couldn’t afford), or Jean’s pedicure.
Privately, less politely, and with a great many more of what Stalina called jokes, she fought — also with Jean, in her mind, but actually with Yana, who was there, over the senselessness of Jean’s insistence that the couple be married at the Museum of Natural History, just because a Strauss cousin sat on the board. “ How can you marry young people in the midst of all that death? ” Stalina asked Yana, who felt herself absent during those times, a Jean-protoplasm undulating over her body.
Malcolm fought with his parents over whether he would apply to law school. Yana and Milla fought over whether Milla was a zombie. No one, except for Osip, talked to anyone else unless it was necessary; and no one, except for Yana, laughed at Osip’s jokes.
The only unafflicted person in the house was Pratik, who, having been asked to keep track of invitations and food selections, had created a computerized, color-coded matrix incomprehensible to anyone but himself, in front of which he sat like the Buddha (Yes, Yana knew he was Muslim, but he sat with that air of sated sleepiness, familiar from a bronze figurine in her former lover’s office. “Former lover’s office” — it sounded so mature, she wished for an opportunity to say it. “Former lover’s office” — so breezy, it couldn’t possible come from someone who had moved back in with her parents so that her mother would stop her from calling him.)
Now, as the Molochniks and Strausses faced off over table seating, Pratik gave her a look of particular smugness, as if to say, “If my database cannot bring peace to this household, nothing can.” The table’s mirrored surface multiplied everyone’s mouths and chins and noses; there were entirely too many fleshy human parts involved in the discussion.
Yana was trying to keep everyone in line using classroom management techniques she’d learned in graduate school. “Milla will be down in a minute,” she said, “but guys? Guys?” She raised one hand in the hair and counted backward to one with her fingers. This was what her professors called a non-intrusive prompt. “Guys!”
Jean Strauss looked at Yana’s upraised arm and Yana felt as though it were suddenly too long, and sat down, and apologized. “Milla and Malcolm said before that they want all their cousins to get to know each other, so they wanted them, sort of, mixed.” Her own uncertain eyes glanced back from the tabletop. She sat up straight and looked at Pratik. He smiled, as she imagined herself someday smiling at some of the children in her class. He looked as if he wanted to tell her that she just learned differently from the others, not worse.
In jolly tones, Jean Strauss said, “The kids want a cousins’ table,” and then murmured something in her husband’s ear.
Osip said, “Cousins together — very nice, as long as they don’t get marry.”
Yana forced out a laugh.
Bobby Strauss lifted a forefinger and said, “It’s certainly an idea,” beginning a measured disquisition on the subject of Strauss cousins, long separated, who would be wretched to find themselves at different tables with cousins not their own.
Only two tables had been planned so far and it was already nine, and the caterer had said she need the seating chart at least ten business days in advance. Yana’s stomach hurt at the thought, and she excused herself to go check on her sister. She had been giving the Strausses excuses for Milla’s absence since they’d arrived, and now, at Yana’s prediction that Milla must be “almost done” with her “work project,” Jean didn’t even bother to say “hmm.”
Milla was sitting in front of the mirror, veil in hand, frowning. She looked as if she were in a commercial for something, that in a moment she would confess her wedding dilemma to a giant deodorant bottle. Instead, she had only Yana, and when Yana asked what was wrong, Milla said, “I just want my hair to be
Privately, less politely, and with a great many more of what Stalina called jokes, she fought — also with Jean, in her mind, but actually with Yana, who was there, over the senselessness of Jean’s insistence that the couple be married at the Museum of Natural History, just because a Strauss cousin sat on the board. “ How can you marry young people in the midst of all that death? ” Stalina asked Yana, who felt herself absent during those times, a Jean-protoplasm undulating over her body.
Malcolm fought with his parents over whether he would apply to law school. Yana and Milla fought over whether Milla was a zombie. No one, except for Osip, talked to anyone else unless it was necessary; and no one, except for Yana, laughed at Osip’s jokes.
The only unafflicted person in the house was Pratik, who, having been asked to keep track of invitations and food selections, had created a computerized, color-coded matrix incomprehensible to anyone but himself, in front of which he sat like the Buddha (Yes, Yana knew he was Muslim, but he sat with that air of sated sleepiness, familiar from a bronze figurine in her former lover’s office. “Former lover’s office” — it sounded so mature, she wished for an opportunity to say it. “Former lover’s office” — so breezy, it couldn’t possible come from someone who had moved back in with her parents so that her mother would stop her from calling him.)
Now, as the Molochniks and Strausses faced off over table seating, Pratik gave her a look of particular smugness, as if to say, “If my database cannot bring peace to this household, nothing can.” The table’s mirrored surface multiplied everyone’s mouths and chins and noses; there were entirely too many fleshy human parts involved in the discussion.
Yana was trying to keep everyone in line using classroom management techniques she’d learned in graduate school. “Milla will be down in a minute,” she said, “but guys? Guys?” She raised one hand in the hair and counted backward to one with her fingers. This was what her professors called a non-intrusive prompt. “Guys!”
Jean Strauss looked at Yana’s upraised arm and Yana felt as though it were suddenly too long, and sat down, and apologized. “Milla and Malcolm said before that they want all their cousins to get to know each other, so they wanted them, sort of, mixed.” Her own uncertain eyes glanced back from the tabletop. She sat up straight and looked at Pratik. He smiled, as she imagined herself someday smiling at some of the children in her class. He looked as if he wanted to tell her that she just learned differently from the others, not worse.
In jolly tones, Jean Strauss said, “The kids want a cousins’ table,” and then murmured something in her husband’s ear.
Osip said, “Cousins together — very nice, as long as they don’t get marry.”
Yana forced out a laugh.
Bobby Strauss lifted a forefinger and said, “It’s certainly an idea,” beginning a measured disquisition on the subject of Strauss cousins, long separated, who would be wretched to find themselves at different tables with cousins not their own.
Only two tables had been planned so far and it was already nine, and the caterer had said she need the seating chart at least ten business days in advance. Yana’s stomach hurt at the thought, and she excused herself to go check on her sister. She had been giving the Strausses excuses for Milla’s absence since they’d arrived, and now, at Yana’s prediction that Milla must be “almost done” with her “work project,” Jean didn’t even bother to say “hmm.”
Milla was sitting in front of the mirror, veil in hand, frowning. She looked as if she were in a commercial for something, that in a moment she would confess her wedding dilemma to a giant deodorant bottle. Instead, she had only Yana, and when Yana asked what was wrong, Milla said, “I just want my hair to be
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