Good Riddance(75)

“Walking you down the aisle? Not much he could’ve gotten wrong.” Then to the table: “He was the one in the kilt. Which he didn’t even wear at his own wedding.”

“Did he remarry, too?” I asked.

“I meant to me. He wasn’t so taken with his roots then.”

Bonnie explained: “I gave him a gift certificate to an Ancestry dot com DNA test where you send in your sputum. He came back more than half-Scottish, so he’s all in.”

“How did he know which tartan if he wasn’t sure about his roots?” asked my father.

“Some names he pulled up—maiden names of grandmothers. He just picked the tartan he liked best.”

Peter said to his new mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law, “And you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Hizzoner and Mrs. Wojcik?”

“Yes. We’ve all been chatting,” said Bonnie’s mom.

“And you’ve met Daphne?”

“We’ve met everybody,” she said.

Bride Bonnie was staring at me, not so much in a hostile manner but in a diagnostic one. I knew she was conducting a mental DNA test. Was there anything about me that suggested I’d been sired by her new husband?

During the ongoing awkwardness of this table-hop, no one had introduced Kathi, which we discovered when she volunteered, “I’m Kathi Krauss, Tom’s plus-one”—prompting an apology from my father for not introducing her in proper sequence.

“Plus-one hardly says it all,” I added, smiling at Kathi.

“Same over there,” said my dad.

Whoops. He meant Jeremy and me. I said, “Um, Jeremy lives across the hall from me in New York.”

“Directly across,” Jeremy said.

“He’s an actor,” said the mayor’s mother. “I’m going to start watching his show. Remind me what it’s called.”

“Riverdale,” said at least three of us in unison.

“It’s based on the Archie comic books,” said Kathi. “But it’s not a cartoon.”

Was Bonnie still staring at me? I was capable—too capable—of matching her tactless gaze, but I pretended not to notice, pretended the small talk around me was fascinating.

“What a group of luminaries! If I didn’t have to circulate, this is the table I’d want to be at,” boomed Peter.

“Why?” asked Bonnie’s mother.

“You! The reverend and the mayor and his mother and my friend Tom and his lovely partner.” He then walked around the table and put his hands on my shoulders. “And a young woman I’ve known for only a few months, but whose presence here today means a great deal to me.”

Oh, God. Was he going to say more?

Seated on my left, my father, the nicest guy in America, looked up at the man treating us to filet mignon, potatoes dauphinoise, a fine burgundy, and said, “That’s enough, Pete.”

Senator Armstrong snapped out of whatever wistful paternal state he’d fallen into, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Too much champagne already.”

Bonnie said, “Darling, we’d better keep moving. Our first dance was supposed to be between the salad and entrée.”

He said, with one last squeeze of my shoulders, “And I hope to dance with every one of you ladies. The night is young.”

I didn’t answer. Jeremy was passing the basket of rolls. I took one and busied myself shredding it.





38


Just That Simple



I hadn’t accepted the wedding invitation to do what I was about to do: say a final good-bye to Peter Armstrong, careless broadcaster of genetic truths. Following a fox-trot with the real father of my heart and a Kahlúa espresso, I’d come up with what I considered pretty good grounds for a permanent parting—a new DNA test vastly improved over the primitive, unreliable one available at the time of my birth.

I confided this while the band was playing “My Funny Valentine” and I was dancing with the groom. I thought, after hearing my father’s warning—“Enough!”—and because he’d given every other female guest a whirl, alternating songs with the new Mrs. Armstrong, that he’d bypass me as a partner. But when Jeremy and I were dancing to yet another Beach Boys’ hit circa 1965, Peter cut in.

There was no need for conversation while he smiled and nodded, presumably at constituents. “Having a good time?” he finally asked me. I said yes, lovely wedding. Delicious food. Good band. Bonnie very nice. And when the song wasn’t going to last much longer, I announced that I’d gotten a state-of-the-art DNA test and it had told the tale: Tom Maritch was my real father.

He didn’t miss a step or a beat at the same time he said, “You’re lying.”

I didn’t cave. Just the opposite. I said, “Tom Maritch is unquestionably a match. I have the letter from the lab to prove it.”

We did a few more whirls before he said, “You did this through a reputable lab, not some mail-in, fly-by-night outfit?”

“I went to Mount Sinai.”

“And Tom participated?”

Oh, a minor point I’d forgotten to weave into my fabrication—what piece of male DNA was I matching against mine?

“I didn’t have to involve him. We see each other all the time. I just had to fish a dirty Kleenex of his out of my wastebasket.”