John Barth - The Development

As usual, invitation notices were distributed to all four dozen households a month before the occasion, rubber-banded to the decorative knobs atop those new mailboxes. Also as usual, between fifteen and twenty couples signed on and paid the $40-per-person fee. Of the participating households (all of whom have been asked to provide, in addition to their fee, either an hors d'oeuvre/appetizer or a dessert, please indicate which), six or seven will have volunteered to be hosts: one for the buffet-and-bar opening course presently being enjoyed by all hands, perhaps four for the sit-down entrée (supplied by a Stratford caterer; check your nametag to see which entrée house you've been assigned to), and one for the all-together- again dessert buffet that winds up the festive occasion. The jollity of which, this spring, has been somewhat beclouded — as was that of last December's Rockfish Reach "Winter Holiday" party — by the apparent double suicide, still unexplained, of Richard and Susan Felton (themselves once active participants in these neighborhood events) by exhaust-fume inhalation in their closed garage at 1020 Shoreside Drive, just after Tom and Patsy Hardison's elaborate toga party last September to inaugurate their new house on Loblolly Court. Recommended dress for the progressive dinner is "country club casual": slacks and sport shirts for the gentlemen (jackets optional); pants or skirts and simple blouses for the ladies.

"Hi there. Jeff insists that we leave it to him to do the honors."

"And to apologize for this late addition to the guest list, and to cover the two extra plate charges, and to fill in the nametags — all courtesy of Avon Realty, guys, where we agents do our best to earn our commissions. May I have your attention, everybody? This handsome young stud and his blushing bride are your new about-to-be neighbors Joe and Judy Barnes, formerly and still temporarily from over in Blue Crab Bight but soon to move into Number Ten-Twenty Shoreside Drive! Joe and Judy, this is Dean Peter Simpson, from the College, and his soulmate Deborah, also from the College."

"Welcome to Rockfish Reach, Joe and Judy. What a pleasant surprise!"

"Happy to be here… Dean and Mrs. Simpson."

"Please, guys. We're Debbie and Pete."

" Lovely house, Debbie! And do forgive us for showing up empty-handed. Everything happened so fast! "

"No problem, no problem. If I know Marsha Pitt, she's probably brought an hors d'oeuvre and a dessert."

"Guilty as charged, Your Honor. Cheesecake's in the cooler out in our car for later at the Greens'; I'll put these doodads out with the rest of the finger food."

"And your new house is a lovely one too, Judy and Joe. Pete and I have always admired that place."

"Thanks for saying so. Our daughters are convinced it'll be haunted! One of them's up at the College, by the way, and her kid sister will be joining her there next year, but they'll still be coming home most weekends and such."

"We hope!"

"Oh my, how wonderful … Excuse me…"

"So! Go on in, people. Jeff and Marsha will introduce you around, and we'll follow shortly."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n. The Barneses will be doing their entrée with us, by the way. We've got plenty of extra seating, and they've promised not to say that our house is the Pitts'."

" Ai, sweetheart, you promised not to resurrect that tired old joke! Come on, Joe and Judy, let's get some wine."

("You okay, hon?"

"I'll make it. But that daughters thing really hit home."

"Yup. Here's a Kleenex. On with the party?")

HOSTS: The "associates": Deborah Clive Simpson, fifty-seven, associate librarian at Stratford College's Dexter Library, and Peter Alan Simpson, also fifty-seven, longtime professor of humanities and presently associate dean at that same quite good small institution, traditionally a liberal-arts college but currently expanding it's programs in the sciences, thanks to a munificent bequest from a late alumnus who made a fortune in the pharmaceuticals business. The Simpsons are childless, their only offspring, a much-prized daughter, having been killed two years ago in a multicar crash on the Baltimore Beltway during an ice storm in the winter of her sophomore year as a premedical student at Johns Hopkins. Her loss remains a trauma from which her parents do not expect ever to recover; the very term "closure," so fashionable nowadays, sets their teeth on edge, and the coinciding of Julie's death and Peter's well-earned promotion to associate dean has leached much pleasure from the latter. Neverthe less, in an effort to "get on with their lives," the Simpsons last year exchanged their very modest house in Stratford — so rich in now-painful memories of child-rearing and of the couple's advancement up the academic ladder from relative penury to financial comfort — for their present Rockfish Reach address, and they're doing their best to be active members of both their collegiate and their residential communities as well as generous supporters of such worthy organizations as Doctors Without Borders (Médecins Sans Frontières), to which it had been Julie's ambition to devote herself once she attained her M.D.

"So we bet those new folks — what's their name?"

"Barnes. Joe and Judy. He's with Lucas and Jones in Stratford, and she teaches at the Fenton School. They seem nice."

"We bet they got themselves a bargain on the Feltons' place."

"More power to 'em, I say. All's fair in love, war, and real estate."

"Don't miss Peggy Ashton's tuna spread, Rob; I'm going for another white wine spritzer."

"Make that two, okay? But no spritz in mine, please. So, Lisa: What were you starting to say about the nametags?"

"Oh, just that looking around at tonight's tags reminded me that friends of ours over in Oyster Cove told us once that nine out of ten husbands in Heron Bay Estates are called by one-syllable first names and their wives by two-syllable ones: You Rob-and-Shirley, we Dave-and-Lisa, et cetera."

"Hey, that's right. I hadn't noticed!"

"And what exactly does one make of that sociocultural infobit, s'il vous plait? "

"I'll let you know, Pete-and-Debbie, soon's I figure it out. Meanwhile …"

"What I notice, guys — every time I'm in the supermarket or Wal-Mart? — is that more and more older and overweight Americans—"

"Like us?"

"Like some of us, anyhow — go prowling down the aisles bent forward like this, with arms and upper body resting on their shopping cart as if it was some kind of a walker…"

"And their fat butts waggling, often in pink warmup pants…"

"Now is that nice to say?"

"It's what Pete calls the American Consumer Crouch. I say 'Whatever floats your boat…'"

" And keeps the economy perking along. Am I right, Joe Barnes?"

"Right you are, Jeff."

"So, Deb, you were saying something earlier about a long letter that Pete got out of the blue from some girl in Uganda?"

"Oh, right, wow: that …"

"Uganda?"

"I should let Pete tell you about it. Where are you and Paul doing your entrée?"

"Practically next door. At the Beckers'?"

"Us too. So he'll explain it there. Very touching — but who knows whether it's for real or a scam? Oh, hey, Pat: Have you and Tom met the Barneses? Joe and Judy Barnes, Tom and Patsy Hardison from Loblolly Court."

"Jeff Pitt introduced us already, Deb. Hello again, Barneses."

"Hi there. We've been hearing great things about your Toga Party last fall! Sounds cool!"

"All but the ending, huh? We can't imagine what happened with Dick and Susan Felton that night…"

"Has to've been some kind of freak accident; let's don't spoil this party with that one. Welcome to Rockfish Reach!"