Lydia Netzer - How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky

He called, “Mr. Oakenshield!”

Kate corrected him quietly and immediately. “Father.”

“OK,” said George aside to her. “But he doesn’t have a parish. He’s never preached a sermon. Father of what? Why does he wear that outfit?”

Kate said, “Father of me.”

They reached him. George and Father Oakenshield shook hands. Father Oakenshield maintained a certain ascetic distance from his surroundings. His face was pinched and disapproving, his aspect removed. His eyebrows said he was aghast. His hands spread apart, as if to say, “What can I do? Here I am. I participate.” He had served his prison sentence and emerged unapologetic, and since Kate had turned eighteen, he was allowed to be near her again, by her choice.

“George, how are you?” he said, and then he turned and warbled something to Kate.

She warbled something back. She wouldn’t speak in English when her father was around. Her voice sounded to George like a wood thrush at dusk. Vaguely chorded, pretty, but incomprehensible.

“Well, that’s just great,” said George, as if to a passing waiter. “Great evening. OK!”

George saw his mother and father coming in the door from outside. Sally wore a stylish camel-colored evening gown and the soft stretchy wrap she’d gotten in Panama last year. Her hair was blown back and restrained, her diamond earrings flashing. George’s father walked a step behind her, and off to her side. He had been stuffed into a tuxedo and had a hunted air. His hands floated around, unanchored. George saw Sally take him firmly by the arm and propel him toward the ballroom entrance.

“Hey, hey, Mom,” he called. George interrupted their progress and called them over to join him, Kate, and Father Oakenshield.

“Dad! Here we are.”

He clapped his father on both biceps, convivially. He kissed Sally on the cheek.

“Mom, you look beautiful. Dad, thanks for coming. You look … in attendance.”

“Well,” said his father, “your mother said I can’t eat in the house anymore if I don’t start behaving like a human being.”

At this, Dean stretched his arms out as if to demonstrate that he had, in fact, taken the shape of a human man. When he smiled, George thought he was being very charming. He dropped an exaggerated wink on Kate. Sally beamed at George, unperturbed.

“Good job, Dad,” said George. “Dad, Mom, you know Kate. And this is Father Oakenshield.”

“Ah, yes, the jailer!” Sally said. “Well met, Father. How is the tallest tower, now the princess has flown away?”

Father Oakenshield gazed scornfully at Sally, and licked his lips.

“I don’t expect you to understand my daughter,” said Father Oakenshield, taking Kate’s hand away from Sally.

“Her I understand just fine,” said Sally, taking Kate’s hand back with firmness. “It’s you I’d like to beat with a stick, buddy.”

“You and I will have to accept our differences, Sally, if our children are going to marry.”

Sally balked.

“Who said anything about marrying?” she asked.

“I have seen it in her computations,” said her father. “A new candor. A new simplicity. She is in love.”

Sally pinched George on the arm. “What, with HIM?”

“George understands her,” Father Oakenshield elaborated. “I always knew she would marry a mathematician. No one else could appreciate the subtleties of her training.”

“Bullshit,” said Sally, not quietly.

“Mom,” George began.

“Yeah, I give it six months,” she said. “Here’s a clue, Padre. He only seduced your little chickadee because he thought he couldn’t do it. Now that it’s done, it’s done, you know what I mean?”

“Not done,” George interjected. He shook his head at Kate’s father. “Not done in any sense of the word. Not done. Did not do.”

“I do not see what you mean in the slightest,” Oakenshield said to Sally. And then, without warning, Sally pulled back her smooth, toned arm and punched Father Oakenshield right in the nose.

Inside the ballroom, wall sconces shed a warm glow on a rich red carpet, black wood trim, and round tables spread with bright white clothes, dappled with glittering cutlery and crystal plates. The parquet floor was inlaid with deep hardwoods, glorious chandeliers blossomed from the carved ceiling, and paneled walls were hung with oil paintings of popular constellations. A podium at the front of the room was flanked by two tables, and rows of chairs faced the podium. At the back of the room the caterers’ tables were set up with hors d’oeuvres. Among other things, there was a chocolate fountain and a champagne pyramid, ready to be filled.

Academics milled around, finding their places with their wives, their children, their grandchildren in some cases. Dean and Sally, Kate and George, and Father Oakenshield were supposed to sit together at a table, according to cards on the plates, but Father Oakenshield lingered behind, leaving one seat open at their table. When a large man entered the ballroom, clearly late and looking for a place to sit, George saw an opportunity to remove Father Oakenshield from his mother’s arm’s length, and motioned the man to come and sit with them at their table.

“Belion,” said the big man. He shook hands with George and sat down daintily on a folding chair. He looked like an elephant on a Victorian footstool. Sally’s eyes widened and she placed a hand on his arm, taking to him immediately.

“Hello,” she said, in hushed tones, for the program was beginning on the dais.

“Belion,” said Belion, and stuck out his hand.

“Well, don’t you look dashing and debonair?”

“I wore a tuxedo,” said Belion, to explain. His tuxedo was immaculate, and his hair was neatly brushed.

“My husband, Dean,” said Sally, pointing to George’s father, “and my son, George.”

Belion nodded blithely, and Sally turned to George.

“You’ve got to get rid of that girl, son. It’s just getting ridiculous.”

“Now, Mother.” George adopted a calming tone. “I told you last year what the astrologer down on Bancroft said. Brown hair, astronomer, Toledo. There are only so many, you know.”

“But that’s so limiting. Only astronomers?”

“Mother, come now. You don’t want to go against the psychic, do you? Against fate?”

“No,” said Sally wryly. “No, I wouldn’t want to go against her.”

“There you are,” said George, patting her arm. “You know best.”

At the front of the ballroom, the scientists and guests were taking their places at the head table. The microphone had been checked, a glass of water had been installed near it, and now as the others were seated, Dr. Bryant stepped up to the podium. The lights in the ballroom got a bit dimmer, except for those trained on the stage. The chandeliers above the assembled crowd twinkled warmly but were muted now, their false candlesticks playing in hushed light against their brass ligatures. George pinched his forehead between both his thumbs and exhaled.

“Good evening,” said Dr. Bryant. “Welcome to our favorite annual event. Welcome to our new faculty and their families, welcome to our patrons, our friends, to my colleagues, to the future of astronomy.”

Everyone applauded. George applauded. Oakenshield, in the back, dabbed his nose with a cloth napkin. The waiters surrounded the tables and ladled bisque into bowls, the top layer of flatware and cutlery assembled before all the diners. Sally picked up her spoon and expertly dipped it into the soup, delivering it neatly to her lower lip. Belion dandled his spoon in his soup bowl, pushing a cheese crouton around. George trained his eyes on the floor, suddenly feeling dizzy. If he looked at his soup a wave of nausea might surprise him into puking in it. There on the carpet was a rich pattern of curling vines and leaves, a baroque array of ornaments in large circular arrangements. And cherubs.