Marcia Talley: Occasion of Revenge

“In the kitchen.”

“This way?” she asked, taking a tentative step down the hall. When Emily pointed, she sailed off in that direction, the neck of a paper-bag-encased wine bottle clutched in her hand. “Georgie!”

I glanced at Emily, who had covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. “Georgie?” I mouthed. For a weird moment I thought Darlene was calling for Georgina.

Emily waggled her index finger. “Pink is definitely her color.” She scooped up Chloe, who had been sitting on the carpet experimenting with her shoelaces, trying to determine if they were edible, and we followed our guest, arriving in time to observe Darlene plant a wet kiss squarely on Daddy’s mouth. My stomach lurched.

Fortunately, Ruth’s back was turned. A storm cloud still hovered over her, and I didn’t think she’d be in the mood to watch the opening round of the Nookie Olympics, Senior Division. Ruth stood at the stove tending a pot of steaming water. On the counter next to it were two one-pound boxes of pasta. “This is for you.” Darlene thrust the wine in Ruth’s direction.

Ruth turned. A strand of silver hair had escaped from her leather headband to dangle in a corkscrew over her forehead. She swiped at it with the back of a hand which held a large wooden spoon. “Uh, thanks,” she mumbled. “Red or white?”

“Georgie said we were having spaghetti. So red.”

“Just put it on the counter, OK?”

Daddy reached over, took the bag from Darlene’s hand, slipped the bottle out, and stared at it as if committing every word printed on the label to memory. “Turning Leaf,” he said. “A fine, fine wine.” He kissed Darlene’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Ruth rolled her eyes ceilingward, turned back to the stove, and began punishing the sauce.

Darlene inhaled deeply. “Ah! Homemade spaghetti sauce!” She stepped toward the stove, until Ruth stopped her with a look that would have turned Mother Teresa to stone. Homemade? I had seen four empty jars of Prego in the kitchen trash can, but I’d never tell.

“Thank you.” Ruth managed a smile, but I hoped none of the saccharine in her voice would drip into the spaghetti.

“Here,” I said, taking the wine from my father. “Let’s open it and let it breathe.”

While I coaxed a stubborn cork out of the bottle, Ruth bent over, turned the heat down under the sauce, then wiped her hands on a towel which had been tucked into the waistband of her slacks. “May I fix you a drink, Darlene? Peppermint schnapps?” I’d seen more convincing smiles on guests of honor at funeral homes.

Darlene had been standing next to my father, gazing up at him as if he were the learned professor and she were an infatuated student. “Hmmm?”

“A drink. Schnapps?”

“No, thanks.” She wandered toward the refrigerator, her hand running along the countertop as if checking it for dust. “That’s only for special occasions.”

So what is this? I wanted to yell. A tax audit?

Ruth recoiled as if she had been slapped. In a just world she would have upended the pot of sauce over Darlene’s head.

I set the wine on the counter and stepped between the stove and the fridge, effectively blocking Darlene’s view of my older sister who was coming to a boil almost as quickly as the pasta. “Would you like to see the house, Darlene?” I gave my father a straight-mouthed look. “Daddy, why don’t you show Darlene the house.”

But before anybody could move, the doorbell rang. Daddy turned his head, whether in response to the doorbell or to my question it was impossible to tell.

“I’ll get it!” Emily leapt at the opportunity to get out of Dodge. She breezed down the narrow hallway, her skirt a bright patchwork quilt floating a few inches above her Birkenstocks. When she opened the door, Sean, Dylan, and Julie tumbled in, red-cheeked, followed by a blast of cold air, my sister, and her husband. Sean and Dylan made a beeline for the pool table in the basement, passing me with a perfunctory “Hi, Aunt Hannah!” before disappearing down the stairs. Julie remained in the hallway where she patiently peeled off her jacket, one sleeve at a time, and handed it to Emily.

His hand cupping her elbow, Daddy and Darlene passed by, headed toward the living room.

“Who are you?” asked Julie, who stood blocking the doorway, a bedraggled Abigail rabbit clutched under one arm.

Darlene stooped to Julie’s eye level. “My name is Darlene,” she cooed. “And isn’t that a lovely teddy!”

Julie twisted her body sideways until Abby was safely out of the stranger’s reach. “Abby is a rabbit !”

“So she is.” Darlene reached out to pat Julie’s copper curls but missed as Julie turned and darted away, leaving our guest squatting unsteadily next to Mother’s Oriental umbrella stand. Figuring Daddy would sort it out, I threw an arm around Georgina and kissed the air next to Scott’s cheek. “So glad you could come,” I whispered as I relieved Georgina of a double-stacked pie carrier. I jerked my head toward the living room door through which Darlene had just disappeared. “Ruth’s already in a snit. This could get ugly.”

Emily had been hanging up coats, but she turned on me then. “Honestly, Mother. Give Granddaddy a break. Darlene’s not so bad.”

“How do you know?” Scott asked as he helped Georgina remove her coat and hat.

“Well, I don’t, really, but at least Gramps isn’t mooning around the house all day.”

Georgina combed her long, copper-colored hair with her fingers. “Hat hair,” she said. “I hate it.” Then she turned to Emily. “That’s one point in Darlene’s favor, then. Keeping Daddy occupied.”

Scott laughed. “Well, I for one am looking forward to seeing more of this paragon of virtue.”

Thinking about the low-cut sweater Darlene had chosen for the evening, I said, “Then you won’t have long to wait. The paragon has taken Daddy and her ample bosom into the living room.”

“What’s a pair of gones?” piped up Julie who had appeared, unaccountably, on the other side of the accordion gate that kept Chloe from crawling upstairs.

“Paragon,” corrected Emily. “It means super-special, like Abby.”

“Can Chloe play?” Julie asked.

Emily gave her cousin’s ponytail a playful tug. “Sure, squirt. Let’s take the baby and go down and see what the boys are up to.”

Thank God for Emily! While the grown-ups spent the cocktail hour do-si-do-ing about the kitchen and living room, she kept the children occupied downstairs with popcorn and Coca-Cola, watching, from the periodic roar wafting up from the family room and from Julie’s delighted squeal-“Ooooh! Flying cows!”-the Twister video. I thought Twister was a bit intense for little kids-it had scared me spitless-but they’d seen it seven or eight times already so it was probably a little late for me to object.

Meanwhile, Darlene and Daddy had migrated to the kitchen. Spreading a cracker with brie, she extended it toward my father, who was noisily lobbing ice cubes into a shaker. “Now, George, you’ve already had one martini!”

Was she some sort of fool? Everybody knew that the drink he was fixing had to be his third or fourth, at least.

Daddy added a splash of vermouth to the vodka already in the shaker and shook the nasty mixture vigorously. He took the cracker from Darlene’s fingers and popped it into his mouth whole. “Just cleansing my palate.” He poured his drink, sipped it experimentally, then turned to Ruth. “When’s dinner?”

Ruth scowled over her shoulder. Some of the water from the pasta pot she was emptying into a colander in the sink slopped over onto the counter. “Five-minute warning. Tell everybody to wash their hands and come to the table.”