As Dog Is My Witness (11 page)

“You don’t know any gun experts, do you?” I asked
her.

“No, but you do,” she said. “Justin Fowler. You know
you can ask him anything about guns, and you’ll have a hard time
getting him to stop. He is one of our children, after all.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say it quite like that,” I said.
“Abby gets jealous so easily.”

“Right.”

Abigail hadn’t known exactly when Howard and his
entourage (pardon me,
family
) would be showing up, so I made
enough dinner for four of us, since a) I assumed they’d eat on the
plane, b) I knew the correct proportions for four people, and was
at best questionable as a chef and c) I didn’t really care whether
Howard ate or not.

It occurred to me at this point that it was possible
I wasn’t entering the week-to-come with the proper attitude. I
didn’t really care about that, either, I decided.

But Abby did, and if there’s one thing on this earth
I do care about, it’s her. So I’d have to at least make the best
attempt I could to get along with her brother—right after
dinner.

On a day like today, any excuse to turn on the oven
would do, so I made a meat loaf, which with my level of expertise,
was basically a large, baked hamburger. Put some mashed potatoes on
it, and it’s a Shepherd’s Pie. Just in case, I tossed some potatoes
into a pot with water and put it on the stove. Never let it be said
I didn’t make an effort.

Ethan had long since ascended to PlayStation Heaven
and Leah was in the living room listening to a Harry Potter book on
her Walk-person. We’d borrowed the audiobook from the library,
since Leah liked the way the man reading the book changed his voice
for each character. She was laughing out loud when Warren stood up,
walked to the front door, and started to whimper at the top of his
admittedly low-to-the-ground lungs. The dog can tell when Abby’s
car is two blocks away. I don’t know if it’s the particular sound
of a company-issued Buick or the general Abby-ness of the sound,
but he’s as much in love with her as I am, and someday, I may need
to find a way to shove him aside. That’s all I need—furry, adorable
competition.

I was actually mashing potatoes when the door opened
and Abby walked in, looking expectantly around the room, and
finding only Leah in the thrall of Hogwarts, oblivious to the
Muggle world.

“They’re not here yet,” I told her as she took off
her scarf, coat, gloves, and probably a couple of sweaters until
she started to look more like my wife and less like a land
formation.

“Have they called?”

“Don’t they still charge for making cellular phone
calls from planes?” I countered.

She gave me a look. “That’s not much of an effort,
Aaron,” she warned.

I sighed, something I don’t do very often. Usually, I
groan. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll try harder.”

“I know it’s not easy,” she said, touching my cheek.
“But for me, okay?”

“Oh sure, don’t play fair.”

She went upstairs to change into something more
comfortable— no, really—and came downstairs in a sweatshirt,
sweatpants, and a couple of pairs of socks. In our house, it’s
sometimes hard to remember that we are, in fact, indoors.

As I ladled potatoes atop the meat loaf for oven
browning, she asked, “What’s for dinner?”

I showed her. “Shepherd’s Pie.”

Her brow furrowed a little. “That’s a large hamburger
with mashed potatoes on it.”

“Nigella Lawson doesn’t have to put up with this kind
of abuse,” I reminded her.

“No, but you don’t look as good as she does in a
low-cut blouse,” said my wife.

“I should hope not.”

She took another look at the Corning dish I was about
to put back in the oven. “Are you sure that’s enough?” Abby
asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “It depends on when
Stein, party of three, shows up.”

Abby walked to the refrigerator and began taking out
things to supplement my cooking in case seven people, and not four,
were sitting down to dinner. Luckily, most of the items removed
were of the vegetable family, and therefore officially not my
responsibility. In my house, we respect each other’s limitations.
Abby, of course, doesn’t have any.

In what seemed like mere moments, she had put
together something she called a “frittata,” which any vegetarian
would certainly appreciate. Warning me that “it doesn’t really go
with meat loaf,” she added, “It’s there for backup.”

I thought, “Cool. More meat loaf for us.” When life
hands you lemons . . 

Abby put off dinner as long as she could, but when
the children started to chew on sofa cushions, she had to give in.
And so, we were only halfway through eating when the doorbell rang
and the dog, bless him, began to growl.

My wife leapt to her feet as if an electrical charge
ripped through her shapely little butt. The only times I’ve ever
seen Abby nervous have been when she was dealing with her
family—and when she thought someone was going to kill me.

She practically sprinted to the front door, much to
Leah’s chagrin. Leah always wants to answer the door, and the
phone, except when it’s for her. Abby flung the door open, and
allowed the Angel of Death—pardon me, her brother Howard—into our
home.

I’m pretty sure it was a complete coincidence that a
gust of wind blew into the house and the lights in the living room
flickered.

I stood slowly, since I was deep into comfort food at
the time, and put on my most diplomatic face to confront my
brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and nephew-in-law. Dylan, who had
clearly signed a pact with Satan, was tall and thin, handsome like
his father (who did, after all, share Abigail’s genes), and bore
the confident smile of someone who always,
always
got what
he wanted. I offered a hand to Howard, who is the least Jewish Jew
I’ve ever met, and he took it. He smiled, exposing exactly the
right number of teeth. I considered knocking some of them out, but
was unsure whether I could reach the uppers without a
step-stool.

“How’s it going, Howard?” See how diplomatic I was
being? Keep that in mind if I call you as a witness.

“Aaron,” he said. It didn’t answer the question, but
did indicate he still remembered my name. His tone of voice, no
matter how little he tried to hide it, indicated he’d have been
just as happy—if not happier—if he could forget it.

His wife Andrea is not Jewish, and normally, that
wouldn’t make any difference to me at all, but because she was with
Howard, I had decided to resent her for her poor choice in men. She
was so blond it was painful to look directly at her without
Polarized lenses, and so thin she almost disappeared when viewed in
profile. Surely she had been a cheerleader in high school and a
sorority sister in college—the
shiksa
of Howard’s dreams.
According to rumor, she had managed to make it through childbirth
without breaking a sweat, and was back on the tennis court later
the same day. But since I had started that rumor myself, I
discounted it as coming from an unreliable source.

She leaned down in order to peck at the air near my
left ear. This was an unexpected outpouring of pure emotion for
Andrea, and I took it for the empty gesture it was intended to be.
“So good to see you,” she said. I showed remarkable restraint, I
thought, in not asking whether that remark indicated some trouble
with her vision and her relief that she could make me out.

“You, too,” I said nonsensically. Howard gave Abby a
light hug, and Leah, who would have actually lit sparklers and tap
danced if she thought she’d get some attention, walked up and
solemnly shook Howard’s hand.

“Hello, Uncle Howard,” she said. “Remember me? I’m
Leah.” She had seen Howard at Passover, maybe eight months earlier,
but Leah knows how to play a room. Howard actually smiled. He shook
her hand in the exaggerated way adults think endears them to
children, but is actually condescending, and the kids know it.

“Hi, Leah,” Howard said in a singsong voice that went
nicely with the handshake. “How old are you now?”

“Nine,” she told him with an edge to her voice.
Surely everyone knew she was nine. Leah also started to
surreptitiously cast a glance around the room. No bags. Did this
mean no presents?

“Nine!” exploded my brother-in-law. “You’ve gotten so
big!” Apparently, he was determined to use all the little-kid
clichés in his first five minutes here.

“Where’s Ethan?” asked Andrea. On the way from the
airport, she clearly had studied up on her nephew’s name.

Ethan, of course, was in the kitchen, having seen no
reason to get up from dinner just because everyone else had. He
expected, and quite correctly, that sooner or later this crowd
would wander in to where he was seated, so there was no urgency
about getting up to meet them. Having Asperger’s can have its
advantages.

Abby was also confused about the lack of luggage,
though, unlike Leah, she wasn’t expecting a present. She seemed to
be living out a premonition—after fourteen years of marriage, you
pick up these things.

“Where are your bags, Howard?” she asked.

Howard hit himself in the forehead, exaggerating the
gesture to the point that Bugs Bunny would have been embarrassed.
“That’s right!” he bellowed. “They’re still in the rental car.” He
turned to me—and here, predictably, it came. “My back’s stiff from
the flight. Would you mind, Aaron?” He handed me the little beeper
thing that does everything for a rental car but drive it home for
you.

“Of course not,” I said, taking the key gizmo with
just a little too much force. I shot Abby a glance quite unlike the
usual glance I shoot her, and her eyes asked me to cut Howard some
slack because she and he had emerged from the same womb. It was a
womb to which I owed a great deal, so I smiled badly and headed for
the door.

As I said, when you’re married for fourteen years,
you pick up a lot of things—like your brother-in-law’s baggage.

U
nsurprisingly, Howard and
his family (for lack of a more descriptive term) had
not
eaten dinner, and, without having made a reservation or anything,
expected us to feed them. Honestly!

It took about ten minutes to clear everything off the
kitchen table (I did that), apologize for not being prepared to eat
in the dining room (that was Abby), put in the extra table leaf (me
again), put everything back on the table (me and Abby), set out
plates, utensils, and glasses for the newcomers (Leah), and
complain about the interruption to dinner (Ethan).

The Steins, Abigail excepted, turned up their noses
at the Shepherd’s Pie, apparently never having been shepherds, and
opted for Abby’s contribution to dinner, which demonstrated their
good taste. Conversation was generally about the flight, which
apparently had been awful, since they’d already seen the movie, and
all family members couldn’t have aisle seats.

If Ethan noticed the sly shots Dylan was taking at
him throughout the meal, he didn’t react. And since Ethan reacts to
things that aren’t even there, I have to assume he didn’t notice.
But I did, and it took some self-restraint not to inform my nephew
that taking unnecessary shots at my son was my job, not his. Abby
noticed, too, but uncharacteristically for her, let the snide
comments go unchallenged.

Leah, life of the party, did her very best to keep
everything on a cheerful level, but wasn’t all that interested in
the Tale of the Travelers from Minnesota, particularly since it
was, in my estimation, the Dullest Story Ever Told. She asked to be
excused shortly after we resumed dinner, and was permitted to go
into the living room and listen to some more of her book.

By the time Ethan went up to his room for additional
thumb exercise, and Dylan, rolling his eyes at the low-tech level
of video game systems around here, reluctantly followed, dinner was
pretty much a thing of the past. But we adults, fighting our
natural impulses, decided to sit at the table a while longer and
pretend to have a civil conversation.

As soon as the boys had gone upstairs, out of
earshot, Andrea put on her best “concerned” look and stared into my
eyes. “So,” she intoned with great import, “how is Ethan doing?” I
think she would have actually taken my hand to show her concern,
but that would require touching another person, and such a thing
isn’t imprinted on Andrea’s DNA. On nights when I’m despairing of
life in general, I ponder how Dylan came to be without his mother
ever having to touch another human.

“He’s doing fine,” I said breezily. “How’s Dylan
doing?”

“Dylan is a winner,” his father bombasted. “Top five
in his class, captain of the soccer team . . . 

But that wasn’t the way Andrea wanted the
conversation to go. “No, really,” she said, her voice exhibiting
such concern I wondered if she was auditioning to take over for
Sally Struthers on “send-money-for-the-children” infomercials. “How
is Ethan doing,
really
?”