Brenda Janowitz - Jack With a Twist

In fact, giving raw meat as a gift is never appropriate in any situation, an argument which my father sharply refuted. (“It is never inappropriate to give raw meat as a gift. Never.”) I explained that there is nothing that is festive or celebratory about raw foodstuff, even if you did lovingly pick out each cut of meat. It is simply not done in polite society.

Especially when you’re going to meet your future in-laws for the first time.

Which is why I have a bouquet of white roses and lilies in my hand, which I place firmly in Jack’s mother’s other hand in a vain attempt to distract her from the packet of E. coli that my father has just given her.

We all hug and kiss awkwardly and make the introductions as Jack’s father, Edward, walks into the foyer. As my mother curtsies and calls Jack’s father “Your Honor,” I try to laugh and pretend that she’s joking. Since she’s not laughing herself, it’s a tough sell. Jack sees what I’m doing and begins laughing himself.

See why we’re so perfect for each other?

“So,” my father says, “open it! I have a feeling you’re going to want to open what I brought you right away.”

“How sweet,” Joan says with a smile.

“I brought flowers!” I call out, in a pathetic effort to distract Jack’s mother. But, there’s no fighting it. No matter what I do or say, she’s about to open the present.

“This is very interesting wrapping,” she says, as she puts a perfectly manicured finger underneath the tape that holds the butcher paper together.

“Don’t you want to look at the flowers first?” I say in desperation. “They’re white lilies! Your favorite!”

She looks up at me for a second, wondering, no doubt, why I’m pushing the flowers on her like one of those urchins who accost you in the streets of Paris, but the fact of the matter is that I just do not want her to open that package. There has got to be some way to distract her. Maybe I should just grab Jack and kiss him passionately and everyone will be so charmed by our young love that they will drop what they are doing (or opening, as the case may be) and forget all about my father’s hostess gift. Or maybe I could hit the fire alarm and get everyone out of the house quickly. But then I guess that sprinklers would go off and that would, like, totally mess up my hair and makeup. And, anyway, pretending to set the house on fire the first time your parents come to your future in-laws’ house is probably not the best way to make a first impression.

I turn my face away as Joan opens the package and the meat almost falls onto the floor as she looks up in horror.

Why, oh why, couldn’t I have just been orphaned at birth like other kids? Life can be so unfair sometimes.

“Oh, my goodness,” Jack’s mother says, looking somewhat faint, “it’s raw meat.”

“That’s my best cut of beef tenderloin I’ve got there for you,” my father says, beaming.

“How very kind,” Joan says, as she passes off the red slab to a servant who appears out of nowhere.

“I’ll help you get it on the barbecue,” my father suggests. “I’ve taken the liberty of pre-seasoning it, so we can toss that baby right onto the grill.”

“Thank you, Barry,” Jack’s mother says, “but the chefs have already prepared dinner for us this evening.”

“Oh,” my father says, looking like a little boy who’s been chosen last for teams during gym class.

“Anyhow,” Joan stage whispers to my father, “I’m a vegetarian.”

“You don’t say?” my father says and looks at my mother. My father doesn’t trust vegetarians. Especially vegetarians who are wearing six-hundred-dollar leather shoes.

After the dust on Tenderloingate has settled, we sit down at a mammoth table in the Solomon’s formal dining room where we learn that the main course is—gasp!—fish. My father is not pleased. (“These fancy chefs of theirs never heard of a surf and turf?”)

I’m seated next to Jack somewhere smack dab in the center of the table, with my father on one end, to the right of Jack’s mother, and my mother down on the other end, to the right of Jack’s father. My mother will later tell me on the car ride home that they were placed in the “seats of honor” at the table. I make a mental note to look that up for truthfulness on the Internet later.

Jack grabs my knee under the table and I giggle in his direction. As I look up, I catch Jack’s oldest sister, Patricia, watching us from across the table. I smile at her with a look that says, “Ain’t love grand?” but she averts her eyes as soon as hers meet mine.

All three of Jack’s older sisters appeared, husbands in tow, soon after my family had arrived and we’d made our way into the salon for pre-dinner drinks.

I know! Who has a salon?

Jack’s sisters weren’t really what I thought they would be—I envisioned them grabbing me and pulling me aside and showing me the room Jack grew up in. No doubt, in our excitement about the families coming together, we would all jump on his bed and start giggling like schoolgirls as they regaled me with funny stories about Jack’s childhood. Tales of braces and first kisses and awkward haircuts and hijinks at various family bar mitzvahs. Isn’t that what siblings are for? Being an only child myself, I really had no idea, but I could imagine. Growing up, the closest I’d ever come to a sibling was the life-sized Barbie head that my mother bought me when I was five. But I thought that Jack’s sisters and I would be immediately on our way to being best friends forever and sisters for life.

Instead, Jack’s sisters came in and greeted me with firm handshakes, clipped smiles and formal introductions to their respective husbands. It was as if I was on a job interview at a law firm, except at most of the firms I’d interviewed at, the partners were much warmer or, at the very least, pretended to be.

Meeting all of Jack’s sisters and brothers-in-law was such a blur that I didn’t quite catch all of the brothers-in-laws’ names, and not just because the names are all nearly identical: Adam, Alan and Aaron. This was because, just as I was being introduced to the various brothers-in-law, Jack’s father poured champagne for a toast with my parents, and I was panicked at the mere thought of my mother drinking the happy juice. I didn’t want her to embarrass me in any way (more so than usual, I mean), and I especially didn’t want her to start bragging about my new big case. In addition to the fact that the case was highly super secret, I hadn’t even had a chance yet to tell Jack about it or about the fact that because of it, I now needed a new wedding dress. Although maybe my mother wouldn’t spill the beans because she was too embarrassed to admit even to her mah-jongg friends that Monique wouldn’t be designing my dress anymore. (Me: “Just tell them that we didn’t want to spend so much.” My mom: “I will do no such thing!” Prompt hang-up of the phone for effect.)

Also, the three brothers-in-law all bear an uncanny resemblance to each other, from their receding hairlines to their pastel Loro Piana cable sweaters to their black Gucci loafers, so I really can’t be held responsible for remembering who’s who. Now, I know what you’re thinking—why didn’t I simply study some pictures before I came here? See, that’s the thing. I did study pictures of all of the siblings, or siblings-in-law, as the case may be, but all Jack really had were the various wedding photos of each couple. The eldest, Patricia, is now forty-five years old and got married seventeen years ago, so you can only imagine how different her husband looks now. The middle sister, Elizabeth ( not Liz, mind you, it’s Elizabeth), is forty-two years old, and got married ten years ago. Lisa, the youngest at thirty-nine, got married three years ago, but by that time, all of the guys were already beginning to morph into each other. Lisa’s husband did have more hair on his wedding day, but by now, he just looks like the other two. Apparently, being married to a Solomon sister makes all of your hair…well, you know where I’m going with this one. Don’t make me say it.