Good Riddance(14)

I meant to say it if not cheerfully then at least with enough irony to suggest it was behind me. Had I forgotten that there were two therapists at the table?

“How long were you married?” one asked, overlapping with the other saying, “How’d you find out?”

“The best man at our brunch wedding. Too many mimosas. Something he said made me think, He knows something I don’t know.”

“But,” said my father, “Daphne gave it a chance, didn’t you, honey?”

When did I ever have an entire dinner party’s full attention? I said, “I gave him every chance until he didn’t come home one night.”

Geneva was either losing interest in my marital history or really did need to check on the food. She rose, and said, “I’d better see if Rosa needs me.”

Only the New Hampshire Maritches asked if we could help. Geneva said, “Absolutely not. I’ll yell when the buffet is ready.”

“Rosa is her cleaning woman,” someone offered.

“Wouldn’t she need the day off?” my father asked.

The preop woman said, “She’s probably happy to have the extra work.”

Back to the topic of my failed marriage. One of the therapists, who was wearing as many necklaces as I’d seen a person manage at one time, asked me if we’d had counseling.

“He didn’t want to stay married, didn’t need to under the provisions of the will.”

“Gay?” asked the figure-skating judge. “Him, I mean.”

“Definitely not.”

My father said, “Maybe Daphne didn’t want this very nice conversation to get stalled on the topic of her unfortunate marriage. The good news is, she got in and out of it without undue suffering. Isn’t that right, hon?”

Were we all intimates now? I guessed so because the Bernie Madoff client, a woman named Suzanne with bangs that appeared to have been shaped over a juice can, said, “I hope you took him to the cleaners.”

I lied, and said, “I sure did,” with a fake jaunty laugh.

“Soup’s on!” came Geneva’s bellow.

My father and I exchanged private smiles. We’d never had a buffet Thanksgiving dinner. As the only man at the table, he sprang to his feet first and stood behind his chair until all his tablemates were heading for the kitchen.

There we found, on every available surface, foil serving pans of turkey, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, two kinds of stuffing, green beans almondine, Brussels sprouts, coleslaw, cranberry sauce, a cut-glass gravy boat, and (labeled) vegetarian lasagna. Both my father and I exclaimed over the bounty, he more enthusiastically than I because the crinkly aluminum trays, side by side, reminded me of what a shelter’s steam table might be offering this day.

Back in the dining room, my father was again standing until all were seated, plates piled high except for the Bernie Madoff client who looked proudly and purposely emaciated. Dad asked, “Do New Yorkers say grace?”

“Why not!” Geneva cried. “Have at it!”

The other therapist, with a shawl around her shoulders and wearing a dress of fabric that had ribbons woven through it, said, “OR we could go around the table and each say what we’re thankful for.”

I always hated public thanks. There were eleven of us, and my food was getting cold. Geneva, with a drumstick in hand, said, “We can eat while we give thanks. And drink! I’ll start right there: I’m grateful for your excellent reds and whites, and the rosé, which ain’t easy to find in the fall. And to Deborah for the gorgeous pumpkin pie. You won’t believe it, but she made it herself.”

“Pumpkin chiffon,” Deborah the ex–Martha Stewart employee corrected.

We went around the table, this time counterclockwise. Thanks were variations on the theme of not being alone on Thanksgiving . . . meeting all of you . . . Deborah said she had a new job, was starting Monday at the Food Network. Suzanne was grateful that her daughter was pregnant, knock on wood, after three rounds of in vitro, due in April. I said I was thankful that my father lived only four blocks away and was adjusting to city life like a champ.

He said, “Ditto. How lucky does a dad get?”

The woman who’d been fired by Leona Helmsley said, “Sorry. I have nothing.”

“No,” my father said. “It can’t be that you have nothing to be thankful for? Kids? Friends? Nieces? Nephews?”

She picked up her fork, then put it down. “Okay. How’s this: I’m grateful those hurricanes didn’t hit New York.”

We toasted that and picked up our forks. I soon went back for more gravy on the dry breast meat I’d taken too optimistically. Geneva joined me in the kitchen. “You’re coming with me to New Hampshire on Saturday, right? For the reunion? I signed you up. And whoever manages the website wrote back asking if you were June’s daughter.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“Yes, you did! It’s the fiftieth, for Chrissake! I mean, how much more do you need as a sign that this fell into my lap at exactly the right moment in time, like it was preordained?”

Back at the table, I dropped the subject. Had my father overheard us? Apparently not; he was looking anything but concerned, conducting a conversation with blue-eyed, pleasantly plump Paula, the woman who needed gratitude prompting.