Jennifer Close: The Hopefuls

“You know,” she said, and took a bite of her Red Vine, “everyone was afraid they were going to die then. So many people had died that it was all anyone could think about. People were looking for anything that made them happy, and they moved fast, like there wasn’t a lot of time left.”

I wanted to defend my marriage, tell her that our relationship was strong and good and I would have fallen in love with Matt no matter what was happening in the world. But then I thought about what it had been like that month, how Julie was always in bed and how anytime we turned on the TV we heard about survivors and victims and babies being born who would never know their fathers. I thought about how claustrophobic it was in the apartment, and how from the moment Matt and I met, it felt like we were racing toward something, so eager to get to the finish line.

Every so often, it worried me to think that Colleen was right, that we’d gotten married because we were scared. But then I thought about Matt in those pants covered with little dogs, the way he blushed when Colleen teased him, and I figured there were worse ways to end up with someone.

A few days after my disastrous trip to the grocery store, we were supposed to go to dinner at Matt’s parents’ house. This wasn’t unusual — we were expected every Sunday — but part of me hoped that just this once we could get out of it, that maybe Matt would agree to cancel.

“I’m sure they’ll understand if we tell them we need to unpack,” I said that afternoon. “And we have food now. We can make a real dinner.”

“I already told them we were coming,” Matt said.

“I could even make sloppy joes,” I said. It was a little desperate to try to bribe Matt with his favorite meal, but I wanted nothing more than to curl up and have a quiet dinner. For as long as we’d known each other, Sunday nights were a time we spent together, actually cooking instead of ordering takeout, trying out complicated and involved recipes. When The Sopranos were on, we religiously made large pasta dishes and ate in front of the TV. Now Sunday nights were no longer ours. When I’d mentioned that we were never going to be able to watch 60 Minutes again, Matt just said we could DVR it.

“We’ll do sloppy joes another night,” Matt said. He reached out and pulled me onto his lap, put his face in my neck until I laughed and said, “Your loss.”

—

It honestly didn’t occur to me that moving to DC would mean seeing Matt’s family all the time. Sure, I figured we’d see them more. Maybe we’d meet for dinner every few weeks — they lived in Maryland, about forty minutes outside of DC, just far enough away to be truly inconvenient. But looking back, it’s clear that I was delusional, that I had underestimated the power of the Kellys.

Matt was one of five children. He had three older brothers and one younger sister. And like most big families, they were loud and secretly thought they were funnier and a little more special than everyone else. When Matt’s mom found out I was an only child with no cousins, she’d drawn in a sharp breath and said, “Oh, isn’t that too bad,” as if I’d just told her that I was an orphan or had cancer. Or maybe an orphan who had cancer. I could tell she pitied me and pitied my parents, that she thought the only family worth having was a large one.

When people complain about their in-laws, I usually just smile and make some sort of sympathetic noise, but I don’t offer any details about my own. It’s too much to get into, and once I start talking about them, it’s hard to stop. I’m sure there are worse mothers-in-law that I could’ve gotten. I’m sure that’s probably true.

Barbara Kelly (called Babs by everyone except her grandchildren, who called her BB) was a tall woman, just a couple inches shy of six feet. Standing next to her, I felt even shorter than I am. (“At least you know he’s not marrying you because you remind him of his mom,” Bit said to me at the wedding.) She kept her hair in a brown chin-length bob, and no matter the time of day or the weather, it always looked perfect. I never saw one hair out of place, and sometimes I’d stare at her head and try to figure out how she did it. Babs loved tennis and golf and was often in a tennis skirt, even on the days she wasn’t playing. She wore a lot of pinks and greens, favored polos, and usually had a sweater tied around her shoulders.

Early on, it was clear that Babs and I wouldn’t have a close relationship, and I was fine with that. She didn’t seem all that interested in me, or in any of her daughters-in-law for that matter. She referred to us as “the outlaws” and sometimes made us sit at a different table at family dinners. “Kellys over here,” she’d say, pointing to the dining room, “and outlaws this way.” The first time it happened, I thought it was a joke until I noticed my sisters-in-law heading out to a table on the sunporch and I stood where I was for a moment before finally just following them out there, taking my place at the table of non-Kellys.

—

We were late for dinner, mostly because I spent thirty minutes searching for a dress that I was sure I’d unpacked. Matt helped me look for it, anxiously announcing the time every seven minutes or so, until I finally just pulled another dress out of the closet to wear so that he’d stop acting like a talking alarm clock.

By the time we pulled up, the driveway was full of cars, a telltale sign that we were the last to arrive. I could feel Matt stiffen next to me — he hated being late, even if it was just to his own family’s house. “Sorry,” I said, reaching over to rub his knee. He relaxed and looked over at me. “No worries,” he said, putting his hand on top of mine.

The house where Matt grew up was a large redbrick Tudor with a lawn so green it almost looked fake and rows of white flowering bushes in front. It was such an inviting house, picture perfect, the kind you’d dream about living in one day. And it never failed to amaze me how cheerful and warm it looked from the outside, how different it felt once you went in.

I took a deep breath as we walked in the front door. The two of us almost collided right into Rebecca, who was married to Matt’s oldest brother, Patrick. She was standing in the front hall, holding their two-year-old, Jonah, and bouncing him up and down, saying, “Shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Jonah’s eyes were bright, but he wasn’t crying and he gave us a serious look.

“Hey, buddy,” Matt said. He rubbed Jonah’s cheek with his finger. “Rough day?” Jonah smiled a little and hid his face in Rebecca’s shoulder.

“He fell outside,” Rebecca said, leaning her face into Jonah’s hair. “The older boys were running around and knocked him down.” She sounded accusatory, as if we were responsible for the roughness of the Kelly grandchildren. Then, without saying anything else, she turned away from us, and bounced and shushed Jonah into the living room.

Matt turned to me and raised his eyebrows, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Rebecca was a difficult person to like, and even though I tried to defend her since she was an outlaw like me, it wasn’t easy.

Apparently, when Patrick had announced he was going to propose to Rebecca, Babs gasped and said, “You’re really going to marry that Jewish girl?” Patrick had repeated this to Rebecca (why, I don’t know), and she’d despised Babs ever since. You couldn’t really blame her, I guess.

Now, Babs went out of her way to show everyone that she was completely fine with a Jewish daughter-in-law. Sometimes when she gave a toast at dinner, she’d say, “Mazel,” and raise her glass toward Rebecca. More than once someone burst out laughing, and everyone had to yell “Cheers” and clink glasses loudly to cover it up. It was no surprise that Rebecca often opted out of Sunday dinners, and sent Jonah to the house with Patrick, claiming she had a migraine.