The Whole Enchilada by Diane Mott Davidson

stance, upraised chin, proud demeanor. He even had a thick mustache. George strained against Tom’s superior strength and raised his voice. Unfortunately, there were no closed windows between the kitchen and the porch.
    â€œI should have been invited to this party!” George Ingleby hollered. “I’m his father. How dare your wife exclude me?”
    â€œOut, out,” Tom was saying.
    â€œDamned spot,” Marla added gleefully, happy to have at least some ex-husband drama. Holly crossed her arms and ignored both of us.
    â€œWe’re walking to the front door,” Tom went on, wrenching George’s arm and pulling the tall, balding stranger along as well. “We don’t want a scene, do we?” Tom’s cold tone scared even me. “In fact,” he concluded, “we want no excitement here at all.”
    Then Tom pulled the stranger, who had not spoken a word, and George, who looked as if he worked out as much as his ex-wife did, toward the front of Marla’s house. No matter what those guys’ routines at the gym were, neither one of them was a match for my husband’s strength. For the first time, I noticed Lena Ingleby, who was as short and curvy as Holly was tall and slender. A dark nest of curls surrounded her head and framed her pretty, perfectly made-up face, which featured a tiny chin and even more tiny turned-up nose. She didn’t dare touch Tom, but she did squeal in protest.
    â€œHolly had no right to exclude us!” she cried. “She’s already sending Drew to Alaska, to see her sister. George was manipulated into giving his consent, but really . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    â€œYeah, like you care about Drew,” Holly said under her breath.
    â€œBut why didn’t you invite George to this party?” I asked, as gently as I could. We had divided the invitation duties in half; she was supposed to invite Drew’s people, while I did Arch’s. About twenty folks had replied to me; the rest had answered Holly, which was how we’d come up with forty-odd guests, many of whom now stood in Marla’s kitchen looking at each other, openmouthed. Their expressions seemed to be asking: How often do you witness adults acting like spoiled kids, at a kids’ birthday party?
    â€œOh, George is such a wuss,” Holly said. “How could I enjoy myself if he was here?”
    â€œDarling,” said Marla, “it’s not your party.”
    Holly shrugged. Meanwhile, someone had finally told Drew what was going on. He raced past us, calling to his father.
    â€œOh, don’t , Drew,” Holly cried.
    Drew stopped long enough to give his mother a slit-eyed look. “You should have invited him.”
    â€œGod,” said Holly, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “Everybody always blames me when things go wrong.”
    When Tom, the stranger, George, and Lena had disappeared, the timer went off. I called to the parents, who remained rooted in place, directionless. “Everyone who has a dish heating, now is the time to check it. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
    And that, finally, was how we got things going. The parents began talking to each other and pulling their casserole dishes from Marla’s ovens. Arch, who was in charge of leading the kids to the buffet table, knew his cue. Drew, his body slumped in defeat, slouched along behind him. All the rest of the guests—kids and parents alike—offered to get drinks, serving spoons, or whatever was needed. Marla asked that they make sure no one went outside with a china dish or glass bottle. We also needed more plastic cups lined up on her kitchen island. Soon everyone was busy with duties.
    Considering the early fireworks, the party went off . . . well, okay, I suppose. When Tom reentered Marla’s dining room, I cocked an eyebrow at him. He shook his head once, indicating that I’d hear later what had happened. Meanwhile, the