though, the peacemaker. I hurt a little bit for Aunt Maggie, but not much, because she was doing exactly what Joanna had predicted she would do: saying bad things about our father.
“You must bring out the family photograph albums,” said Annette. “I'd love to see Charlie like that.”
“In all his teenage splendor,” said Aunt Maggie grimly. It didn't sound as if she meant splendor; it sounded as if she meant dung-streaked horse blankets. “Brett thinks Charlie issomebody to admire!” Aunt Maggie burst out. “He thinks Charlie is somebody special! After all the hard work bringing my children up right, my own son turned out like Charlie!”
I opened my mouth to say a thing or two, but Annette shook her head very gently, and I let it go.
“I have to give this stupid party!” Aunt Maggie said, tossing dishes into the dishwasher like a woman who wants all-new china. Or a woman who would like to break her plates over her brother's head. “I had such fun planning this, and thinking about it, and getting every detail just right, and every single guest is going to know that my own son doesn't want to live with me and my own brother can't be bothered to show up.” She slammed the door of the dishwasher and stormed out of the room.
There was silence.
Grandma stared into her coffee cup. Carolyn clung to her orange juice glass. Annette played with her sunglasses, horrid misshapen yellow things that are supposed to be fashionably retro but only make her look like a serial killer. I said, “We'll have to start calling Aunt Maggie Big Joanna. Absolutely identical temper tantrums.”
Annette nodded. She could see the truth in that.
Carolyn wanted details, and my stepmother and I took turns telling about Joanna's temper, and then Grandma said, “Perhaps, darling, you should telephone Joanna and get the details of her plane flight. If indeed she hasn't left already.
Think of the temper tantrum she might have if she is sitting in the airport waiting to be picked up while we are sleeping in from the rigors of an unsuccessful surprise party.”
It was ten A.M. in Barrington. It would be five P.M. in Paris.
My stepmother handed me her cell phone, and she and Carolyn and Grandma watched. I'd have to call Joanna right there, in front of everybody, and what if Mother or Jean-Paul answered? “I forget the number,” I said.
“Your mother's phone number?” said Carolyn incredulously.
“Because she doesn't ever dial it, of course,” said Annette, rescuing me. “It's in her phone's address memory,” she lied, “but this is my phone. It's listed in my phone address book, Shelley.”
Carolyn leaned forward eagerly to be part of the conversation.
“You'll want privacy, Shelley,” Annette added. “Phone from Carolyn's bedroom.”
Stepmother. It's not such a bad word after all, I thought. A mother, except a step below. I didn't want Annette to go back to work. I wanted her to stay with Angus and me, and be in Vermont, and forget Granger Elliott, and take us bagel-hunting in major cities.
I poked at Annette's phone. I could not believe that once in her entire acquaintance with Daddy she had ever even thought about calling my mother. I felt sure she would bungee jump without the cord before she would telephonemy mother. But here was the number, neatly stored. For emergencies, I thought. Because in the end, Annette is not going to let me down. My real mother will let me down and go live across an ocean, and my real father will let me down, bailing out on important events, setting terrible examples and failing to support or acknowledge sons from previous marriages—but my stepmother will do the right thing.
This was so depressing I didn't care if I had to speak to Mother or Jean-Paul after all, and when it was Joanna who answered the phone, I wasn't even relieved. I was just irked that I had to deal with any of this. “Oh, hi, Jo,” I said grumpily.
“Shelley!” cried my sister. “I was postponing calling you
“You must bring out the family photograph albums,” said Annette. “I'd love to see Charlie like that.”
“In all his teenage splendor,” said Aunt Maggie grimly. It didn't sound as if she meant splendor; it sounded as if she meant dung-streaked horse blankets. “Brett thinks Charlie issomebody to admire!” Aunt Maggie burst out. “He thinks Charlie is somebody special! After all the hard work bringing my children up right, my own son turned out like Charlie!”
I opened my mouth to say a thing or two, but Annette shook her head very gently, and I let it go.
“I have to give this stupid party!” Aunt Maggie said, tossing dishes into the dishwasher like a woman who wants all-new china. Or a woman who would like to break her plates over her brother's head. “I had such fun planning this, and thinking about it, and getting every detail just right, and every single guest is going to know that my own son doesn't want to live with me and my own brother can't be bothered to show up.” She slammed the door of the dishwasher and stormed out of the room.
There was silence.
Grandma stared into her coffee cup. Carolyn clung to her orange juice glass. Annette played with her sunglasses, horrid misshapen yellow things that are supposed to be fashionably retro but only make her look like a serial killer. I said, “We'll have to start calling Aunt Maggie Big Joanna. Absolutely identical temper tantrums.”
Annette nodded. She could see the truth in that.
Carolyn wanted details, and my stepmother and I took turns telling about Joanna's temper, and then Grandma said, “Perhaps, darling, you should telephone Joanna and get the details of her plane flight. If indeed she hasn't left already.
Think of the temper tantrum she might have if she is sitting in the airport waiting to be picked up while we are sleeping in from the rigors of an unsuccessful surprise party.”
It was ten A.M. in Barrington. It would be five P.M. in Paris.
My stepmother handed me her cell phone, and she and Carolyn and Grandma watched. I'd have to call Joanna right there, in front of everybody, and what if Mother or Jean-Paul answered? “I forget the number,” I said.
“Your mother's phone number?” said Carolyn incredulously.
“Because she doesn't ever dial it, of course,” said Annette, rescuing me. “It's in her phone's address memory,” she lied, “but this is my phone. It's listed in my phone address book, Shelley.”
Carolyn leaned forward eagerly to be part of the conversation.
“You'll want privacy, Shelley,” Annette added. “Phone from Carolyn's bedroom.”
Stepmother. It's not such a bad word after all, I thought. A mother, except a step below. I didn't want Annette to go back to work. I wanted her to stay with Angus and me, and be in Vermont, and forget Granger Elliott, and take us bagel-hunting in major cities.
I poked at Annette's phone. I could not believe that once in her entire acquaintance with Daddy she had ever even thought about calling my mother. I felt sure she would bungee jump without the cord before she would telephonemy mother. But here was the number, neatly stored. For emergencies, I thought. Because in the end, Annette is not going to let me down. My real mother will let me down and go live across an ocean, and my real father will let me down, bailing out on important events, setting terrible examples and failing to support or acknowledge sons from previous marriages—but my stepmother will do the right thing.
This was so depressing I didn't care if I had to speak to Mother or Jean-Paul after all, and when it was Joanna who answered the phone, I wasn't even relieved. I was just irked that I had to deal with any of this. “Oh, hi, Jo,” I said grumpily.
“Shelley!” cried my sister. “I was postponing calling you
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