Brenda Janowitz - Jack With a Twist

And don’t think that I could identify them by their various married names. As I was informed by Jack’s mother one night during dinner at Park Avenue Café, the Solomon sisters do not change their names.

I did manage to work out a positively brilliant system for identifying them, though: I numbered them according to the birth order of the sister they were married to and then memorized what color sweater they were each wearing. So: brother-in-law #1—Adam, in the pale yellow Loro Piana, belongs with Patricia, Jack’s eldest sister; brother-in-law #2—Alan, in the light pink Loro Piana, belongs with Elizabeth, the middle sis; and brother-in-law #3—Aaron, in the baby blue Loro Piana, goes with Lisa, the youngest.

“So, have you two given any thought to a wedding date?” brother-in-law #1 asks. He’s Adam, and he goes with Patricia. It makes sense that Adam is #1 since Adam and Eve were the first man and woman. See how well my system works? Although, he looks closer to his late thirties than his mid-forties. Was it that #1 goes with the youngest sister and #3 goes with the eldest? Now that I think about it, maybe Aaron was supposed to be #1 since Hank Aaron holds the all-time Major League Baseball record for home runs. (And I know you’re thinking that Barry Bonds is now #1 in terms of home runs, but Jack says that for real baseball fans, that doesn’t count.)

This would be so much easier with name tags. Or if the proper brother-in-law was seated next to the appropriate sister. The Solomons do this strange table seating thing where you don’t actually sit with the person you came with. Jack and I are the only couple seated next to each other, and that’s just because this dinner is meant to celebrate our engagement. Everyone else is scattered about, with no regard whatsoever as to who goes with who. Jack’s mother said something about us all talking to each other and not to the same person we talk to every day, or some such nonsense like that.

“Mimi and I were just discussing the wedding date before we sat down to dinner,” my father says. Yes, my mother’s name is Miriam, but my father calls her Mimi. How embarrassing.

“Edward’s docket generally is lightest in winter,” Jack’s mother says.

“Jack and I were thinking spring,” I say, looking at Jack and squeezing his leg under the table. “Maybe April?”

“Lots of new appeals in spring,” Patricia says, “not the best time of year for a wedding in this family. Adam and I got married in February.” I wait for Patricia to look to her husband as she mentions him, thus putting my system back on track, but she doesn’t.

“That sounds beautiful,” my mother says, ever the people pleaser, “but since so much of my family will be flying in from Miami for the wedding, we really can’t take the risk that there’d be snow and they won’t be able to get here for the big day.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Jack’s mother says. Unfortunate? My mother looks immediately at me and I look at Jack. Jack looks down into his halibut and pretends he didn’t just hear his mother say that. Or that it didn’t really mean anything. Before meeting me, Jack had been engaged to a woman for three and a half years without ever having set a wedding date. You’d think his parents would be more appreciative of the fact that I’ve at least nailed their son down to a season.

“March could work,” brother-in-law #3 says, mouth full of salmon, “March is part spring, part winter.”

“Sometimes there’s still snow in March,” brother-in-law #1 says, as he motions to a servant for more wine to be poured.

“No, there’s not, Adam,” Elizabeth says, looking at light-blue Loro Piana. My system would be back on track, but for the fact that I’m not a hundred percent sure whether she actually just said Adam, or if she may have said Aaron instead. Or Alan, for that matter.

“Sometimes there is, Elizabeth,” Lisa says. “April sounds great, Brooke.”

“How is he going to have a wedding in April,” brother-in-law #2 says, nodding his head in the direction of Jack’s father, “when he’s working like an animal on his caseload?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have to work like an animal,” Elizabeth says, looking at her father. Edward clears his throat loudly.

“No, Adam’s right,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “we can do March if that would work best.”

“I’m Aaron,” brother-in-law #1 says.

“Didn’t I say that?” I say, taking a huge gulp of wine.

“Yes,” Jack says, putting his arm around the back of my chair and brushing his fingers against my shoulder, “that’s what she said.”

“Anyway,” brother-in-law # 3 interjects, “the date is usually influenced by the venue. You have to pick from the dates that your venue has available.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” my father says.

“It’s not?” Joan asks, taking a sip of wine.

“Our rabbi is so happy to see our BB getting married that they’ll do anything we ask. They’re even going to give us a huge discount on the reception room at the temple,” my father proudly tells Jack’s dad. Bragging about the discounts he brokers is one of my father’s greatest pleasures in life. “And, of course, I’ll be supplying all of the meat—my best cuts, of course—so we’ve got the venue and the catering covered.”

“A temple?” Jack’s father says. His voice is big and strong and everyone seems to notice at the same time that this is the first word he’s uttered during this entire debate. Which only makes his few words that much more powerful and scary. I can tell that this is a strategy he uses with attorneys in his courtroom—lying in wait until you’re ready to pounce and make your word gospel. Which, if you’re an appellate court judge, is pretty much any time you speak. I look at Jack and he’s still got his head down in his plate. Man, he must really love his halibut. “Joan and I were thinking about a New York City hotel wedding. Weren’t we, dear?”

“We love the Pierre,” Joan says softly. I look at my mother and she is trying to maintain a gracious smile with her mouth frozen in place and teeth gritted together.

“Jackie?” I say.

“We like the Pierre, too,” Jack says, looking up from his plate, “remember, we went to that charity event there this summer?”

“I forget,” I say. Jack regales the table with a story about how we couldn’t find a cab after the charity event and ended up taking a horse-drawn carriage at 1:00 a.m. all the way down Fifth Avenue from 59th Street to 23rd. I take the cocktail napkin that has been underneath my wineglass since we came from the salon to the dining room out from under my wineglass. It’s an ivory napkin with a large S embossed on the front. I tear it into two pieces. And then into four.

“But, Edward,” my mother says, smile still firmly in place as she places her hand gently on Jack’s father’s arm, “two Jewish kids getting married. Wouldn’t it be lovely to celebrate such a mitzvah in a temple?”

“Joan and I would be glad to contribute to costs,” Edward says quietly to my mother. And then louder, to the whole table: “In fact, it would be an honor, wouldn’t it dear?”

“An honor,” Joan parrots back. I tear my napkin into eighths.

“Absolutely not,” my father bellows, his Brooklyn accent even more prominent than usual. “BB’s our only daughter. We’ve been waiting our whole life for this day. The wedding’s on Mimi and me. We’ll do whatever our BB wants. Do you want a hotel wedding, BB?”

“Well,” I start to say, beginning to take my father’s defense, “I did always dream of—”

“Then it’s settled,” my father says, still a little too loudly, “we’ll start looking at hotels next week.”