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“EVERYONE READY TO EAT?” Donnie asked.
“I’m ready to eat.” I smiled as Donnie offered his hand to help me up from the couch. Donnie’s home cooking was top-notch, and worlds away from the food on offer at Donnie’s Drive-Inn. The Drive-Inn had to cater to popular tastes. But at home, Donnie cooked for us.
And now for Davison too, I suppose, although let’s be honest, Davison would be perfectly happy to eat every meal at Chang’s Pizza Pagoda. Sadly, it looked like Davison was going to be a fixture at the dinner table for the rest of the summer.
As the three of us made our way to the dining table, I saw Davison wobble and then steady himself. Thanks to Donnie’s cosmopolitan attitude toward underage drinking, Davison was already half in the bag before dinner had even started.
“I thought Davison should be here when we discuss our family plans,” Donnie said.
“Really?”
“Of course. He’s part of the family too.”
Davison raised his wine glass and grinned.
“One big happy family,” he slurred.
“If you say so.” I didn’t really feel like discussing family planning in front of Davison, but he was already so out of it, it was almost like he wasn’t even there. So over exquisitely slow-cooked osso buco with gremolata, Donnie and I talked about children. When, how many, how they would be raised (Catholic, of course; I felt strongly about it, and Donnie had no preference). Donnie was well aware—although he phrased it as tactfully as possible—that at our stage of life, our remaining childbearing years were limited. He suggested starting sooner rather than later.
I said I thought we should wait for my tenure decision, and I didn’t think we could handle more than two. Betty Jackson (who had four already, and one on the way) had done the math for me. She’d pointed out to me that with two children, there was only one possible fight going on, between Child A and Child B. With three, there were three possible fights; Child A could fight with Child B and Child C, and then Child B and Child C could fight with each other. As N, the number of children increased, the number of possible fights went up on the order of N-squared (the exact formula was (N x (N-1))/2, if you’re interested). So with five children, Betty and her husband Niall had to contend with up to ten concurrent squabbles.
Donnie and I finally agreed to up to two children, if they came. If it didn’t happen, though, we weren’t going to stress out about it, or go to heroic lengths to get pregnant. We would take what came to us and be grateful. If we were blessed with two, we would start taking precautions.
There. We had just made it through our first important negotiation as a couple. This had gone better than I had expected.
“Coffee?” Donnie asked.
“Yes please.”
Why did people insist on telling me marriage was hard? It wasn’t difficult as long as one applied a little common sense.
The minute Donnie left the room, Davison leaned toward me.
“Eh Molly.” He rolled my name out, lingering over the bilabial (M) and liquid (L) consonants. “I think I like see you hapai.”
The idea that Davison might have been listening to our conversation hadn’t even occurred to me. He looked like he was dozing off, and after a while I had forgotten he was even there.
“Why do you want to see me pregnant?” I asked, warily. “You’d really like a little sister or brother?”
“I like see you get some a these, ah?” He gestured lewdly at his chest.
I stood up and marched into the kitchen as Davison’s prolonged belch resonated in the dining room behind me.
“Donnie, I think Davison may have had a little too much to—”
“I’m glad we’re talking about this,” Donnie interrupted. “I was afraid you were going to say you didn’t want children. You’re so independent. It’s good Davison’s finally going to get a little brother. Oh, or sister, of course. I think he . . .”
Donnie saw my expression and trailed off.
“What is it?” he asked, cautiously.
“Really, Donnie? We’re going to bring an innocent child into the world to be a plaything for that sociopathic...look. I’m sorry, but I am not letting your creepy son anywhere near my babies. And that is not up for negotiation.”
Donnie opened his mouth and closed it again. He blinked quickly, his eyes shining as if I had just slapped him.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” I continued. “But he’s...do you know what he just said to me?”
I repeated Davison’s comment to Donnie, hand gestures and all. Donnie moved toward the doorway.
“He’s gonna apologize.”
I stepped in front of Donnie to block him, which was a bit out of character for me. I’d always tried to play it demure and ladylike with him. But I wasn’t going to let this go. Not this time.
“Donnie, it’s not just the one comment. This isn’t something you can fix in five minutes. He’s—I’m a little afraid of him, to be honest.”
“I’ll be honest, Molly. We’re both a little afraid of you.”
Donnie tried to step around me, and I repositioned myself in front of him. I knew if I didn’t tell him now, I probably never would. I would go back to being tactful and polite, and letting Donnie think everything was fine.
“Do you remember the weekend over on the leeward side, when we were there for the Labor Day race?” I pointed to the doorway. “He came on to me.”
“You walked in on him. I’m sure you misinterpreted.”
I stepped closer to Donnie. We were face to face now, close enough to kiss. Too bad no one was in a kissing mood.
“He tried to stop me from leaving his hotel room, Donnie.”
“Like you’re doing to me right now.”
“Yes, exactly like I’m doing to you right now.” My nose was practically touching Donnie’s chest. “Except I’m wearing clothes.”
I let that sink in for a couple of seconds. Donnie stepped back, refusing to look me in the eye.
“And you know what he said to me? He said, Come on, we don’t have to tell Dad. What am I misinterpreting here?”
“He didn’t—”
“Yes, he did. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”
“Molly, I can’t—”
“So maybe you don’t care how he treats me. But think about it, Donnie. He doesn’t respect you either. He was all set to have it off with me, and not tell you.”
Donnie looked down at me, his face hardened.
“Maybe you should leave.”
“Probably thought it’d get him some high-fives from his frat bros. Eh, check it out, I nailed my dad’s girlfriend!”
“Molly, how could you say I don’t care how someone treats you? How could you think I—”
“Yeah, I don’t know, Donnie. It’s a real mystery.”
Davison stuck his head in the door.
“Eh, need some help with the coffee?”
Even three sheets to the wind, Davison remembered how to be a suckup. Must be muscle memory.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
Davison followed me to the front door, grinning. “Eh, no get huhu, Molly. Gotta watch that Italian temper.”
“Oh, yes. My ‘Italian’ temper. Thank you for reminding me, Davison.”
I stalked back through the living room with its genuine Ettore Sottsass sofa and Commedia Del’Arte posters, and into the kitchen where Donnie was still busy with the Tre Spade coffee grinder. He had placidly remained in the kitchen after I’d stormed out, which infuriated me. Why hadn’t he even made an effort to talk this through? Did he not think this was important at all?
I was beyond caring about burning bridges now. I wanted to blow them up.
“Donnie.” I kept my voice steady, with some effort. “Just so you know. I’m not Italian.”
“What?”
“I’m not Italian. Not even a little. I am a proud Albanian-American.”
I didn’t know why I said it. I could never understand why people would claim to be proud to be Albanian or American or whatever, when it was nothing but an accident of birth. It wasn’t like you had to pass a test or anything.
I didn’t articulate any of this, of course. I simply turned and sauntered out through the smoking wreckage of my engagement to Donnie Gonsalves.