“We’re doing well,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
“So you’re feisty too. You’ll need to be. Oh dear, am I being the bad fairy at the wedding? I do like him, still. But I think he’s a task for younger strengths.”
“He always speaks well of you.”
“Aren’t you sweet to say so.” She looked over again. “I think he’s nerved himself up to face the music. If you’ll excuse me, I need to congratulate the belle of the ball.”
He shouldered himself between a young man with a tattooed neck and a drag queen with a lorgnette and handed me a glass of white wine, some of which had spilled onto his wrist. “How was that?” he said.
“It was fine. She doesn’t seem to bear you any ill will.”
“Well, good,” he said. “I hope that doesn’t mean her memory’s going.”
“She reminded me of you. The way she talks.”
“I suppose. We were together twenty-eight years. Twenty-seven.”
“Was she the love of your life?” I said.
“Life is long,” he said. “As you’ll see.”
—
The tree outside my window had leafed out when the daughter flew east to stay with her mother for a few days, then took the train up to spend a night and, presumably, to check out the new wife. I went with him to the station; probably I should have let them have time alone, but I wanted to be welcoming and he seemed grateful for a buffer. She was waiting outside with her bag: a slender girl, tall like her father, pale, with glaring red lipstick and straight black hair, a leotard under her long skirt. His truck had one of those extended cabs, and she insisted on climbing into the cramped seat in the back, sitting sideways, knees up, with her high-tops on the cushion.
“You’re older than I thought,” she said to me.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m making conversation.”
“You used to be a little more adept at it than that,” her father said.
“Well, we’re not so civilized out in Portland. It’s like, PBR and the Ducks.”
“Is that a rock band?” he said.
“Are you trying to be funny?” she said. “PBR?”
“Your father says you play in a band,” I said.
“I’m a fucking waitress.”
“For now,” he said to me. “But her band has been—”
“It’s not a band,” she said.
“I thought you didn’t like ‘ensemble,’ ” he said.
“Can I try?” I looked back at her. “Listen, you don’t want a stepmother and I don’t want to be one. Maybe you and I can just—”
“Yeah, okay,” she said. “Can we go back to generalities?”
“So how’s Madeleine?” her father said.
“Queer,” she said. “What else does anybody care about?”
“Okeydokey.” Her father nodded at me. “You want to have another go?”
“No thanks,” I said. “But I like her anyway. Anybody this angry has to have a heart of gold.”
“Sorry I was pissy,” she said when we pulled into the driveway. “This is just a little weird, being back here. Did you change shit around?”
“I don’t think you’ll see much difference.” He got out, pulled the seat forward for her and took her bag.
“I don’t know, I kind of wish you had. You need to trim the hedge.” She got out and looked at me. “I bet you trim yours.”
“I thought you weren’t going to be pissy,” he said.
“I do, actually,” I said. “If we’re talking about lady business. Do you?”
“Okay, I need to stop,” she said. “I guess I can see why you guys liked each other. Can we go in and get this over with?”
When she went upstairs, he patted my ass. “Sorry about the trial by ordeal. You’re doing fine.”
“What did you do with all my shit?” she yelled down.
He went to the foot of the stairs. “You took it to New York,” he called. “There’s some of your stuff in the closet.”
“Yeah, isn’t that appropriate,” she yelled.
“Give me patience.” He shook his head. “Why on earth she needs to make me the bad guy…”
“Because she thinks she’s a bad girl?”
“Even I know that much,” he said. “I’d hoped Madeleine would’ve gotten her over this.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to get over it.”
“She’s twenty-five, for Christ’s sake. Why is she still being so teenager-y?”
I said, “You love her.”
“Where do you get these insights,” he said.
I heard the door shut upstairs, and she came stomping down. “I knew you had this.” She held up a pink plastic-bound diary with a little gold padlock. “This is when I was eight. Did you and Mom read it?”
“Avidly,” he said. “Your mother was going to set it to music. What is it, your memoirs?”
“I couldn’t find the key,” she said. “Do you have anything to cut this?”
“I’ll look in my toolbox,” he said. “As I recall, it could use a little cutting.”
“How do you deal with him?” she said to me.
“We’ll talk,” I said.
That night he stuck to wine after dinner, but he’d been up since six and a couple of times I saw his eyes shut and then come open again. Finally he looked at his watch, braced a hand on the coffee table and got to his feet. “You gals probably want to have a little hen party,” he said. “So if you’ll excuse me.” After he’d gone upstairs, I opened another bottle of red and she and I sat cross-legged on opposite ends of the sofa.
“So how is this for you?” I said.
“Better than I thought, to be honest. I mean, you seem to be good for him.”
“I hope to be.”
“Yeah, everybody hopes to be. Even him, I guess. Look, I don’t mean anything against Dad, okay? I just don’t feel like I ever knew him all that well.”
“But you were away at school, right? For part of the time?”
“Yeah, whose idea was that?” She pointed a thumb at the ceiling. “I don’t know, sorry, I feel like I’m planting the seed or something. Isn’t that what the stepdaughter always does? This must be weird for you too. Like which of us is the third wheel.”
“Maybe all of us,” I said.
“Right, what a concept. Like a tricycle. Or like tricyclics. I can’t believe I was so rude to you.”
“You were funny, actually.”
“So are you okay? Being with him? Not to be rude again, but he seems pretty old for you.”
“We do fine,” I said. “You’re not asking me to be graphic, right?”
She put down her glass, stuck her fingers in her ears and went La la la la la.
“Are you happy with your person?” I said.
“You don’t have to be such a priss,” she said. “Yeah, she’s great.”
“That’s what your father says.”
“Sure, because he’s hot for her—you know, I mean he was. I thought.” That pale skin made her blush easily. “Can I have just about that much more?”
“You don’t have to be a priss either.” I poured her another half glass, then more for myself. “People can be hot for more than one person.”
“Yeah, tell me.” She drank off what I’d just poured and held her glass up again. “So what were we talking about?”
“I’ve lost track,” I said, picking up the bottle.
“Okay, I think I’m boring you.” She put her hand over the glass. “I probably need to get to bed.”