That’s when it hit me. We were Dad’s only family at the wedding. Before I could think about that, Zoey was handing Patrick a list and a pen. “Here’s the guest list. When I call out a name, you check it off.” She began to erase names from the circles (which represented tables) and scribbled in new ones.
It was like a game, actually. We knew that Mona and Ariel couldn’t sit together and that Mickey and his new wife couldn’t sit with either of them, or with Zoey’s mother. Zoey also tried to balance how many men and women sat at each table.
When it was done, Patrick stretched and yawned. “Wow, that was fun,” he said.
Zoey gave him a Look.
Patrick strolled over to one side of the room. Picking up the television remote, he said, “I’m going to take myself out to the ball game. It’s the Giants and the Braves. Would anyone care to join me in the box seats?” He motioned toward the sofa.
Sam jumped up eagerly. Charlie followed more slowly. I was about to join them when Zoey said, “And I’m about to try on my wedding dress. You want to help, Kristy?”
Well, no. I’d rather watch baseball. Zoey didn’t know me very well or she would never have asked the question.
I smiled politely. “Sure,” I said.
As I followed Zoey out of the room, Sam caught my eye and made a goofy face. I stuck my tongue out at him.
It was a nice dress, simple and straight, with a high neck, tight sleeves, and a row of tiny pearly buttons down the back. The fabric was a pale ice-green.
I fished for the right word when Zoey turned to face me, and I came up with it. “Elegant,” I said. “But it’s not white …” I let my voice trail off.
Zoey laughed and looked pleased. “Thank you. No, it’s not white. This is my first wedding, but after watching my father’s fourth wife, Maude, trip down the aisle, dressed all in white ruffles and lace, I just couldn’t do it. It looked ridiculous. I mean, Maude’s not that much older than me, but …” Now her voice trailed off.
I grinned. “It’s your wedding. And you’ll look elegant.”
“Thanks,” Zoey said. “Do you think the hemline is right? Wait, let me put on the shoes that go with it.”
Poor Zoey. She was asking the wrong person for fashion advice, from the length of her hemline to stocking choice to jewelry. But I did my best, mostly agreeing with everything she said. As far as I could tell when we were finished, she hadn’t changed her plans for her outfit one bit, but she thanked me profusely for my help anyway.
I laughed self-consciously. “You’re welcome. But I’m not much of a fashion expert. I guess no one told you. I’m more into sports, that sort of thing.”
Who would have told her? I wondered, even as I spoke. It’s not something Patrick knew about me. In fact, he knew very little about me.
Zoey smiled. “Like your father.”
“Hey, I hope I have better taste in tuxes,” I joked.
Zoey was smoothing the dress into its bag before returning it to the closet. “I just hope our kids like sports,” she said. “Patrick will be crushed if at least one of them isn’t the sports fan he is.”
She turned and saw my face. “Kristy?” she said.
My mind was racing. Kids? Zoey and Patrick were having kids? Somehow, that possibility had never entered my mind. I was totally unprepared.
“Kristy?” said Zoey again. “Are you all right?”
“Did you know the word ‘fan’ comes from ‘fanatic’?” I said. “I’d say that’s true of me and Sam and Charlie. Not David Michael, though. At least, not yet.”
Zoey gave me an odd look.
Why would they have kids? My thoughts raced on. After all, Patrick hadn’t exactly been a model father to the four children he already has — especially David Michael, whom he seemed to have forgotten.
Then my stunned amazement began to turn to anger. If he wanted to have a family, shouldn’t he at least have tried working things out with us first? What were we, the experimental model?
Zoey said, “Well, I’m an Oakland fan myself. But I can cheer for the Giants when I have to. You want to go back out to the box seats?”
I nodded numbly.
“Kristy — your father and I … I hope this is okay with you. I mean, I want us to be a family. Just because Patrick and I want children of our own doesn’t mean that he loves you any less.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Of course not,” I said. “How could he?”
It was a double-edged remark, and Zoey knew it. But before she could say anything, I more or less charged out of the room and back to the ball game. I took a chair a long way from Patrick and sat down. I watched the game without really seeing it.
All of a sudden, I agreed with Charlie. I wanted to leave. Right then.
I felt hurt and sick and angry and disappointed. In fact, I felt just the way I had felt when, as a little kid, I realized that my father had gone forever.
The next day, Friday, Zoey closed the restaurant for the day. She was up early, supervising arrangements for the rehearsal dinner that night. From there, she went with her friend Jessica to meet her mother and grandmother at the train station and take them back to Jessica’s house in Mill Valley, by way of the scenic route. With Charlie driving one car and Patrick driving the other (I rode with Charlie, and Sam rode with Patrick), we went to the airport to pick up Mickey and Maude, and Mona. After a few tense moments, during which everyone smiled a lot and Mickey patted Patrick on the back half a dozen times, we parted ways gratefully. Charlie and I took Mona, who looked an awful lot like Maude, with frosted hair and long-lashed blue eyes. Mona had on lots of perfume. She was wearing a pink pantsuit with a blue scarf that matched her eyes.
Maude was wearing pink and yellow.
I didn’t point out any of the similarities, though. I didn’t think it would be very tactful.
Mona chatted about her flight, the weather, her “good friend” James, who couldn’t make it to the wedding, and what a “sweet girl” Zoey was. She eyed the Casa Madrone critically for a moment when we arrived, then smiled and pronounced it delightful. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I can find my way to the rehearsal dinner. Right now, I’m going to have a beauty sleep and then a manicure.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“You’re sweet children,” Mona declared, then disappeared into the hotel in a cloud of perfume.
The moment Mona was out of the car, Charlie said, “I can’t believe it.”
He wasn’t talking about Mona. He was talking about the news I’d given him that morning, on the ride to the airport, about Zoey and Patrick’s plan to have children.
“I know,” I said.
We arrived home about the same time as Patrick and Sam — just as Zoey was leaving again. She looked harried, but the tense look left her face when Patrick swept her up in his arms and spun her around the deck in a crazy sort of waltz. They stopped at the far end of the deck, their heads close together, and talked intensely for a few minutes. The chemistry between them was so strong that I could almost feel it where I stood by the back door.
Charlie made a noise that sounded like “Humph” and walked into the house, but I stayed a moment longer. Patrick stepped back and danced a little jig, and Zoey laughed. I thought maybe this was one of the reasons she loved him. I could see Zoey was a serious sort of person. Maybe Patrick’s surface approach to life, his desire to laugh rather than to take things hard, balanced her in some way.
But you can’t laugh all the time, I thought. What then?
It made me feel old to think like that. I turned away and went into the house.
And once again, we were alone with our father.
This time, we hadn’t planned a picnic. Charlie picked up the remote and began to flick through the channels. But no baseball game appeared.
“Not wrestling,” I said. “Puh-lease.”
Reluctantly, Charlie turned off the television. “If I were home now, I could be playing baseball.”
“Relax,” said
Sam. “Your place on the team is a lock.” He turned to Patrick. “Charlie’s got an awesome reach. You should see him on first base.”
“I’m impressed,” said Patrick. And he sounded as if he meant it.
“And Kristy coaches a little-kids’ softball team,” Sam went on. “She plays too.”
“Coaching? Not easy, especially little kids,” Patrick said.
“How do you know?” Charlie asked. “You haven’t had much experience around little kids. Have you?”
“Well, no,” said Patrick, refusing to be pulled into an argument. “But sportswriters hear these things.” He winked at me.
I didn’t wink back. I looked down at my feet.
“Sportswriting must be fun,” Sam said.
Sam was so eager, trying so hard. He was doing his best to — what? Butter up Patrick? Smooth things over? Avoid anything hard and unpleasant?
Suddenly, I saw how very similar Sam and Patrick were. It didn’t make me like Sam very much just then, although I realized that was unfair.
Charlie said, “Yeah, sportswriting must be fun. More fun than a family.”
Patrick’s face froze, but to my amazement, he didn’t lose his temper. He went to the kitchen and said, “Anybody want a smoothie?”
“Me,” said Sam.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“No,” said Charlie.
As Sam and Patrick made smoothies, Patrick tried again. “Let’s rehearse for that rehearsal dinner,” he said. “Surprise Zoey. Be super-prepared.”
“You mean, get dressed up for it now?” asked Sam, looking unhappy.
“No,” said Charlie again. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“Yeah, well, I guess it is a little early…. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we play some catch, work up an appetite for tonight’s feast. And it will be a feast, I promise you. I’m not cooking it, but I planned the menu myself.”
“Great idea,” said Sam. “Just like we used to.”
“No,” said Charlie, for the third time.
“Charlie …” Sam began.
“No,” said Charlie.
Sam knew not to push Charlie too hard, especially in his present mood. He turned to me.
“I don’t know,” I said uncomfortably. I wanted to do something, anything. But I didn’t want to seem to take sides.
“I’ve got extra gloves, plenty for everybody,” Patrick said. He was hustling down the hall. “In my closet in the study.”
Charlie went to his room. I hesitated a moment longer. Then I gave in.
Patrick, Sam, and I headed out to the strip of grass on one side of the house.
At first, after every catch, Sam would make some goofy or encouraging comment. But then he seemed to relax a little and I found that I was relaxing too. It was good to be outside on a perfect day, sending the ball through the air, catching it with a solid, satisfying thump.
We tossed the ball around for a while, sliding into an easy rhythm. Then Patrick lifted his leg and caught one of my pitches beneath it. He went into an exaggerated windup and then sent a soft, floating, silly pitch Sam’s way.
Not to be outdone, Sam waved his glove around, shielding his eyes as if he’d lost a towering drive to center field in the sun. When he caught the ball, he fell to the ground in amazement.
I burst out laughing. Sam and Patrick did too. And then we were off, in a game of silly pitches. Sam did an elaborate windup of his own and faked my socks off, pretending to throw a pitch but not actually releasing the ball at all. I didn’t even realize it until I had reached out with my glove.
That prompted Patrick to tell the story of a pitcher who had thrown about a dozen balls to his first baseman, trying to hold a fast runner close to the base so he couldn’t steal. Each time, the runner stepped back on the bag and the first baseman threw the ball back to the pitcher — until the last time.
“The last time, he only pretended to throw the ball back to the pitcher. The runner didn’t realize it. He stepped off the base and the first baseman tagged him out.”
Both Sam and I agreed it was an excellent play, and I made a mental note of it, in case I ever had the chance to use it someday. We tossed the ball and the conversation around some more, and Patrick unrolled stories from his days as a sportswriter. I pitched in with stories of the Krushers, the team I coach.
I suddenly realized that it was sort of like old times, when Patrick had been part of the family. The only difference was that I was older now, and he and Sam didn’t have to be so careful to toss me a ball I could catch. And, of course, Charlie wasn’t there. I pushed the thought of Charlie out of my mind. By the time the afternoon was over, we were pitching as if the gap of more than six years had never existed.
Then it was time to start dressing for the rehearsal dinner.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to get all decked out. I put on khakis and a nice shirt, made sure my hair was combed and there wasn’t any weird stuff stuck between my teeth, and went downstairs. Zoey had already come and gone, Sam told me. “She’s even faster than you are about getting ready,” he said.
Another point in Zoey’s favor, I thought, sitting down on one of the high stools at the counter and picking up part of the newspaper that Sam had spread out there.
Patrick was the next to appear. Like Sam, he was wearing pants, a shirt, and a sports jacket, only his pants were white instead of khaki, and the sports jacket was plaid instead of navy blue. I blinked at the intense tropical colors of the plaid.
“What do you think?” asked Patrick, hooking his thumbs under the lapels. “It’s one of my favorite jackets. I call it my good-luck jacket.”
“Really? Why?” I asked.
He didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t given him my opinion. “Because I almost always got answers to questions when I was wearing it. Makes you stand out in a crowd of sportwriters.”
“Another basic baseball strategy, right?” Sam grinned at Patrick, and Patrick grinned back.
“Right.” Patrick glanced at his watch.
At that moment, Charlie joined us. He stopped when he saw Sam and Patrick, and his hand went to his neck, tugging off his tie. “At least I don’t have to wear a noose tonight,” he said.
Now, I’ve heard Charlie and Sam call neckties nooses — and worse — often.
But Patrick didn’t know that. His face darkened. It was clear that he’d taken Charlie’s innocent comment the wrong way.
“Noose?” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. Before Charlie could respond, Patrick continued. “I’ve had about enough of your negativity, your put-downs, your nasty tone. Can’t you at least, for just a little while, behave like a good son?”
Charlie’s eyes flashed. “Behave like a good son?” he repeated. “Why should I? It’s not as if you ever behaved like a good father.”
“Well, I didn’t have the chance, did I?” Patrick said. “You didn’t exactly try to stay in touch.”
“We didn’t? We were just kids, in case you’ve forgotten!” Charlie shouted. “Half the time we didn’t even know where you were. You were the one who was supposed to be keeping up with us. It’s basic, Patrick, even for fathers who walk out on their families.”
“Hey,” I said.
“You guys,” Sam said.
They ignored us.
“I had to go!” Patrick shouted. “I didn’t have a choice!”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Charlie’s voice lowered into heavy sarcasm.
“You think your mother made it easy? If I had visited, how do you think she would have reacted?”
“You’ll never know, will you? But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’d try to blame Mom for what you did.” I don’t think I’d ever seen Charlie so angry, not Charlie the calm, Charlie the controlled.
“How dare you judge me? You immature, spoiled —” Patrick was shouting at the top of his lungs.
And I suddenly heard myself shouting, “Stop it! Stop it! You leave Charlie alone. How dare you call him
spoiled? When he took care of all of us after you left? When he quit the baseball team so he could come home after school with us? How spoiled is that? Tell me!”
“I can take care of myself, Kristy,” Charlie said.
It was such a big-brother response that I would have laughed at any other time. But I didn’t. I rushed on. “You left us. You left us. You never even said good-bye, or that you were sorry, or anything. You haven’t even bothered to talk to David Michael. And don’t you dare blame Mom.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” Charlie said. “It’s the mature thing to do.”
Patrick seemed to deflate before my eyes. He looked at me and blinked, as if he had seen something he hadn’t expected. Then he closed his mouth around the words he’d been about to fling at Charlie. But I could see he was still tremendously angry.
In the silence, Sam said, “Okay, we’ve had the bench-clearing brawl — a rhubarb, isn’t that what you call it?” He directed this question at Patrick, but Patrick didn’t answer.
Still trying, Sam said, “So now we need to go to the dinner, okay, guys?”
Charlie said, spitting the words out one by one, “I’m not going to the dinner. Why should I go watch someone as nice as Zoey marry a family-ditching loser like our father?”
I wanted to die. I saw the muscles in Patrick’s jaw tighten and the rage blaze in his eyes. But he only said, “Fine.” Then he turned to me. “Coming, Kristy?”
But I couldn’t abandon Charlie. Instinctively, I moved closer to my oldest brother.
Patrick gave me a long look. I met his gaze steadily. Then he shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “Sam,” said Patrick, turning aside and seeming to dismiss Charlie and me from his thoughts, his life.
Sam made an apologetic gesture. “I guess I’ll, uh, stay here.”
Patrick wheeled, picked up the car keys, and walked out of the house to go to the rehearsal dinner.
Alone.
“Go on if you want to. You can still catch him,” Charlie said into the huge, roaring silence Patrick had left behind.