Among Other Things, I've Taken Up Smoking Read online

  “You okay?” he said, reaching out for my hand.

  “Yeah,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze, like a promise. “You might just have to tell me what to do occasionally. I’m—I’m not really used to families.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, patting my thigh before he took his hand back for driving. “I’m really glad you came. It’s just a little crazy right now.”

  We went past the railroad station and through the town, headed toward a marina. It made me nervous to be around people who were busy, I told myself. They always seemed to be women. My father was never busy. When he was working he was concentrating. If anybody was busy it was Mr. Blackwell, but everything he did had a kind of manly focus, whether he was filling a gas tank, deboning a fish, braiding my hair, or washing blood from the deck. I could picture him, careful and absorbed. Ana was like that too, I thought, looking out the window. When I kissed her I felt like I was inside that place, that place she was concentrating from—as if we were both there, alone in the quiet.

  “What are you thinking about?” Nate’s voice asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, turning to give him a smile.

  He slowed and pulled the car into the parking lot of the Yacht Club, where he said he used to teach sailing. It was a large, gray-shingled building with a porch overlooking a long white pier stretching out into a harbor dotted by empty moorings. An American flag snapped vigorously at the end of the pier.

  Nate ran inside to ask Geoffrey’s mother how much ice she needed. I stayed in the car looking at the sailboats stacked on the side of the parking lot, identical white hulls locked into tidy racks. He’d told me about summers here, making out in the sail loft and driving boats around on the water all day with girls asking him to put lotion on their backs. He’d told me about all his girlfriends: the one at boarding school who dyed her hair black and the one from California whom he’d met in France when he did a bike trip there one summer. And the one his mother liked so much—Sarah, who was in law school. The information came back to me in vague sequences. Nothing in my own life had seemed interesting enough to tell him—but then nothing I’d told Ana had seemed interesting either, until she was the one listening.

  Nate tapped on my window and motioned for me to roll it down. I fiddled uselessly with the little switches on the door. Finally it lowered slowly down between us. He looked impatient. “She doesn’t know anything about the ice machine,” he said, “but she has some problem with the flowers.” I looked at him blankly. “Maybe you could help her? I think I should get ice.”

  He pointed me up the sandy wooden steps to a room as big and empty as the harbor, hollowed out, it seemed, by endless summers of shouting children. The walls were decorated with flags and faded charts, white billboards spotted with tacks. Caterers in black pants and white tops were silently rolling huge round tables into the center of the room. I watched as they shook out the tablecloths, smoothing them over with a broad sweep of one hand. A woman I assumed was Mrs. Vance stood at the back of the room, already dressed for dinner in a knit suit with a belt. Her hair was styled into a luxuriant, chestnut-colored helmet on the top of her head. She was standing next to a table crowded with flower baskets, as if she was guarding them.

  “Are you Miranda?” she whispered as I approached her. “I don’t know why I didn’t ask someone to come over with me, but you know we have too much to do anyway. Mrs. Stoddard was going to help me, but she has so much on her mind, I didn’t want to bother her.”

  “Nate said you thought there was something wrong with the flowers?” I said. The bouquets were arranged with greens and baby’s breath in baskets along with bright roses and lovely orange lilies, each bloom auspiciously open.

  “Oh! Yes.” She took a sip of a drink that was sitting beside her. “Mrs. Stoddard had them sent here this morning. They’re centerpieces,” she added, looking at them with suspicion.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Geoffrey thinks roses are sentimental,” she whispered. “I told her that months ago.”

  There were certainly a lot of roses in them, if you looked at it that way. “Maybe we should take them out,” I suggested.

  Her eyes lit up. “Do you think Mrs. Stoddard would mind? I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. It was their idea to have the dinner here. I would much rather have had it in the city. These rehearsal dinners”—she lowered her voice again—“are supposed to be put on by the groom’s family, but it’s not as if we’ve any say. Mr. Stoddard wanted to have the whole wedding at the golf club.”

  “I doubt Mrs. Stoddard would notice the roses,” I said, trying to look thoughtful.

  She gave me a mischievous smile, and we went to work plucking them out. The florist, we discovered, had cleaned off all the thorns, and it didn’t take long to strip all thirty bouquets. We put the unwanted roses in a trash barrel by a bar that the caterers were unpacking, and Mrs. Vance borrowed a few cocktail napkins to cover them up so that Mrs. Stoddard wouldn’t see them.

  “She’s very particular,” she whispered, turning back to the bar. “Would you like something? There’s not much ice.”

  After we had distributed the baskets on the tables we noticed there were a few bald spots in the flower arrangements where you could see the spongy green base, and I made another round, rearranging the greens, while Mrs. Vance got me a vodka tonic to match her own. By the time Nate came back with the seating chart and place cards, I was feeling very fond of her, and stayed by her side as she went about inspecting the room.

  “Do you think,” she muttered, “that we can put Dr. Stevens next to this Leila Strom? He’s a plastic surgeon.”

  “I don’t know Ms. Strom,” I said, as if I knew everybody else.

  “Well, supposedly she’s a feminist,” she whispered. “I don’t really know her either but I think she plays tennis with Mrs. Stoddard; she’s one of their law firm friends.”

  “Who’s Robert Neill Pursley?” I asked, looking at the next name.

  “Oh, he’s an old family friend,” she said. “He’ll get along with anyone. My husband calls him ‘the confirmed bachelor.’ I could put him next to Minnie Baxter, I guess. She’ll think he’s flirting with her.”

  Nate coughed behind her at this point, and muttered about our having to change for the dinner. Mrs. Vance was so intent on the cards she hardly noticed us leaving. Another focused person, I thought, making a tipsy parallel. When we got back to the house the wedding party was in the kitchen mixing cocktails for each other. I changed into my pink dress and had another vodka tonic while the priest pushed them around out in the backyard, showing them how to line up for the ceremony. The wind had picked up even more fiercely, and the backs of the groomsmen’s blazers were flipping up like little ducktails. The bridesmaids crossed their arms and huddled together in their tiny cardigans, their cheeks pinked by the salt air.

  It turned out I was seated between Nate’s godparents, George and Angela Night, which Mrs. Vance had assured me was “a very good sign.” They beamed at me readily enough as we picked up our elaborately folded napkins to smooth them on our laps, but their smiles faltered as I explained that I was “more like a secretary” than a fellow, as Nate was, at the institute.

  “Where did you go to college?” asked Mr. Night, trying to disguise his concern.

  “I haven’t,” I said. The cocktails had made me cheerful but the wine was making me feel exhausted and unvarnished.

  “Your father’s been working on a translation, isn’t that right?” said Mrs. Night, trying to rescue me. “Nate made him sound like a very interesting man.”

  I shrugged. “He likes to be alone,” I said.

  Mr. Night nodded sympathetically; Mrs. Night looked at her salad as if she had discovered bugs in the lettuce. I wondered how I had found so much to talk about with Mrs. Vance. Mrs. Night complimented me on my dress again, and suddenly it occurred to me that she didn’t like it at all. I thought of the red dress I’d hung up in the small room Nate had given me for
myself (“Don’t worry, they know you’ll sneak up to my room anyway”) and knew she wouldn’t like that one either.

  When the dessert came each of the groomsmen began standing up to say a few words about Geoffrey’s unfinished novel. Nate stood up and blushed very sweetly before he spoke. “I probably have more experience getting bossed around by Liz than anyone else in this room,” he began, and everyone roared with delight. Mr. Night, who had maintained a monopoly on the red wine while the rest of the table circulated the white, leaned over to whisper, “He’s a real firecracker!” hotly in my ear.

  “But those of you who saw us growing up,” Nate continued, “also know how many times Liz managed, on and off the race course, to keep me out of trouble. I’ll never forget being in first place at the Junior Regatta and rounding the windward buoy wrong; Liz argued with me about it for the whole downwind leg and when we figured out I was disqualified she didn’t even say I told you so—she took off her life jacket and dove into the water to let me sail home myself, since that was what I wanted to do anyway.” Nate looked rather stricken as he told this anecdote, but the crowd exploded again with laughter, as if Liz’s cruelty had long been taken for granted.

  “When Liz first met Geoffrey,” Nate started in again, “she told me he was the one, and I believed her….” He was handsome, standing there speaking in his strong voice, but his doting toast began to remind me of the first time we’d had lunch, and Liz had gotten all his attention. When he raised his glass to his sister and his new brother-in-law, people had tears in their eyes; I clinked my own glass with the Nights’, trying to avoid the smug looks they were offering me. I wished I was proud instead. Something inside me had shrunk.

  Families, it seemed to me, as Nate’s parents got up and insisted he join them in a little song, liked to humiliate each other. Julie’s family always used to laugh at her brother’s painful tantrums; there was something sinister about how everybody was forced to participate. Even Nate now was smiling and clapping his hands, belting out the refrain:

  Tomorrow is the wedding day, do dah do day

  Our little Lizzie is to be given away, do dah do day

  We wish we could make her stay, do dah do day

  For she’s our darling girl….

  I watched all the guests join in for the last chorus. It seemed to me that they all believed that if you followed their rules cheerfully, and you sailed and played tennis and drank your cocktails, you would get everything you wanted: a big bright mansion on the bluffs of the Connecticut shore, a beautiful daughter, and a big white tent in the backyard.

  Nate was flushed with good spirits when we finally got into the car to drive home, and he kissed me for a while before he put the keys in the ignition, running his hands over the front of my pink dress.

  “My godparents liked talking to you,” he said as he turned on the headlights. Two bridesmaids, squatting to pee at the edge of the parking lot, were caught in the light and looked up like frightened rabbits, but he was busy with the gearshift. “Angela says you’re a real keeper.”

  One of the girls scurried behind a car, hysterical with laughter, while the other fell over in the dark. “What does that mean?” I said, tired of all the antics.

  “You know,” he said, looking over his shoulder as he backed the car up, “like a fish.”

  26

  The pressure in the air increased during the night, and by morning the sky was black and angry. I put on my jeans and went down to the kitchen to hide next to the coffee pot while the family bustled about. Nate and his father went for a run and came back looking as if they’d been swimming in their jogging clothes. They stood by the sink together, guzzling glasses of water, their white T-shirts transparent with sweat, chest hair plastered underneath in patterns. We all agreed that it was about to rain.

  “I’ll take Miranda into town to get some umbrellas,” Nate said, refilling his water glass.

  Mr. Stoddard nodded. “We’ll be needing them,” he said, with a wink at me.

  The tent was shaking as we left the house, the trees around the driveway beginning to rush with wind. As we got into the car I felt the hint of electricity that comes before a storm.

  “It will be nice,” Nate said, wiping his sweaty forehead on a fresh shirt, “when the rain clears this air out.”

  The sky rolled dolefully across the marshes as we drove into town. Birds grouped in the grass. Nate was thoughtful after his exercise. “I never thought my dad would really get into the wedding stuff,” he said, “but he’s really pulling out all the stops.” He looked at me. “It’s a big thing for him, I think. I get the feeling he’s having kind of a hard time giving her away. It’s probably like you and your father. I always get the feeling you’re really close.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Sort of. He’s not really so good at telling me what he’s thinking, though.”

  “Right,” Nate said, nodding. “It’s such classic masculine stuff. You’d think they’d be embarrassed to be such a cliché.”

  I looked back at the marsh. My father is not a cliché, I thought irritably. He would never wink, or call me “princess,” or allow hundreds of people to laugh at my foibles over dinner. Nate flicked on the wipers, though the rain was only just beginning to speckle the windshield. I looked over at him and he smiled and leaned back comfortably in his seat. I thought of Ana guiding her van into the traffic, her shoulders hunkered down as if the van was part of her compact body, reaching for the music, drumming the steering wheel. Bachata.

  “I was thinking,” Nate said, as the windshield wipers squinched back and forth, “maybe you could buy some stockings.”

  “Stockings?” I looked at him.

  “Whatever you call them—nylons, for your legs. While I get the umbrellas.” He looked over at me. “It’ll probably be cold,” he added, when I continued to look perplexed.

  I hated stockings, the way they pushed all the hairs on my legs in the wrong direction, and the way they drooped at the crotch. I hated the tight feeling of them on my hips and stomach and the way they made my feet sweat. I stared ahead, watching the storm clouds lower, thick as featherbeds. “I don’t think I’ll mind the cold,” I said.

  He gave a shrug. “We’ll just see if they have them,” he said, turning the car into the parking lot.

  In fact they had a whole rack of them beside the register, in little cases shaped like eggs. “Which kind should I get?” I asked him unhappily, looking at the rows of colors: Misty Silk, Utter Reliance, Sassy Support, Soft Black, Nude, Ivory, Suntan. He looked over my shoulder at the picture of a woman with long legs lying seductively on top of the rack. “What color is your dress?”

  “Red,” I said.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Really?” he said, smiling, as if I’d brought it as a favor for him. Which in fact I had.

  “Yeah,” I said, suddenly realizing I didn’t want to wear it at all.

  “Why don’t you get Nude? They probably go with everything. What size are you?”

  By the time we got back to the family compound, it had begun to pour. Liz was in the cottage with the bridesmaids and the hairdresser, and Nate’s mother was still in her tennis skirt, panicking. They were supposed to have been ready for photographs half an hour before, and she needed to find a basket for the umbrellas. Nate found one for her and told her I’d strip all the plastic cases while they went upstairs to shower. He gave me a kiss and hurried upstairs. I slid each of the cases off one by one, feeling the anticipation all around me in the empty house.

  Afterward I went down to my bedroom and showered, combed my hair, and put on the stockings and the dress. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to adjust the straps, but my breasts seemed huge and the dress seemed tiny. Without the clutter of Coco’s shop, the excitement of Ana looking at me, it looked like a costume left over from a carnival, a dress for a dancer under a thousand lights.

  I went up to Nate’s bedroom and knocked with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He opened the door naked, rubbing a towel v
igorously over his wet hair.

  “Whoa,” he said as I stepped inside, letting the towel go limp. “That is one sexy dress.”

  “Do you like it?” I said nervously.

  “Well, Jesus, it’s—I mean, you look gorgeous. Where did you get it?”

  “At a dressmaker’s,” I said, with a new wave of despair. “I got it made.”

  “You got it made?” His own outfit was laid out on the bed, pressed and ready to go. He pulled on his underwear and then shook out the pants, sliding them on expertly and buttoning them at the waist. I watched as he buttoned up his crisp shirt, tucking everything in, cinching the belt tight. I felt already like I missed him, this handsome man. I had already gone off to the carnival.

  “You might be cold, though,” he said, taking a pair of cuff links off his bureau and frowning as he put them on. “My mom probably has a shawl or something.”

  “Okay,” I said faintly.

  “We were supposed to be taking the pictures ten minutes ago, but I bet she’s still in her bedroom. I have to get her to tie my tie anyway,” he said, flipping up his collar and putting the bright red bow tie around his neck to get it ready. “Why don’t you come with me so she can see the dress?”

  The parents’ bedroom was just down the hall from Nate’s. Mrs. Stoddard was sitting in her bra and underwear, blow-drying her hair. Nate escorted me gently toward her and started shouting at her about a shawl. She had her hair combed over her face and when she finally flipped it over she looked at us in the mirror. She combed her hair into place and turned off the hair dryer immediately.

  “Well, hello, pretty lady!” Nate’s father exclaimed, coming in from their adjoining bathroom, his bow tie in place. “She matches our bow ties!”

  “I was thinking maybe she might be a little cold,” Nate repeated to his mother. “Do you think you have a shawl or something she could wear?”

  His mother sighed and looked at me impatiently. “We were supposed to be photographed fifteen minutes ago,” she said, turning back to her mirror to adjust her bangs. She opened a bottle of mascara. “She can wear whatever she likes but I can’t choose it for her,” she said, pressing back her eyelashes with the strange little brush and blinking uncontrollably. When she was done with her makeup she put on her dress, a wispy, shapeless, flowery blue affair, which swung down around her shins. She picked up her hair and turned around so Nate could zip her up.