We’d been relegated to Siberia again. I don’t know if the seating arrangements would have been any different if Dad had been there, but, as he told us on the way to the airport, there had been a change in plans: He wasn’t going to be Donald’s best man. He wasn’t, in fact, going to be at the wedding at all. Uncle Vic had been ill for a few months, and the day before our flight back to New York, my grandfather told Dad he needed to stay in West Palm Beach to take care of him and Aunt Joan.
We had recently had dinner at their house, and although it was true that Uncle Vic was ill, the two of them could easily have managed without Dad for two days. The transparent lie would have bothered me more, but on the way home from the airport Mom broke the news to us that our cat Fluffy had died while we were away. Everything else was driven out of my head.
During the wedding ceremony the following day at Marble Collegiate Church, my mother wrapped her arm around my shoulder as I cried quietly. The reception afterward was held at the 21 Club, a once fashionable, old-school restaurant in midtown with a line of lawn jockeys arrayed along the outside stairs. When my mother realized we were seated at the second cousins’ table, she withdrew into herself, rigid with resentment, my grief instantly forgotten.
Fritz had gone to sit with our cousin David at the table where my grandparents and Maryanne, Elizabeth, and Rob sat, so I was left to myself. Under normal circumstances, I would have tried to distract or console my mother all night, as I often did at family gatherings, but I didn’t have it in me; my despair over Fluffy’s death was too great.
As soon as I was sure nobody was paying attention (and nobody was), I started to sob into my napkin. The waiters put plates of food in front of me and took them away untouched.
Then I sensed somebody standing next to me. “Was it something I said?” an unfamiliar voice said.
I looked up, my eyes wet and red from crying. A man with a generous mustache, balding head, and pale skin smiled at me. In response to my look of confusion, he said, “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it? I just wanted to see if you were OK.”
I tried to smile but started crying again. He took the napkin out of my hand and gave me a clean one.
“Is it OK if I sit down?”
I nodded again.
He sat and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke over my head. “Did something happen?” He sounded concerned, and surveyed the room as if looking for whoever might have hurt me. “Is somebody bothering you?”
I shook my head but couldn’t yet talk.
He leaned his elbow against the table and said, “I’m Malcolm. Your dad is my cousin, so your grandmother is my mom’s sister—your great-aunt Kate.” Gam talked to her sister Kate almost every day, so I knew who she was. “I’m sorry we’ve never met before,” Malcolm said, “but we live in Canada, way on the California side.” He gestured vaguely and I imagined how far that was.
“I’m really sorry Freddy couldn’t be here. Your dad’s such a good guy. In fact, he’s the person I wanted to hang out with tonight.”
He was starting to get my attention. Before I knew it, I had calmed down enough to tell him about Fluffy, how heartbroken I was, the last-minute change in Dad’s plans.
Malcolm asked me to explain, and when I did, he looked troubled. He took a sip of his drink. “Your dad likes Florida, though?”
I told him about the apartment with the dock, our little boat, Dad’s job, and Uncle Vic’s illness. Whenever the waiter came by, Malcolm put his empty glass on the tray and asked for another.
Malcolm told me about the time Dad had flown him out to Montauk on a seaplane and how they’d anchored the plane next to the beach at Gurney’s and ate steamers and lobster on the deck.
I forgot all about Mom and the seating arrangements. For a few minutes, I even forgot to be sad.
Before I knew it, the reception was over and people started heading to the coat check.
“Mary,” Malcolm said, “it was so good to spend time with you. Just between you and me”—he lowered his voice—“when I found out your dad wasn’t going to be here, I was kind of dreading it.” He smiled at me and held out his hand. “I hope we see each other again.”
Instead of shaking his hand, I hugged him. He seemed surprised, but he hugged me back. “And I’m going to call your dad.”
That Christmas, my mother planned for us to visit her father, Mike, and Violet in Fort Lauderdale. I assumed we’d see my father, too, but when I was at the House one Sunday a couple of weeks before winter break, my grandfather and Rob, who had come in from the city for Gam’s waffle breakfast, were standing in the foyer talking.
I heard my grandfather say, “That poor slob.” Rob just shook his head. “He didn’t know you were going down there for Christmas, and he’s coming up here,” he said to me.
This seemed to amuse my grandfather greatly, but I didn’t know why. I walked away wondering why the arrangements couldn’t be changed. My grandfather’s words, “That poor slob,” stuck with me.