get a grip. It’s not a reason to be upset. This is not a big deal.”
“Oh, so you’re saying it’s okay for your mother to treat mine like she’s an embarrassment? It’s obvious she’s worried what her friends will think if my mom wears a ratty old dress. Like she’s the help, or something.” For all his intellectual wisdom, Bruce has a surprisingly limited understanding of the subtleties of class politics.
“No, I’m saying it’s okay to use sugar instead of aspartame for once in your life. And you’re putting cream in your coffee, for God’s sake. You think a teaspoon of sugar’s going to make a difference?”
“If you’d bought milk like you were supposed to—”
“That’s enough, Evie,” he snapped, slamming his Harry Potter book down on the table. “I’m not going to sit here and be your punching bag. If you’re upset about last night or your diet or whatever, we can talk about it, but I’m not going to let you insult me for no reason.”
“First of all, I’m not on a diet. It’s a lifestyle change. And as far as your mother’s concerned, if you’d been there to hear what she was saying, you wouldn’t have stood for it. I didn’t know what to do. She knows my mom can’t afford to buy fancy clothes and she was deliberately making her feel bad in front of everyone. Why do you think Claire came in to watch with you? You think she likes football? She probably had to leave the table before she said something horrible to your mother and ruined the entire dinner.”
“Well, you did a pretty good job of that yourself when you asked Rosita to sit down and join us. You think that helps? All you did was make everyone uncomfortable as hell, especially Rosita!”
“It’s just that dinner was already served, and there was nothing left for her to do, so I don’t understand why she has to eat alone in the kitchen when there’s plenty of room at the table for her. God, she’s been living in your house for like twenty years!”
I could feel the tears welling up. Maybe everyone was right—I think I do freak out when I can’t eat what I want to. Because I was honestly ready to fling myself into traffic, for absolutely no reason at all. And it had only been about eighteen hours since my last piece of cake.
Bruce sighed. “Evie, my mother just thought it would be nice to have a Thanksgiving with our families together. She’s really making an effort.” What a saint. “Both my parents want to get to know your mother and Claire better, so I don’t think it’s fair of you to try and make a big thing out of this. If she was snobby or bitchy or whatever it’s just how she is and you’re all going to have to accept it.”
“All? All? So it’s you against us, now, is it? The upstanding Fulbrights vs. the Italo-American Clampetts? And tell me, how should I comfort my mother? She looked like she wanted to die all night. I was the one who was embarrassed. And you should be, too.” The tears were flowing now, and I was nearly hysterical, but Bruce wasn’t biting. And why should he? I was being utterly ridiculous.
“Puhlease! You make it sound like your mother is some poor helpless soul who can’t defend herself. She drives you crazy ninety-nine percent of the time and now she can do no wrong. And you expect me to feel like it’s all my fault.” He paused for effect. “I’m sorry if you were that embarrassed by my family, Evie. I had no idea you hated them all that much. But you know what? You’re right. I was embarrassed—by YOU!”
He waited a few seconds for me to say something, but I just sat there and cried. Then he stormed out of the kitchen. He turned the stereo on loud in the living room. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everyone was supposed to get along. Mom and Bertie should have been the best of friends by now, and Bruce and I should be picking out our china pattern. But all we were doing was fighting all the time. All of us.
Bruce’s dad even got into the act last night when Bertie suggested he be the one to tell half of their friends why they wouldn’t be invited to the engagement party.
“But Bruce doesn’t want a lot of people there, Daddy,” sister Wendy said sweetly.
“This is the first I’m hearing of this,” he said with uncharacteristic irritation. “Do you actually expect me to tell James and Cookie that they won’t be invited? We were invited to their grandson’s christening just this summer!”
“No, not James and Cookie, dear,” said Bertie, rolling her eyes. “They’ll be invited. But I don’t think there’ll be room for Phyllis and Harvey or Judy and Norman.”
Bruce Sr. was shaking his head. “I won’t do it. I just won’t. We’ve known them for twenty-five years. And what about Barry and Lynne?”
“Oh, there’s definitely no room for any work friends, Daddy,” said Brooke, looking up from her cuticles.
It was all a big nightmare. On the way home, after we dropped Mom off at her place, Claire started in with her usual advice.
“It’s gonna get a lot worse from here on in, kids. If you want to keep your sanity, you’re going to have to take hold of yourselves. Don’t let other people’s expectations get in the way. Engagement’s supposed to be a happy time, an exciting time.”
“But as you can see, Bruce’s parents are nearly impossible,” I pointed out between clenched teeth. Bruce sat silently in the back seat.
“Lillian’s no treat herself,” Claire said sharply. “Bruce, I’m just glad your mother had the foresight not to offer her another drink.”
“She wasn’t drunk,” I protested. “She was just nervous.”
Bruce snorted. I guess he finds it funny when I defend my mother, since I spend most of the time complaining about her. But just because she’s a bit of a lush or maybe not as sophisticated as some doesn’t give anyone else but me the right to judge her.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I’d drink too if I knew certain people would be judging everything I said and did for six hours straight. And what the hell was all that about Bertie’s charity work? And how she’s so happy and grateful that she didn’t have to work a real job, and how important it is to be there when your kids come home from school. What a witch!”
“Uh, Evie? I’m still here, remember?” Bruce grumbled as Claire pulled up in front of our place.
I suppose I was being a bit of a hypocrite about this—criticizing one’s mother should be the domain of blood relatives alone. But in-laws must form some sort of exception, shouldn’t they? Especially when they’re so wicked.
“Come now, Evie. Take it down a notch,” Claire said seriously.
“Sorry,” I said. “But it’s not like she doesn’t know Mom worked when I was growing up. And that she still works. Like there’s something wrong with working! She knows working isn’t a choice for some women. Some women just have to work!”
“Your mother did the best she could, Evie. For the hundreth time, you know she never meant to leave you out on the stoop that day. She had no way of knowing Mrs. DeFazio wouldn’t show up that aft—”
“I know that! I’m not talking about that!”
“Come, now—you’re getting hysterical,” Claire said, patting my hand.
“Would you mind if I come home with you tonight, Claire?” Bruce asked, managing to make me angrier than I already was.
She laughed loudly. “Brucie dear, you know there’s always a bed for you at my place. You’re a pleasure—a real pleasure. Evie, I wish I could say the same for you.” Bruce snickered.
Claire wiped the corners of her eyes and sighed. “But I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight, Bruce. You two go inside, talk it out. That’s what separates the good marriages from the bad, you know—not the fighting, but the making up.” She paused to think for a moment, then looked at me. “We had some doozies, your grandfather and I. And don’t believe that crap about never going to bed angry. There’s nothing wrong