Ducking the Issue

The kids were jumping around in the living room in front of the TV arguing about what to put on. The Shapiro children did not watch live television. Everything was TIVOed for them, the resolution of a family discussion involving morals and who was the boss.

Brenda was the boss. At home and at school. She knew how to be the boss. Jason didn’t. He was too inclined to give in.

Brenda was in the kitchen whipping up an organic dinner for the kids. She was happy in the kitchen. She claimed it was the best place to relax after school. Jason was happy, too. They were planning on an evening at home, with what Brenda called a French supper, after the kids were asleep. A French supper was bread, cheese and wine, upstairs in bed, where they did not have a TV, only each other.

The doorbell rang. Jason put down the paper, stretched himself up off the couch and went to answer, calling back over his shoulder, “Honey, you expecting anybody?”

“No-o,” came the sing-song.

Jason opened the door. Standing on the threshold was… just exactly what the hell was it? A clown. Big red and white face with tufted yellow hair, big red nose he immediately wanted to pinch, and not in a friendly way. Jason liked most things, but he did not like clowns. Ask his mother. He’d been terrified by one at a local circus, and very unlike him, had cried for a week whenever he saw anything faintly resembling one. Like his Aunt Ida, all dressed up in a polka-dot dress, wearing very red lipstick.

He was a grown-up now, able to control himself.

“Brenda!” he screamed.

A pan crashed in the kitchen and she was standing beside him. He was no longer in danger of crying. Mommy was here.

With the scream, the clown had taken a step back. But she was used to this. Nobody really liked it when a clown appeared at their door, but everybody knew they had to pretend to be overjoyed. These people would soon shape up.

Brenda elbowed Jason out of the way.

She said, simply, “Ye-es?” in that teachery way that lets you know you’re doing something wrong, but almighty God here is going to forgive you if you just get on with it and state your business.

The clown produced, from behind its back, a huge bouquet of white roses and handed them to Brenda.

“Oh,” she gasped, taking them and clutching them to her chest.

Sucker, thought Jason. And sure enough, Brenda was now smiling at the clown. Or at the flowers, but what difference did it make? She was smiling.

The clown produced another gift. A big purple envelope. Flowers, purple, this guy knew all the tricks. Brenda, her arms full of roses, freed one hand in order to grasp - not the envelope, he knew, but the purple. Her other hand, ringing around the roses, helped her open it.

She read, out loud:

Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Wagman invite Mr. and Mrs. Jason Shapiro to a private dinner at The Orange Duck at 8:00 tonight. A limousine will arrive at 7:45. Miss Dotty, a certified Early Childhood and licensed English teacher, will care for and entertain the children.

Brenda looked up at him. Her face was aglow, her mouth open in joy.

“Surely you’re not going,” he more asked then said, but his stomach was sinking fast.

“Ohmigod, what will I wear?”

She hadn’t even heard him.

They’re getting dressed. The kids are downstairs with Dotty the Clown, who must be pretty good. Zeke is squealing, and he’s not an easy sell. Sheba is a little too old for this. But then he hears a shriek, and knows the clown has hit home with her, too.

“Why are you wearing black lace underwear?” he asks.

“Oh, I already had this on for the French supper,” she says heartlessly.

Driving along in the limousine, he recites, as if making normal conversation, “Man sends you flowers, sends a car to pick you up. That makes you kind of a high-class call girl, doesn’t it?” He raises one eyebrow in her direction.

She laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. His wife is going to be there.” She puts her hand on his, as if he needs comforting.

“You’re not going to do it, are you? You’re not going to throw yourself in with that tawdry crowd are you?”

No, of course she wasn’t. But she didn’t want to insult her boss. When people go to so much trouble, you don’t just say “No thank you.” You let them have their fun. Besides, when was the last time they had been to The Orange Duck? It was before Sheba was born.

That was low. She was the one who had cut out fancy restaurants to pay for having children. He had been more inclined toward fewer haircuts for both of them and cheaper clothing. Maybe a little less charitable giving. He didn’t exactly consider NOW a legitimate charity.

He looked her over while she lay back in a state of exultant expectation, in a tight black dress with a square-cut neckline - where did that come from? He’d never seen it. And yes, the cleavage. Where the hell did that come from? She didn’t have it in bed; it must be built into the bra.

The Orange Duck was a pseudo-French restaurant with more atmosphere than France. It was dark and cave-like. Candle flames danced in niches on the wall. A majordomo at the door took their names and led them, weaving between tables, all the way to the back of the cave.

There, ensconced like a king on a throne, was their host, and next to him their hostess, the famously nutty Nina Wagman, who talked to spirits and wrote articles for the local paper on what she called “the other world,” inhabited by a set of people exactly like us, only different; they were good and we were bad. Jason had seen her many times at school events, and had managed, in all these years, never to have a conversation with her.

Wagman stood to welcome them. He reached out a big, beefy hand to Jason, gave him two manly shakes and then wrapped his arms around Brenda. She disappeared into his chest, the top of her head just visible.

Nina stayed seated and offered a tiny, fragile hand as he approached. He took it, taking care not to crush anything, but instead of shaking it, he squeezed it gently. She squeezed back. Fellow victims. Everybody knew that Wagman’s wife hated politics, and had tried to keep him out of it, but failed.

Meanwhile, Wagman had flourished Brenda into the seat next to him, and had produced a gigantic wine menu. The two began ooh-ing and ahh-in in French. Words bubbled out of them. He was sure neither understood what the other was saying. They were pointing at the selections, and apparently Brenda approved his choice. They both nodded knowingly. Wagman put down the menu and sent the confidential Clintonesque grin across to Jason. “Well, that’s settled,” he congratulated himself. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”

He was a good raconteur, like his look-alike, and by the time they’d finished the first bottle of wine – smooth and white, he never did catch the name – they had heard and laughed at the faux pas of a dozen of his friends and relatives.

Brenda offered up her cousin Iona who, at the age of forty, had been taken by a con-man and his six-year-old accomplice, robbed of her life savings, and left standing at the altar wearing a six-foot train.

Jason sacrificed his college room mate, for the umpteenth time, and made him once more discover he’d unknowingly been dating his professor’s daughter, who was living in the dorms under her mother’s maiden name so as to attract neither reward nor punishment on account of her illustrious father. Problem was, she’d been writing his papers. Mega problem: she was cribbing them from Daddy’s notes.

Nina told a story about a man on Planet X who, when faced with the same dilemma as the identical man on earth, solved it in an ethical fashion by giving everything he owned to the victim of his son’s misadventure (he’d injured someone while driving drunk) rather than to his son’s attorney.

Jason wasn’t so sure about the ethicality of deserting your own flesh and blood in time of need, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he had another slice of the delicious crusty bread dipped in a spread steeped in garlic.

A second bottle of wine arrived. Everybody fell to their appetizers. The two Frenchies had snails. He had salmon with capers and onions, and Nina had artichokes in butter. Except for gushes of appreciation, they didn’t speak.

Jason was feeling very cozy in this cave. Mitch Wagman knew how to throw a party, and so did The Orange Duck.

The entrees arrived: duck a l’orange for Brenda (who’d had it for dinner seven nights in a row on their trip to France), a bloody steak with a mushroom-butter sauce for the big guy, the vegetarian platter for Madame, and coq au vin for Jason, his answer to his wife’s duck. The third bottle of wine appeared.

The conversation became quieter, more intimate, as Mitch – not such a bad guy, after all – and Brenda talked about school, and he and Nina got together on the subject of kids. She brought it up. “I have a crazy son. He lies all the time.”

They swapped stories, drank wine, lost themselves in their delicious dishes, came back to the stories. Jason was quite surprised and a little saddened to find the evening coming to a close over coffee, crème brûlée for the men, and chocolate mousse for the ladies.

He vaguely remembered some threat from earlier in the evening, but it was gone now. A haze of camaraderie enveloped him.

Bill – no, it wasn’t really Bill – he had to remember that – was saying something to him. For the first time since the handshake, his big face was in his, demanding attention.

Wagman smiled. “It’s all settled then,” he said, pumping his hand again. “The little woman is running for Congress.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” His wife is suddenly there at his side. They haven’t spoken all evening.

Did he hear right? She’s running for Congress? No, of course not. His head was fuzzy. He remembered now - her boss wanted her to run for dog catcher or something. Some piddling little job that would take all her time and take her away from him.

Congress! Wasn’t that in Washington?

What the hell… But there was no time to talk, the talking was over. They were hustling out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. Wagman had hold of Nina’s arm and was pulling her toward their car. Brenda was walking, alone, to their waiting limo. He was the only who thought there was something to talk about.