The Loose Ends List(3)

“The one with the pinkie rings?” Rachel wiggles her pinkies.

“I was thinking engagement, too,” I say. “I’m calling him Drippy from now on. Can you imagine the wedding? Who gets the bigger diamond?”

Mom comes downstairs in a perfectly pressed dress, with her full makeup face on.

“Here, Rachel, take these to Bev.” Mom takes a picture of cinnamon scones on a tray for her Pinterest page and wraps the tray in plastic.

I text the E’s: Family emergency. Can’t drive. Will try to meet you later. I ignore the flurry of responses. My friends aren’t used to me bailing before a party. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. The E’s are panicked chickens with no head.





TWO


JEB MEETS US in Gram’s lobby. He’s a sophomore at Pratt, an art school in Brooklyn, where he listens to angry music and paints twisted crap. He looks ridiculous in his skinny jeans and silver hoop earrings.

It’s even hotter in the city, and Dad is more sweaty and disheveled than usual. Mom gives Jeb a heaping bag of groceries and hugs him like she’s welcoming him back from two tours of duty.

“Mom, stop. I saw you last week.” Jeb has little tolerance for Mom. He should be nicer to her. The woman spends half her life baking him cookies.

“Nice to see you, too, Jeb,” Dad says.

Mom’s sister, Aunt Mary, walks in with my twin cousins, Brit and Janie, who are back from their first year at college. Brit is a whiny, homely brat who has nothing better to do than stalk Janie and me online. Janie is an honorary E because of her name and because she’s funny and fun and fascinatingly urban.

“I guess Mother isn’t getting enough attention,” Aunt Mary says. We cram into the elevator. Aunt Mary is Brit in thirty years. Her black cloud of negativity nearly suffocates us all on the ride up to the penthouse floor. I don’t blame my uncle for leaving her.

The elevator opens into Gram’s living room, which is sleek and pristine with white furniture and painted white floors. There are color-coordinated collections on the walls, the shelves, and the tables, gathered from all corners of the globe, and each attached to a different adventure. Only Astrid North O’Neill would set a carved Swiss music box next to an Argentinian peyote jar and a Chinese oracle shell, all because they share a shade of eggplant.

Mom’s younger brother, Uncle Billy, pours white wine. His husband, Wes, gets up from the piano.

“Baby girl, look at you.” Wes kisses my cheeks. He’s tall and dirty blond and ruggedly handsome. Janie and I never quite understood how Wes fell for our skinny, sullen, four-eyed uncle.

“Where’s Gram?” I ignore another text from Abby.

“We have no idea. Titi says she’s staying locked in her room until everyone gets here,” Wes says. Gram’s housekeeper walks out of the butler’s pantry carrying a tray of macaroons. Aunt Mary pulls her aside and berates her with whispers. Titi shakes her head repeatedly, sets down the cookie tray, and escapes to the kitchen.

Brit is texting and completely ignoring Great-aunt Rose. Granted, Aunt Rose tells the same ten stories over and over again, but Brit could at least have the decency to pretend she’s listening.

“I’m assuming pinkie ring Denny isn’t here yet,” Wes says.

“I’ve renamed him Drippy,” I say.

“You’d think Billy could find something to say to his own damn family.” Wes nods toward Uncle Billy, who is sitting on the piano bench studying The Wall Street Journal. “I mean, make an effort at least. Look at Aaron charming the pants off Mary.”

Dad nods enthusiastically as Aunt Mary makes a face. Dad has no family to speak of—he was an only child, and his parents are dead. They were antisocial, so Dad barely knows his relatives. This is my whole family, for better or for worse.

“Do you like Brit’s outfit?” Janie says, stuffing a macaroon into her mouth.

Wes laughs a little too loudly at Brit’s ensemble of pleated, high-water khakis and metallic gladiator sandals.

Titi rings a little bell and instructs us to go into the library. She slides the fake bookcase wall in the living room to the right, revealing a hidden passageway where we used to act out all kinds of Anne Frank, Underground Railroad dramatizations. I follow Janie into the library, where Gram’s longtime lawyer fidgets with a stack of papers. We sit in a semicircle of chairs arranged in front of the desk.

“Eww.” I elbow Janie and point out the lawyer’s crusty scalp.

Gram walks in and stands behind the desk. She pauses for a moment, taking in the visual of her entire family seated before her.

“Okay, Mother, what’s up?” Aunt Mary breaks the silence.

“Hello, beloved family, and thank you for coming.” Gram welcomes us like she’s giving a speech to a foreign delegation.

“Where’s Denny?” Aunt Rose calls out. “I hear you two are getting married.”

“Oh stop, Rose, for God’s sake.” Aunt Rose looks wounded. “Give me more credit than that. I was only seeing that buffoon because he had great opera seats. I told you after Martin died I would never marry again, and I won’t.” She shakes her head. “Now, listen. I called you all here for a reason.”

“What’s the reason?” Aunt Rose yells. Wes stifles a laugh.

“Rose, let me speak.” Gram beckons the lawyer to join her. She links her arm through his. He towers above her petite frame.