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“That’s not an acceptable thing to say,” Valerie said. “‘Stinky’ is a hurtful adjective.”
“Well, she don’t smell like roses,” Grandma said. “I’m pretty sure she’s stinky.”
My father was already at his seat at the head of the table. “Where’s my ham? It’s after six.”
Albert Kloughn, Valerie’s husband and the father of two of her four kids, came in last with his arms filled with presents and the diaper bag slung over his shoulder. Kloughn is my height, has thinning sandy-colored hair, a face like a cherub, and a body like the Pillsbury Doughboy. He’s sweet but clueless. This is an especially bad combination for him, since he’s a lawyer.
My sister Valerie was the perfect child all through school. Her long hair was sleek and blond. Her grades were excellent. She was never caught smoking or sneaking out her bedroom window. And she actually liked to attend mass. I was the problem child. I broke my arm trying to fly off the garage roof, smoked my first and last joint at Girl Scout camp, and I could see no point in learning to multiply and divide when I had a calculator that did it for me.
Valerie’s hair is still sleek and blond, and so far, no one’s caught her smoking. Her perfection was slightly marred when she divorced her philandering first husband, but she’s still one up on me because she’s remarried now, and has given my mother grandchildren. The closest I come to grandchildren for my mother is a hamster.
Grandma took Lisa to the bathroom for cleanup, and everyone else worked at squeezing themselves around the table. I helped my mother bring the food out. Virginia-baked ham, red gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, applesauce, and macaroni salad.
Angie took a small portion of everything, and Mary Alice sat with her arms crossed over her chest. “There’s no hay,” she said.
“What am I supposed to eat? Horses eat hay.”
“You’re not a horse,” Grandma said, sitting Lisa in the high chair. “Have some ham.”
“I don’t like ham,” Mary Alice said. “I like hay.”
Grandma looked at Valerie. “Are you feeding this child hay?”
“Of course not,” Valerie said. “She has a wonderful imagination.”
“Well, she better imagine she likes ham or she’s not getting birthday cake,” Grandma said.
“Albert and I don’t threaten the children with punishment when they’re simply expressing their preferences,” Valerie said. “We try to show them alternative solutions.” Valerie turned to Mary Alice. “You could pretend that the ham is hay. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Mary Alice kept her arms crossed and looked at Valerie like she had corn growing out of her ears.
My father had ham and potatoes and macaroni piled on his plate. “Gravy!” he said.
Morelli passed the gravy, and my mother joined us at the table. She had a tumbler of dark amber liquid that she passed off as iced tea, but we all knew was whiskey. She was in survival mode.
Lisa had been given mashed potatoes, small pieces of ham, and applesauce. She dumped it all onto her high chair tray and smeared it around. She threw her spoon across the table, and mashed a handful of glop into her hair.
Valerie smiled serenely at Lisa, and it occurred to me that Valerie’s mood might be helped along by some form of controlled substance now that she was no longer breastfeeding.
Morelli had his arm draped across the back of my chair. He was calmly sipping wine and smiling. This was low stress for him. His family was even crazier than mine. His brother has been divorced twice and married three times. All to the same woman. They have so many kids I lost count. And that’s just the tip of the Morelli family iceberg. His Grandma Bella dresses in black like she’s an extra in a Sicilian mob movie, and she gives people the eye. If you annoy her you run the risk of getting boils and having your hair fall out. Stan Malinowski said Bella gave him the eye, and he had penis shrinkage.
Kloughn was wearing his lawyer uniform of chinos, a wrinkled white dress shirt, and a red and blue striped tie. He poured red gravy over his ham and potatoes, leaned across the table to get the salt, and the tip of his tie dragged across the gravy. He dabbed at his tie with his napkin.
“No problem,” Kloughn said. “Valerie buys my ties on the cheap off the Internet, don’t you, cuddleumpkins? They look just like real ties except they’re made in China and you don’t want to get too close to a flame.”
My mother slurped down iced tea, and Valerie poured herself a glass of wine. My father had his head down, shoveling in ham.
“What’s going on with the shoe snatcher?” Grandma asked Morelli. “Any new developments?”
“No new developments,” Morelli said.
“Are you talking about the deli manager disappearances?” Kloughn asked. “Do you know what people are saying? They’re saying it’s aliens.”
“That’s what I figured!” Grandma said. “They’re beaming up managers. Probably need them for some intergalactic resort.”
“I never met the man who owns the deli,” Kloughn said, “but I represented his Aunt Sissy in a lawsuit. If you ask me the whole family is screwy.”
“Did you win the case?” Grandma asked.
