as Goldie directed Brant to a seat next to the guest of honor. A mistake if I ever saw one.
The butler clicked his heels together and announced, “Our next honored guest has arrived! Introducing Miss Gianne Gillian, the esteemed host of The Great Party Showdown .” Gianne, dressed in a glittering gold dress, leaned out from behind the crimson curtain of the litter and waved at a room full of adoring fans.
So help me, Nelson swooned then recovered in time to help her stand. He waggled his cigar. “Ever since I met you, I swept you off your feet.”
The audience applauded as Lizzie led Gianne to a seat next to Brant. Nelson turned to his mother, who said, “This leaves me speechless.”
He replied with his Groucho flair, “Well, see that you stay that way.”
The head butler proclaimed, “Announcing the professor.”
The double doors swung open once again, and just like the movie, out came our own version of Harpo Marx, the silent, maniacal Marx brother. I squinted. Is that Dad?
Sure enough, there was my dad wearing a trench coat, a blond wig, and a stovepipe hat. When the butler reached for his coat, Dad revealed a peek at his undershirt and boxers. The crowd went wild, and Mother reddened. Seemingly unconcerned with the lecture he was sure to get, Harpo tooted his rubber-bulbed horn and slipped back into his trench coat before hurrying to sit in the only open chair next to Mother.
Mike Romano zoomed in for a close-up of my parents, capturing whatever pointed thing she was saying about Dad appearing in public in his underwear.
Soon, the girls and I, along with Wade and David, whisked out a crisp salad with raspberry dressing, honey- and soy-glazed salmon, hot rolls, twice-baked potatoes, and green beans with almond slivers, while our cheerful guests dined. Personally, I kept an eye on Brant. Who knew what he might say to my mother, or what she might say to him in return. So far so good, but I wouldn’t relax until this affair was over. The way I saw it, either Mother or Brant could erupt at any given moment. I didn’t know the man, of course, but from what I’d seen of him, he was as grumpy as our guest of honor.
Before we served the cake, the kids from the drama class performed a skit. One of the boys, dressed like Chico Marx, sat down at the baby grand piano we’d rented. Our Chico wore an elfin-pointed hat over a black curly wig. His velveteen jacket was open over a striped button-down shirt and tie. Honestly, the kid, who was one of Mrs. Hempshaw’s best piano students, played pretty well, though he seemed to have a little trouble ending his piece.
Nelson, still in his Groucho persona, strode to the piano. Chico looked up and said, “I can’t think of the finish!”
Nelson replied, “That’s funny, I can’t think of anything else.”
Just then, David, on his way to the kitchen, tried to brisk by Nelson. Nelson, wagging his eyebrows and cigar, reached for David’s arm and spun him around. Nelson said, as if in deepest confidence, “I’m sick of these conventional marriages, aren’t you? One woman and one man was good enough for your grandmother, but who wants to marry your grandmother? Nobody, not even your grandfather.”
I was just serving Brant his piece of our banana cream birthday cake with fluffy cream cheese filling when he snorted his first laugh of the evening at the classic Groucho line.
My mother pounced on him. “Surely you’re not laughing at me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Brant coolly replied. “You’re one of the funniest hicks this town has to offer.”
Mother pushed her chair back and stood. “Well, I never,” she said.
My dad leaned toward her. “Calm down, Inga,” he said. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
“Yes,” Brant said, balancing a big bite of cake on his fork. “Dearie, be a good little woman and mind your husband.”
Two cameras zoomed in as Brant leaned in to take his first bite of heaven. Before he could taste the creamy delight, Mother
The butler clicked his heels together and announced, “Our next honored guest has arrived! Introducing Miss Gianne Gillian, the esteemed host of The Great Party Showdown .” Gianne, dressed in a glittering gold dress, leaned out from behind the crimson curtain of the litter and waved at a room full of adoring fans.
So help me, Nelson swooned then recovered in time to help her stand. He waggled his cigar. “Ever since I met you, I swept you off your feet.”
The audience applauded as Lizzie led Gianne to a seat next to Brant. Nelson turned to his mother, who said, “This leaves me speechless.”
He replied with his Groucho flair, “Well, see that you stay that way.”
The head butler proclaimed, “Announcing the professor.”
The double doors swung open once again, and just like the movie, out came our own version of Harpo Marx, the silent, maniacal Marx brother. I squinted. Is that Dad?
Sure enough, there was my dad wearing a trench coat, a blond wig, and a stovepipe hat. When the butler reached for his coat, Dad revealed a peek at his undershirt and boxers. The crowd went wild, and Mother reddened. Seemingly unconcerned with the lecture he was sure to get, Harpo tooted his rubber-bulbed horn and slipped back into his trench coat before hurrying to sit in the only open chair next to Mother.
Mike Romano zoomed in for a close-up of my parents, capturing whatever pointed thing she was saying about Dad appearing in public in his underwear.
Soon, the girls and I, along with Wade and David, whisked out a crisp salad with raspberry dressing, honey- and soy-glazed salmon, hot rolls, twice-baked potatoes, and green beans with almond slivers, while our cheerful guests dined. Personally, I kept an eye on Brant. Who knew what he might say to my mother, or what she might say to him in return. So far so good, but I wouldn’t relax until this affair was over. The way I saw it, either Mother or Brant could erupt at any given moment. I didn’t know the man, of course, but from what I’d seen of him, he was as grumpy as our guest of honor.
Before we served the cake, the kids from the drama class performed a skit. One of the boys, dressed like Chico Marx, sat down at the baby grand piano we’d rented. Our Chico wore an elfin-pointed hat over a black curly wig. His velveteen jacket was open over a striped button-down shirt and tie. Honestly, the kid, who was one of Mrs. Hempshaw’s best piano students, played pretty well, though he seemed to have a little trouble ending his piece.
Nelson, still in his Groucho persona, strode to the piano. Chico looked up and said, “I can’t think of the finish!”
Nelson replied, “That’s funny, I can’t think of anything else.”
Just then, David, on his way to the kitchen, tried to brisk by Nelson. Nelson, wagging his eyebrows and cigar, reached for David’s arm and spun him around. Nelson said, as if in deepest confidence, “I’m sick of these conventional marriages, aren’t you? One woman and one man was good enough for your grandmother, but who wants to marry your grandmother? Nobody, not even your grandfather.”
I was just serving Brant his piece of our banana cream birthday cake with fluffy cream cheese filling when he snorted his first laugh of the evening at the classic Groucho line.
My mother pounced on him. “Surely you’re not laughing at me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Brant coolly replied. “You’re one of the funniest hicks this town has to offer.”
Mother pushed her chair back and stood. “Well, I never,” she said.
My dad leaned toward her. “Calm down, Inga,” he said. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
“Yes,” Brant said, balancing a big bite of cake on his fork. “Dearie, be a good little woman and mind your husband.”
Two cameras zoomed in as Brant leaned in to take his first bite of heaven. Before he could taste the creamy delight, Mother
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