Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(60)

Alistair looks stunned and angry. I don’t think he heard anything specific that I said after the first few words. He internalized only that it was insulting and insolent and he dismissed it. Patricia has her hand to her mouth.

I play back in my head what I’ve said, and I know it is immature bordering on irrational. I’m tempted to apologize, throw up my hands and say hey, let’s forget the whole thing, but that feels impossible and might make me look even crazier.

Julia takes a final sip of coffee and, putting the cup down, says, “Okay,” with more emphasis on the kay than the o, which seems to signal the end of dinner. All four chairs push back from the table at once. The simultaneous precision is comical. And tragic.





21 | MY ROOTS


January 29, 2006

JULIA GAVE NO EXPLANATION AND NONE WAS ASKED for. She simply said she wasn’t going to come. I simply nodded and said okay. It’s hard for me to gauge the damage from last night’s dinner, given she’s not a fan of her own father, as well as the context of the already catastrophic level of damage in our marriage.

I park behind a line of cars along the street of my sister’s home. It’s the kind of town that averages about a half acre per house. Hundred-year-old renovated homes with manicured lawns are close together, creating a real neighborhood with enough kids always nearby to meet in groups and play in the streets.

Ted Golb is walking in front of the house carrying bags and wearing a tall hat that looks out of a Dr. Seuss story and that says “Happy Birthday” around it.

“Nicholas, my man.” Never Nick. He never calls anyone by the name they go by. If I went by Nicholas, he’d call me Nicky. He always changes everyone’s name to some form of nickname he can use. He feels it’s the chummy thing to do, that it breaks down barriers and means we’re old friends. It’s part of his social awkwardness.

“How are you, Ted.”

“Hey, pal.” He raises his hands a few inches to show they are full of bags. “Would you mind getting some beer and soda and ice from the refrigerator out back and bringing it in? See if anyone needs a refill?”

“Sure. If you have a mop, I can do the kitchen floor. Maybe sweep out the garage?”

“No need, buddy. All set.” I assume he’s choosing to ignore my sarcasm rather than having missed it entirely. I want to be sure, though.

“I must have skipped over the part in the invitation that said this is a barn raising.” As I say this, I realize I must be in a worse mood than I had thought. I’m not lashing out at Ted as much as I am at Julia. But the fact is I do hate people that host a party, then hand out chores to arriving guests.

“Barn raising?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you can hire people who come over and do this sort of thing so your guests can actually be guests?”

“Listen, if you don’t want to do it, that’s okay.” He looks a little off balance and is trying to be friendly but isn’t quite smiling. He’s a sort of Fred Rogers type, plus I’m his wife’s brother, so he probably feels he can’t get angry with me.

“It’s no problem. I’m on it. See you in there.” I start for the back door to the house before he can apologize or tell me how rude I am. I don’t know which it would have been.

On the back porch they have a refrigerator that lies down like an oversized coffin. I get twelve Budweiser and twelve Mountain Dew and fit a bag of ice under each arm and enter the house from the porch into the kitchen. They have a huge Victorian house built in the late 1800s. The house has a main central staircase, and each of the rooms connects in a ring around the main stairs, so a person can move from room to room in a circle around the first floor and come back to where he started. I go from the kitchen to the dining room, where I see Ted and drop my load next to him like I’m delivering a summons. “Here you go.” I smile and again move on before he can react.

I cross through the foyer of the front door and into the living room on the other side, where I get Susan’s eye. She’s surrounded by the parents of Andy’s friends, I imagine talking about soccer leagues and flute lessons. Between me and Susan is my mother, talking with a couple, and she beckons me over with one hand while still finishing her sentence. I step toward them just as the front door of the house opens. Into the foyer behind me run Andy and several young birthday revelers who were playing outside.

“Uncle Nick!” Andy runs directly for me. He still has his jacket on and I can feel he carries some cold air with him as he gives me a leaping hug. He smells like soap and leaves.

“Happy birthday, big man.”

“Thanks! See ya.” He runs off past his mother and my mother, with a herd of others like him trailing behind and all shouting words communicating nothing more than a train whistle blowing.

“Children, mind yourselves,” my mother says with no playfulness, like the kids are dogs and she’s not a dog person. They run by her and she takes a dramatic step backward even though they weren’t close to her. “Oh, the humanity.”

“Jesus Christ, Mother.” Although she’s not fat, my mother is a big woman with a physical presence. She always looks elegant without being overdressed for the occasion. Usually it’s a dress from St. John or Chanel. The kind older women with money wear. Today it’s a pale-blue dress with a pearl necklace and earrings. She’s never worn a pair of jeans in her life and the image seems impossible.