Thirty-one

All the guests had gone. My mother hitched a ride home with Sophie’s parents, which left Sophie, Pete, Tiffany, Patrick and me on clean-up duty. Pete put on some seventies music and we danced around the kitchen, tossing towels to each other, wrapping food, washing dishes, singing to the music.

When “Cat’s in the Cradle” came on, the four adults sang along.

Tiffany hooted when we got to the “little boy blue, man in the moon” part. “What the heck is this?” she asked.

“Harry Chapin!” we said in unison.

“Remember when we went to Purdue to see him in concert?” Patrick said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I told my parents I was staying at Sophie’s that night.”

“And I told my parents I was staying at your house,” Sophie said.

“And we stayed in Purdue at that guest house where that lady had four dogs and a big, honking mole on her eyelid.”

Our laughter bounced off the oak cabinets, wrapping us all in memories.

“The four of you stayed at a guest house?” the forgotten Tiffany asked, sitting on the counter watching us as if we were a double feature.

Oops.

“Patrick and me in one room, the girls in another,” Pete lied. “And don’t you try that staying-at-your-girlfriend’s story on us. Don’t think we won’t be checking. We know all the tricks, sweet pea.”

Tiffany was smart enough not to answer.

“You sound just like your father,” Sophie told him, and he swatted her on the butt.

“Didn’t Denny Cavanaugh and Jess Silver meet us there?” Patrick said. “Remember them?”

“Yeah. I still play poker with Denny,” Pete said.

“No kidding,” Patrick said. “What’s he up to these days? Wait. Let me guess. He’s an auto mechanic.”

“Nope.”

“A roofer?”

“Nope.”

“A drug dealer?”

Pete laughed. “No, he’s an English teacher.”

Patrick could barely contain his laughter. “Cavanaugh, an English teacher? That’s a good one.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “He was such a burnout. What about Jess? Do you know what happened to her?”

“They got married after college and had three kids,” Sophie said. “Got divorced about eight years later, married other people, had a few more kids. Then they both got divorced again and about ten years ago they married each other again and had another kid.”

“So between the two of them,” Pete said, “they have eight kids. The oldest is close to thirty and the youngest is nine.”

“Whew! More power to them with all those kids. But that’s cool that they got back together again after all those years. Very cool.” Patrick shook his head. “I sure wouldn’t want to raise kids today.”

“Why not?” Tiffany asked.

“Too old,” Patrick said. “Grandkids are just the thing at my age. You get to be the fun one, you get to choose how much time to spend with them, then send them off when you’re tired and let their parents discipline them. It’s perfect.” He tossed a pot to me to hang on the rack near my head. And when “Stayin’ Alive” came on the stereo he beat out the rhythm with a wooden spoon on Tiffany’s knee. Then he grabbed my hand and we did a little disco move. Pete and Sophie joined in and Tiffany couldn’t stop laughing.

“You guys are too much,” she said.

“She means ‘too old,’” Patrick said, winking, and twirled me. Then we went into the across-the-shoulder move we’d done so long ago. Tiffany thrust two fingers in her mouth, let out a shrill whistle and said, “The German judge gives you a nine-point-nine.”

I was breathless and wound up, caught up in the nostalgia of it and the four of us being together again, basking in Tiffany’s admiration. In some ways it felt like old times but in others it felt bright and shiny and new. Patrick’s hand on my arm gave off sparks that seemed to flutter around and settle on my skin. His face wasn’t as familiar as it used to be but his touch was, and his laugh, and the easy way he held me.

When the song came to an end he pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. “We’ve still got it,” he said. We all clapped and laughed and high-fived each other and Tiffany shouted, “The German judge just changed his score to a perfect ten!”