meet in New England with a goblin called Fuel for the Tank on the back seat. The smell of bananas, crackers, and chlorine. The sky the color of tin over the streets of Pawtucket.
My mother has rented out the dining room and kitchen of the Providence Women's Club for the rehearsal dinner. She is cooking chowder and lobster for the twenty invited guests to control the costs.
"Our money may be gone, but we still have class," she always says with a laugh.
She has decorated the tables with bowls of lemons and ivy. The thrifted blue-and-white striped tablecloths and napkins whisper "casual elegance."
The guests wander in. Both the young and the old have opted for cable-knit sweaters and cords. Jack carries Charlie on his shoulders. Tomorrow, they will wear matching tuxedoes. Oh lord, I forgot to let out my dress. And where is my father? Young men with nametags from Johnson and Wales Culinary School place carafes of water on the table. When Marianne's grandmother jostles the corner with her walker, they rush to her aid. The kitchen door swings open and the aroma of butter and brine floats into the room. Of course, I should mingle, but the people might as well be fish floating behind an aquarium's glass. I take out my phone and send my father a text. Benjamin breaks away from Marianne and puts his hand on my stomach.
"How's my favorite niece doing?"
His face is flushed. Yesterday's debauchery at the bachelor party must have continued this afternoon.
"Getting fatter and sassier every day."
"Dad isn't answering his phone. Do you think he's mad at me?"
My screen is blank.
"Of course not. I'm sure he's stuck in the snow and traffic."
He takes a deep breath and puffs out his cheeks. "Maybe I should have invited him to the bachelor party, but it was old school. A stripper sang 'Santa Baby' and draped her lovely limbs on our laps."
"Don't fret. He would have cramped your style."
My screen is still blank. Fortunately, our cousin Tom - Ben's best man - calls out to him for a photo.
"You keep Eleanor safe in that oven," Benjamin says.
He hurries back to Marianne and gives her a twirl. "Awwwww," Tom shouts, pointing his cell phone at the turtle doves. Benjamin is stocky, just shy of six feet. Marianne is petite, a firecracker of wit and intelligence. She puts her arms around her father for another photo. He beams and wipes a tear away from his eye. They seem so easy with each other. No drama. No rollercoasters. My husband lowers Charlie into a chair and waves at me. I shake my head and hurry to the deserted library. My father's line is busy, so I send him another text.
The party has started. Where are you?
I watch the dots on the screen. Benjamin won't show it, but he will be hurt if our father doesn't come tonight.
I want to eat your pussy.
I drop the phone on the desk. More dots appear on the screen. I lean over and peek at the words.
I want to fuck you 'til you see stars.
Bile rises in my throat. With shaking fingers, I tap out my response.
Dad, this is Jen.
The smell of weed and barbecue potato chips. A lawn as vast as a stadium. Stars winking, glasses clinking. The tiles in the shallow end of the pool felt cool and slick on my back. I wrapped my legs around my boyfriend Dan's waist, his cock stiff as a paddleboard against the crotch of my bikini. I took a swig of beer. Were my classmates watching? Nope. They were standing in a circle on the lawn, fireflies flicking light around them in the darkness.
"Boom sha ka, boom sha ka, boom sha ka," they chanted in worship to the keg.
Another couple laughed on the other side of the pool. Shaking limbs sent a ripple over the surface. Could we get away with it, too? I wondered. After a week of exams, I deserved to be impaled.
The chants faltered and came to a halt. A hand grasped my shoulder from behind.
"Get out." My father's voice was low.
I hoisted myself out of the water. Dan waded into the middle of the pool. The coward. I slipped into my flip-flops and grabbed my towel.
Ever so nonchalant, I waved to my staring classmates. "Bye... family emergency."
Our basement playroom smelled like a stagnant pond. My father ordered me to lay stomach down in my wet bikini on the wooden platform he called "the springboard to victory." The hazel had disappeared from his eyes. His black pupils darted around the room, as if bats were nesting on the beanbags. He put two five-pound disks in my hands, placed his whistle in his mouth and blew. I stretched my arms forward and pulled backward, mimicking the crawl.
"Puella," he said.
"Puella, puellae, puella, puella..."
"Accusative, damn it. You forgot the accusative."
He pressed his finger into my rogue shoulder to correct it. The weights were becoming heavy.
"Puellam..."
"Now decline the plural."
"Puellae, puellas, puellarum, puellis, puellis."
Sweat dropped onto the rubber mat below.
"I'm getting tired, Dad."
"Your Danny Boy is an Irish mick going nowhere. He'll be lucky if he makes it onto the force."
"So?"
"Do you want his kid? Or do you want to swim for Tulane?"
"Your Danny Boy is an Irish mick going nowhere. He'll be lucky if he makes it onto the force."
"So?"
"Do you want his kid? Or do you want to swim for Tulane?"
"I want Tulane."
"You could be the shark on their Division One team. Don't blow it."
"Okay."
"Then kick those legs like you mean it!"
I throw a satin bolero over my evening gown to cover the broken zipper in the back. The black is a little harsh with blue velvet, but it will have to do. Everything is in motion. I have ordered the marriage licenses, presented a selection of readings to the future couple, over-rehearsed my speech, held auditions for musicians, and double-checked the direct guest seating at the Biltmore Hotel. My father is still MIA.
Jack and Charlie enter the room in their tuxedoes.
"Oh, you both look so cute." I run my fingers over Jack's lapels and he kisses my cheek.
"I'll go check on your father. You need to get to the Biltmore by seven."
"No... it's my responsibility. I can't do this without him."
Jack puts his hands on his hips. You can do anything without him."
I hesitate, then grab the car keys. "I'll be quick."
"Jen," my husband calls after me.
I let myself in with my spare key. Walk over the sea of mail on the floor.
"Dad?"
Goblins stuffed to the gills on the furniture in the living room. Wine glasses on the coffee table, one tainted with purple frost lipstick. So tacky. Several empty jewelry boxes lie under crumpled napkins and potato chips. I turn toward the safe in the wall. The door hangs open.
"It was an eventful night, little girl, but all is well that ends well," the Goblins seem to say.
My father lies in his bed under the covers. His eyes are glazed over, make-up all over his cheeks. When I shake his shoulder, he waves his hand in the air, as if swatting away a fly. I take a glass of water off the bedside table and throw it in his face.
"Hey, knock it off!" he says, sitting up in the bed.
I hand him a towel. "You are so selfish."
As I hang his tuxedo on the back of the bathroom door, the open zipper of my dress digs its metal fingernails into my back. The mail in the tub has turned to pulp.
"You've got ten minutes to pull yourself together."
"Why didn't you come earlier?" he asks, rubbing the stubble on his face.
"I wish I had." I show him the empty jewelry boxes. "Mom's engagement ring, Grandmom's pearls, all gone."
He shakes his head in a daze. "Joanie wouldn't steal -"
I burst out laughing. "I'll be outside."
A red 911 Turbo S. Porsche glows in the shadows of his driveway. Curves as lean as a panther's. I shiver and circle the creature. European. Suspicious.
"What the hell have you done?" I ask my father as he locks the front door.
He lowers his eyes to the ground. "I was feeling good. The salesman threw in the winter tires."
"Well, there goes your retirement," I say, opening the passenger door of my secondhand Volvo.
The streets are full of cars. Shop windows offering last-minute deals to the curious and desperate. Rib eye steaks, eight dollars a pound. Two cases of Bud for the price of one. Firecracker prices slashed for the big bang.
"I'm sorry I lost the jewelry. I wanted you to have it," he says.
I purse my lips. "I hope she was worth it."
"Don't give me that sass. It's disrespectful."
I beat my hand on the steering wheel. "Mom would never have left you, but oh no, you thought you could do better? You trashed your marriage, your kids, our house... Everything you touch turns to trash."
He sinks into his seat and looks ahead. Berating him has only made me feel small.
The lobby of the Biltmore Hotel is decked with a forest of holly. My father stares at the Christmas tree, tall as Goliath in ribbons and lights.
"Marianne's father really pulled out the stops. Did you know the son of a bitch made Benjamin sign a prenup?"
"Drop it. It's showtime."
I usher him into the receiving room, where my mother stands alone behind a long table covered in white linen. A single red boutonniere lies in the center like a cardinal in the snow.
"Oh, thank heavens," she says, putting her hand to her chest.
Her curls cascade to her shoulders. Her black dress cinches her waist, then swells to the floor like a wave. Eleanor kicks and I touch my side. Will I ever look like a woman again? My father nods to my mother and picks up the rose. He tries to pin it on his jacket, but his hands are shaking. I bite my lip. Why didn't I check if he took his lithium? He turns to me in frustration.
"Jen?"
Music begins in the distance, and I dig deep into my handbag for my speech. My mother hurries over and pins the symbol of honor onto his lapel. Her fingers are brisk and efficient - the sign of a woman who has moved on.
My father laughs and offers me his arm. "Ecco nos, sacra familia."
The music becomes louder. I turn fast on my heel, leaving him to find his seat by himself.
Around one hundred guests have taken their seats in the Biltmore Ballroom. A chandelier the size of Uranus hangs from the ceiling. City lights from skyscrapers flicker in the panes of the twelve French windows. I can only hope these doors to darkness are locked.
Mendelsohn's wedding march begins. The guests rise to watch Marianne enter the room on her father's arm. Her late mother's gown floats like an iceberg above the ocean's surface. A few of the gray-haired guests begin to cry. Most likely, they're remembering their old friend walking up this same aisle so many years ago. Benjamin's face is full of hope and awe. I keep my eyes on these souls determined to live. If I even glance at my father, he will swallow me alive.
The guests take their seats, and my cousin Tom recites the Irish Blessing. "No-one knows anything at twenty, but I knew you. I knew we would be soft and wild and strong..."
I take a deep breath. The words of my speech become ants on the page, but I know what needs to be said. I tell the guests how these two people started off as friends in the sandbox, how they have remained connected no matter where life took them. I speak of my brother's compassion and Marianne's grit - the most considerate, hardworking people I know. I advise them to put pride aside and always say sorry first. When I tell them that marriage feels both like an adventure and coming home, my father guffaws. A few of the guests stare at the culprit. Benjamin bites his lip. He does not turn around.
I give him the same imperious look I gave when we were children and I wanted him to build a teepee out of our bed sheets and sticks in the garden. "You may read your vows."
The rings are exchanged. With no further outbursts.
"By the power of the State of Rhode Island, I pronounce you man and wife. May you have many years together side by side." I raise my arms in the air. My mouth is dry. The velvet digging into my underarms is soaked.
Benjamin and Marianne kiss. My brother whispers his thanks, and they both wrap me in a hug. Yes, I am the tough one.
Jack pulls out my chair at the kiddie table. "You did great. Is my wife becoming a minister?"
I laugh and shake my head. "I need a mocktail."
Charlie runs with his cousins around the other tables. The pack dashes past my father, who holds court with a gaggle of widows and divorcées. They hang on to his every word. I approach him, determined to put our fight in the car behind us.
"And this, dear ladies, is my better half." He extends his arm with a flourish.
I shake the women's hands and introduce myself. The sight of my swollen belly causes their voices to rise an octave, as if I were a fawn.
Lucinda, the brunette next to my father, keeps hold of my hand. "That was a very moving ceremony. Your brother must be so pleased." Most likely, she wants to get on my father's good side.
He raises his glass in the air. "Jen is a ruthless materialist, but I still love her."
Lucinda touches her brooch. "Well, all women like nice things."
"She's obsessed with diamonds and pearls."
I flash a fake smile and hope that the other chatting women have not heard his dig.
"So?" Lucinda leans back. "My thirty-year-old son still lives in my basement, trying to find himself. You're lucky your children are doing so well in this economy."
My father raises his voice. "Nobody ever finds themselves. We're all lost between the twat and the grave."
Lucinda's jaw drops to the silverware. The other women go silent.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," I say, before retreating across the floor to my family. Fuck him. Better yet, "Eum Pedica."
My stomach feels like an empty canyon. Both Eleanor and I are starving. Jack watches me dig into the shrimp cocktail and roast beef with gusto.
"I'm glad to see your appetite is back," he says, buttering me another piece of bread. "I was ready to hook my babes up to an IV."
I pop the carbs in my mouth. "You'll have to roll us out of this joint in a wheelbarrow."
My father knocks back his wine, barely touching his plate. The women have crushed their chairs together as far away from him as possible.
Waiters wheel in a cake decorated with roses and swans. It puts the floats in the Providence Easter Parade to shame. I pull a chair next to my mother, who sits at the table of honor with Marianne's father and his friends. The guests shower me with compliments, and I regale them with stories about Benjamin and his sweetheart in college. My father glares at our table. I put my arm around my mother's shoulders, just to twist the knife.
Benjamin and Marianne cut the cake while photographers take pictures of their first sweet bites. The band plays the first notes of Etta James's "At Last," and the couple moves onto the dance floor. Other couples join them, welcoming the opportunity to canoodle. I feel a twinge of envy. The bride and groom will fly to St. Kitts tomorrow, unaware that The Falcon has returned.
My father stands up from his table, indifferent to the women's nudges and whispers. Will the lout ask one of them to dance? Before I have time to think, my father cuts in on Benjamin and grabs Marianne by the waist. People open their mouths in surprise but then glance at each other, impressed. Years of dances at Yale have kept his moves elegant and smooth. He smiles at his audience - the paterfamilias claiming center stage. My dress cuts into my ribs like a corset of whalebone, but I slip into a solemn Benjamin's arms.
"I'm sorry, Ben."
"Thank God we scheduled the father-daughter dance at the end of the reception." He rests his hand on the small of my back. "Is he off his meds?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Everything will be fine. It's best we pretend his stunt is part of the show."
"Just like old times."
The band switches up the tempo for "Love Me Do." More couples crowd the floor. My father holds Marianne too close and dips her too low, her head barely missing the floor. Ignoring the look of panic on her face, he lifts her high in the air. Benjamin loses his cool and pounces on my father from behind.
The sound of a rip cuts over the beat. Marianne screams, and the music stops. The guests gasp at her late mother's dress, torn all the way up to her thong. Sadly, my father's foot is planted on her hem.
"You had to trash this too, didn't you?" I whisper.
I hurry after him through the lobby, but my body is slow, as if caught in the undertow of the tide. He stops in front of the Christmas tree, lights twinkling on the branches. He looks like a lost boy, staring through the window of a house where he used to live.
"Dad."
He zips through the revolving doors and down the front steps. Cars honk in drunken protest as he staggers into the traffic.
"Dad!"
My foot lifts off the curb, but someone grabs me from behind.
"Oh God, Dad!"
I try to break free, but Jack holds me tight. "Think of Eleanor, Jen."
Benjamin walks with care into the traffic, motioning to the blaring cars to be patient. He chats with my father for a few minutes and hands him a cigarette. My father puts it to his lips, and Benjamin gives him a light. After a few puffs, my brother puts his hand on his shoulder and guides him back to safety.
My father and I sit in the admissions office of the psych ward at Butler Hospital. Our evening wear has seen better days. A male intern on the graveyard shift assures him that he can leave in seventy-two hours if he does not like the care, however, his colleagues can do wonders if he sticks it out with them for two or three weeks.
My father bites his lip and signs the final documents in the fluorescent light.
"I'll bring your clothes as soon as I can visit," I say.
He gives me a wink. "Just grab the goblin near the computer. I'm already packed."
I burst out laughing.
"Puella," he says, raising his brow in jest.
"Puella, puellam, puellae, puellae, puella..."
The words bring comfort. Eleanor kicks and my breath slows to a steady pace. I am his warrior and princess, and he is my knight.
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