Chapter 22
Jenn
We head to the backyard through the sliding glass door off the kitchen, down the deck stairs, and into what’s basically a
mud pit from the earlier sleet. I’m in my fancy red peacoat with the brass buttons. As we squelch our way across the yard
to the back of the property, with everyone’s phone flashlights scattering beams into the darkness, I force myself to accept
that my heels are pretty much going to be ruined. But there are bigger things at play tonight than shoes.
Phelps is in the lead, carrying two battery-powered camping lanterns, and Bennett’s behind him carrying a yellow crate full
of china plates that Phelps picked up at Goodwill for the sole purpose of destroying. There’s a little wind picking up. It
rustles through the pines at the edge of the backyard.
“Okay, folks, this is where the fun begins,” says Phelps as he positions the lanterns on either side of a battered red-and-blue
kid-size plastic picnic table. He grabs a plate and tries to lean it between the bench seat and the table. Unsurprisingly,
the gap is too big. “Huh,” says Phelps.
“Oh, this is gonna be awesome,” says Ted, who carried the tequila for Phelps and is now pulling shot glasses from his coat
pockets. Nope, I am not touching anything Ted has touched.
“Are those Santa plates?” says Hellie, setting a can of Diet Pepsi down on the table, looking small in her oversized army green puffer coat. “We can’t break Santa!”
“Santa is the original criminal,” says Doug, the only one of us still wearing his party hat. He breaks into a faux-rap. “Stalking
you all year with a belly full of beer, checkin’ to see if you’re naughty or nice, his list is exhaustive and precise, Santa’s
ruthless, and toothless, dude’s old, so cold, living in the North fucking Pole—”
“Oh, my God, you’re right!” says Bunny. “So creepy, when you think about it. Coming down the chimney, right? Breaking and
entering—”
“Landing in the fire,” Doug picks up, “he’s sweltering, sheltering in your house, quiet as a mouse, he’ll grin in the pyre
’cause he ain’t gonna grouse—”
Will beatboxes with his mouth, which he is not very skilled at. Doug goes on for way too many verses. Also, number doesn’t rhyme with fumble. They finish in some kind of rapper pose and laugh. Olivia and Bunny clap. Allie whistles and Hellie hugs Doug from behind.
Phelps is still struggling to figure out how to put the stupid plates on the stupid bench. Children, I swear.
Okay, maybe that was mean. Still. The adulting vibes are not vibing tonight. Then again, have they ever with this group? Will they ever?
“Okay, okay, okay,” says Phelps. “So while I figure out how to line up these plates so we have something to aim at, let me
tell you the rules.” He explains about taking shots if you miss, which, by the way, I am absolutely not participating in,
and it’s not just the Ted germs all over the shot glasses. Drunkenness might appeal to some. Not to me. I’ve seen how it can
destroy a life, and I don’t just mean Doug’s. Why would you ever imbibe a substance that makes you not only act like an idiot
but come back for more? It’s common sense. Also, the fact that we’re all drinking in front of an alcoholic? I think we could
be a little more supportive of Doug.
I hate how recklessness is so applauded in our culture. People are always talking about women who are “controlling,” like it’s a bad thing. A trait of our sex that makes us insufferable. The phrase “loosen up”? I can’t stand it. Loosening up means being out of control. Which is just stupid.
Speaking of stupid, I could easily solve their ridiculous plate problem. Phelps, Bennett, and now Will are all trying to find
a way to set them up. I could solve it in a second, tell them to put the plates on top of the table, into the gap between the plastic boards, but since I have no desire for this game to progress, I don’t.
In fact, in general, just because women can do something, doesn’t mean they should. I know this isn’t exactly a popular view in today’s day and age, but I signed up for a marriage where the man is the leader
of the family. And trust me, I’d love nothing more than to submit. To respect Will and let him be the primary decision-maker.
My insides squeeze into a familiar fist. All I want is to be taken care of. The money Will threw at Phelps, five years ago,
without even consulting me? It took a hit.
All of a sudden, my grocery budget is cut in half.
Oblivious Will even said, “Beans, again?” I’ll never forget it.
Yes, beans again, babe. But the financial pinch was nothing compared to the pain of Will’s clear message to me: You are not my priority.
He might as well have shouted it. Even now, remembering that hurt, it’s nearly as vivid as it used to be. Nearly as sharp.
“Hey,” he said when I finally broke down after the beans comment. “I know it’s tighter than usual, but, babe, you’re strong,
we’ll get through it.” Don’t you get it? I wanted to scream at him. I don’t want to have to be strong! I don’t want my strength to be the reason everyone is allowed to neglect me! But I held it in.
I’ve held a lot of things in.
Will was supposed to get his MBA, not end up as a middle manager forever.
He was supposed to lead us in family devotions, not start doubting God’s very goodness.
He was supposed to dedicate himself to the girls and me, not fritter away our time and money on the pit that is his “friends.” And then, of course, there’s the offense I can’t get over.
The one that embarrasses me to even talk about.
The one that sounds so ridiculous that the elder board at our church, who I shared Will’s behavior with so they could help me, didn’t even take me seriously at first.
“Chilly, isn’t it?” Olivia gives me a little smile. We’ve both hung back as the boys—and now Hellie, she’s always been such
a little tomboy—continue to struggle over their simple problem. Bunny, phone in hand, is now protesting that these plates
sell on eBay for at least fifteen bucks apiece and Phelps is asking her if dildo sales are down this year.
“Muddy too,” I add. I have the sense that Olivia wants to talk to me, maybe? Good, because I want to talk to her too.
Everyone else is totally involved in strong opinions about how best to make the shooting range work, with Ted ramming plates
into the literal mud and intoning, “Return to the soil,” and Phelps making a crass joke about hitting Santa in the nutcracker.
The BB gun has somehow made it into the hands of Doug, the person who out of all of us should really not be handling one . . .
“Don’t you feel like we’re all, um . . . regressing?” I say as some kind of inroad since Olivia is so quiet. I laugh. “Like,
being together makes us all act even more immature?” I don’t mean me, of course, but . . .
“It is strange to be together again,” Olivia muses. “You know? I feel so bad for Doug and Hellie.”
Bad for a drug abuser and the woman too weak to leave him?
“How so?”
“You know. Their second miscarriage this year.”
“Oh . . . that.” Losing babies is something, thank God, I’ve never had to walk through.
“It sounds awful.” I pause. “Though honestly, when Hellie texted Will . . .” I shake my head.
I saw it right away, since I’d confiscated his phone.
In fact, I replied to her, with condolences. She probably assumed it was Will.
“What?” Olivia sounds curious.
I lower my voice. “I mean, between you and me, can you imagine them as parents? I just . . . When I heard they were trying
for their first, I couldn’t help but think, what are they doing? No stability, no money, they can’t possibly have good health
insurance—and what kind of dad would Doug be? I grew up with an alcoholic father, okay? I know something about substance abuse
and how it screws a family up.”
“You don’t think they would’ve made it work?” says Olivia.
I’d like to think she’s naive, but we’re too old for that. She’s being performative, which I have no patience for. She has to agree they would’ve been horrible parents, even if she’s not willing to say it. I guess not everyone
can stomach the truth.
“I’m just saying, if you look at it a certain way, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Can you imagine those poor kids, growing
up with their dad either in rehab or jail?” I shiver, because however bad our situation is, I can’t bear to imagine my own girls in that situation.
“I don’t think Hellie and Doug deserved what happened,” says Olivia.
“And those kids didn’t deserve to be born into that level of dysfunction. Sorry, I know that sounds harsh. I’m just being
real.” Suddenly I realize the plate group has gone silent. My eyes shoot up and, to my surprise, Hellie is looking straight
at us. It seems like their conversation just naturally lapsed for a second, but . . . did she hear us? I hope not. Then again,
maybe she needs to hear the truth. Maybe all these people need a little more truth in their lives, stomach or no.
Noise resumes normal levels.
“Man, you didn’t think this through!” Doug says to Phelps, thumping him on the back, as if it’s a victory for Doug that there’s someone stupider than him.
Ted bends over, giving us a view of his butt in jeans. “We need cardboard. A big piece of cardboard,” he says.
If I was a violent person, I might enjoy shooting Ted in the rear end. His accusation at dinner? Unbelievable. Sure, yes,
I did call him five years ago and ask what it would cost to burn the restaurant down, and if Ted would be willing to do it,
or at least had a connection. Can you blame me? He’s a criminal. It made sense that he would know someone. The truth is, Will was about to make the worst investment of our lives, everyone
knows that most restaurants fail within the first year, and since nothing I said was stopping him . . . In retrospect, of
course, it was a stupid move to call Ted and expect him to keep our conversation in confidence. Not to mention, he absolutely