A Family Affair by Mary Campisi Page A

on the east coast is in January, one
minute you’re boarding the plane, thinking about getting home in
time to watch your favorite TV show, and the next, you’re stuck in
your seat for two hours while they de-ice.”
    “ It isn’t raining or
snowing outside.”
    Christine shrugged as she watched her mother
pinch a droopy leaf from a poinsettia. “He’ll be here, Mother.”
    “ He’ll be here, Gloria,”
Uncle Harry said, swirling the ice in his drink. “Do you think he’d
miss an opportunity to get back here to his lovely
wife?”
    She didn’t answer, merely, pinched another
leaf and then another. She looked beautiful tonight in her beige
dress, but then she always looked beautiful, so tiny and delicate,
like a porcelain doll that’s been constructed with the utmost care.
Christine had always felt awkward next to her, graceless, like a
colt who can’t quite find its legs. Even now, as a grown woman,
attractive in her own right, she couldn’t match the ethereal beauty
of her mother.
    “ I say, we start without
Charlie,” Uncle Harry said, his deep voice filling the room. “Damn
sorry luck if he misses out on the lamb.”
    Christine glanced at her mother, who was
picking specks of glitter that had fallen from the petals of the
red poinsettia onto the white, linen tablecloth. “Mother? What do
you think? It’s almost 7:30. I could try his cell phone again?”
    Gloria pressed her forefinger against the
cloth, her gaze on the glitter stuck to her skin. “If we don’t eat
now, the lamb will be ruined,” she said, her lips tight, the
muscles around her mouth strained. Then in a low voice, “He knows
dinner’s at seven . . . he knows.”
    The highlight of her week had been to create
the perfect meal in the perfect atmosphere only to find out that
the guest of honor had not arrived. It was amazing enough that her
mother still carried on this ritual for him, after all these years
of marriage, or that, he took great pains to accommodate her wish,
to be where he said he’d be, when he said he’d be there, at least
most of the time. Several of Christine’s friends had parents who
were alone, whether by choice or divine intervention and even those
who still shared a name, didn’t often share a bed or a
relationship.
    “ Sit, sit,” her mother said
in a loud, bright voice. “Harry, pour the wine, will
you?”
    He eyed her a moment, opened his mouth to
speak, closed it. “Wine for three, coming up.” He picked up a glass
and poured.
    “ He’ll be here, Mother. You
know he will.”
    “ I know that, Christine.”
She picked up her wine glass and took a healthy swallow. Her face
flushed to a pale rose. “Would you please tell Greta to serve the
salad?” There was something sad and disappointed tucked away under
the smile, beneath the serene calmness of her poised exterior as
she spoke.
    “ Sure.” Christine headed
for the kitchen and the radicchio salad. Next month would be
different; she’d make sure her father showed up an hour early with
a dozen red roses and a bottle of Chanel #5.
    That would make her mother smile; make her
forget all about tonight.
    ***
    How many times did he have to tell her that
he didn’t like all this crap in his salad? Iceberg lettuce, that
was it, with tomato, cucumber, and a little bit of red onion.
Period. Was it that damn hard to remember? So what if iceberg had
no ‘nutritional value,’ if the real nutrients were in the darker
greens, like romaine or Boston, or this radicchio shit? He didn’t
like the stuff, didn’t like the looks of it, the feel of it, the
taste of it. If he were a goddamn rabbit, then he’d eat it, but he
wasn’t. Harry pushed a raspberry to the side of his plate. And what
was with fruit stuck in the middle of a salad? Who the hell thought
of that? Armand, at The Presidio was the only one who didn’t try to
get fancy, who didn’t put mesculin mix or dandelions, or
raspberries, in his salad.
    Gloria was so hopped up she probably didn’t
know what