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“I have to change my clothes. I’m going to Mrs. Poletti’s viewing after dinner, and I can’t go in jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Why not?”
“It would be disrespectful. And my mother would hear about it, and she’d yell at me and get out the ironing. She irons when she’s upset. You want to stay away from her when she’s ironing.”
“If you ask me, your whole family is goofy.”
“I like to think we’re normally dysfunctional.”
I set Briggs in front of the television, then changed into a tailored black suit and a stretchy white tanktop with a scoop neck. I stuffed my feet into black heels, brushed my hair out and pulled it up into a new ponytail, added an extra swipe of mascara to my lashes, and I was good to go.
“Well, la-di-da,” Briggs said when he saw me. “Look at you all dressed up. If Poletti comes after me, you can spear him with the heel on your shoe.”
NINE
GRANDMA WAS WEARING shocking pink lipstick, a shocking pink dress, and white tennis shoes.
“You’re right on time,” she said, opening the front door and motioning us inside. “We’re having beer with the meal, but you could have a snort now if you need it.”
“Sounds good,” Briggs said. “I wouldn’t mind a cocktail. What have you got?”
“We got whiskey,” Grandma said. “I could fancy it up with ice, or you could take it like a man.”
“Whatever,” Briggs said.
Grandma ran off to get the whiskey, and I wandered into the living room with Briggs. My father was in his chair, watching television and doing the Jumble.
“Oh jeez,” he said when he looked up and saw Briggs. “You again.”
“It’s always a delight to see you, sir,” Briggs said.
“Boy, you really want that chocolate cake bad,” I said to Briggs.
“Fuckin’ A,” Briggs said.
Grandma trotted in with a tumbler of whiskey for Briggs. Briggs looked at the glass, looked at my father, and belted back half the whiskey. He gasped, and choked, and his eyes watered.
“Good,” Briggs said. “Smooth.”
Grandma and I helped my mother get the food to the table, and we all took our seats.
“God bless,” my father said, offloading half a cow onto his plate. He added a mound of mashed potatoes and four green beans, then poured gravy over everything. My father never got the memo about red meat, colonoscopies, or heart disease. His philosophy was that if you never went to the doctor, you never found out there was something wrong with you. So far it was working for him.
“This is delicious,” Briggs said to my mother, taking the pot roast for a test drive. “How do you get the gravy to look black like this?”
“She burns the meat,” Grandma said. “That’s the secret to good gravy. It’s got to be full of them carcinogens.”
Briggs gulped down the rest of his whiskey, looked at me, and mouthed “Help.”
“Just keep thinking about the cake,” I told him.
“This is going to be a real good viewing,” Grandma said. “There’s going to be lots of people there. We have to go early to get a good seat up front.”
My father kept his head down, working on his pot roast. And Briggs scraped the gravy off his potatoes.
“I hear they had to scramble to get a good casket for poor Mrs. Poletti,” Grand
ma said. “Nobody made arrangements ahead of time. Can you imagine? I got my casket all picked out. I’ve got it on the layaway plan. It’s a beauty. It’s got a white silk lining and everything.”
