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“I’m not a cat person. I love dogs. Normal dogs who aren’t annoying and disgusting.”
“I’ll have you know Cavalier King Charles spaniels are a highly desirable breed.”
“Yeah, sure they are,” he says.
“Don’t worry. Shelby’s mostly deaf, but she’s not blind or stupid. I’m sure she’ll start avoiding you soon enough.”
“Good, because I’m kicking her to the carpet from now on, I don’t care how old she is.”
“Yes, let’s pick on the old and infirmed,” I say, glaring at him. In his wheelchair.
Julian’s face clouds over, and suddenly, I feel slightly guilty.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Estella says. “Let’s just try to survive lunch, all right? Julian, we’ll do our best to keep the dog out of your room.”
Julian turns his back on both of us and heads for the door. “Good.”
Chapter Eight
The one night a week we have dinner as a family at home is always Tuesday, because on Tuesdays the restaurant is closed. Now, Estella is a lovely person in many ways. I’m pretty much glad Dad married her. He seems very happy with her. But the woman can’t cook. And living with a French chef husband and his chef-trainee daughter, this can make for some pretty amusing meals.
Me, I’m cool with eating just about anything. I mean, I like good food but I’m not a picky eater. I’m fine with normal stuff. Dad, though, is extremely picky. Like, if there’s a grill mark that’s a bit too dark on the meat he won’t touch it. If the crust is cut off the sandwich but a tiny bit remains, he’ll have to cut that bit off as well or he won’t eat it. And Dad is not only ridiculously selective about food, he’s also snooty about it. He only buys and brings home the freshest and best ingredients. Estella, on the other hand, is fine with bottled salad dressing and mayonnaise from a jar, for example. She thinks it’s kind of silly to bother making things like that from scratch.
Oh yeah, one last thing noteworthy about all this: Dad’s an utter power monger and it takes an unparalleled degree of restraint for him not to “help” Estella with dinner. When he does, he takes over. And Estella insists she can do it herself. So, sorry, this is mean of me, but when she pulls her tuna casserole out and I notice it has a topping of crunched-up potato chips on it, I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. Not at the food—damn, it’s probably the best-looking thing I’ve seen her make. No, I’m laughing because Dad hasn’t come downstairs and seen this yet.
Estella’s made tuna casserole, I text Taryn. Dad will DIE.
IF HE PASSES OUT, she texts back, I VOLUNTEER TO GIVE MOUTH-TO-MOUTH.
Yes, she thinks Dad’s hot. She thinks everyone’s hot.
Gag! I text back. Ugh. Major gag.
WHERE’S HOT WAR VET?
Here he comes now. Should I tell him you say hi?
THAT DEPENDS. IS HE COMING OR IS HE...coming?
I force myself not to imagine this. Then I text back:
Hmm... I’ll ask ;)
WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL?? she replies.
I blush and fight not to smile.
Julian wheels in while I’m still bright-faced. He’s in a Semper Fi T-shirt and cutoff sweats. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I hide the phone. “Nothing, just happened to see your face there.”
“Ha, ha. So amusing.”
Estella’s made a salad—a bagged salad with iceberg lettuce, the kind Dad has repeatedly told her he dislikes. “Are you and Dad having a fight?”
“No,” she says, plunking down ranch dressing—in a bottle—which he also can’t stand and has kind of an irrational campaign against. “Why?”
I look at Julian. This is our first Tuesday dinner together, so he has no idea what my problem is. Sorry, but this is too funny.
The thing that’s not funny at all is Estella must know where this is headed. Is it a test? Maybe I should warn Dad before he comes down. I mean, if they’re in a fight, I’m supposed to be on Dad’s team, aren’t I?
Suddenly the doorbell rings. “Are we expecting company?” I ask with a frown.
“Yes, it’s Brandon.” Estella hurries to answer it.
Brandon has his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but he’s a big guy, like maybe six foot two, and he’s built like a linebacker. He’s also super-cool.
“Hi, Bran!” I say.
“Hi, kiddo. Where’s Jules?”
Estella moves out of her son’s line of vision. “Here he is.”
“Hey, you rebel.” Brandon gives Julian a light shoulder punch. “So you broke out and left early?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck them, eh?”
“Something like that. Where’s your wife?” Julian asks, clearly wanting a subject change.
“Had to work late. What’s cooking, Ma?”
They head into the kitchen.
“Tuna casserole,” Estella tells them. “You two used to love it.”
“What do you mean, used to?” says Brandon. “Get me a fork.”
“Let me serve it first.”
“I’ll just check it.”
“Wait ’til it’s cooled off at least,” she chides.
Okay, the dish is a family favorite. Yeah, I have to forewarn Dad not to be too snooty about it. “Excuse me a minute,” I say. I run into him halfway up the stairs.
“What’s your hurry?”
“Dad,” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Brandon’s here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And Estella’s made tuna casserole.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Tuna what?”
“Casserole. It’s Brandon and Julian’s favorite dinner from when they were little. They think the recipe’s perfect and doesn’t need fixing or improving.”
“Right,” he says with a slight wince.
We head back down together, and I see Estella serving up a huge square of casserole and plating it. I think it’s going to be for Brandon or Julian—but she passes the plate to Dad. Dad’s eyes get wide for a fraction of a second. “Wow. Looks good.”
“Thanks.” She serves even bigger squares to her son and nephew, and a pretty big one to me.
Actually, I can see why Brandon and Julian like this. She uses cream of mushroom soup, and the good tuna and frozen peas and chopped mushrooms. The potato chip crust is pretty damned fine. Better than breadcrumbs would be. This dish is fun.
“This is good, Estella,” I say.
“Yeah, delicious as usual, Ma.”
“Yeah, thanks,” says Julian softly.
“Sure, thank you for thanking me.” She seems happy. Then she spots Dad. Who, unfortunately, is picking at the ingredients with the tines of his fork and probably hoping the whole plate will somehow manage to vaporize into thin air when Estella’s not looking.
Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.
Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.
Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.
“Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”
“Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”
“Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”
Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”
Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”
“You played what?” Dad asks.
“Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”
“What’s an ante brachium?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Wonderful.” Dad frowns.
“It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”
I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”
“Lumbar then,” he says.
“Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”
“This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.
“Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”
“You made a pledge?” Estella asks.
“Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”
This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.
Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.
“It was just one day of fun,” she chides.
I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”
He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”
“Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”
“I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”
“She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”
“Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”
Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.
Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.
“Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.
Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.
Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.
