How to Talk to a Widower by Jonathan Tropper

have driven in from West Hartford for the occasion, are waiting with him at the bar, and everyone stands around awkwardly while Debbie introduces Russ and me to them. I’m the only one in the family they haven’t met, since I missed the engagement party a few months back, having had a prior commitment to get drunk and seethe with resentment that night. “This is my older brother, Doug,” Debbie says. “You know, the one whose wife died in a plane crash and who’s now a hopeless mess who can’t stop feeling sorry for himself long enough to pull his shit together?”
    Okay, she doesn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s clearly what she’s implying.
    “Pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Sandleman says. His hand is damp and cold from holding his drinking glass. He is short and squat, with thick glasses and a bushy mustache that make him look like a political cartoon.
    Mrs. Sandleman gives me a hug. She is soft and fleshy and smells like air freshener. “We read your column online every month,” she says. “It’s really very moving.”
    “Well written,” Mr. Sandleman declares. At least, I assume he does. You can’t actually see his lips move behind his mustache.
    “Nice to meet you both,” I say, unable to look directly at them because of the pity oozing like sludge out of their eyes. Pity, I’ve learned, is like a fart. You can tolerate your own, but you simply can’t stand anyone else’s.
    “This is Russ,” I say. “The son of my dead wife, who seems determined to fuck up his own young life at any cost, and whom I seem powerless to help.” Or something like that.
    “Hey,” Russ says.
    “Doug,” Mike says, awkwardly shaking my hand and slapping my back. We haven’t spoken since I skipped the engagement party. He’s been letting Debbie do all the negotiating. Big mistake. “Thanks for coming. It really means a lot to us.”
    “Don’t mention it,” I say.
    “Listen. I know the timing of all this sucked. And believe me—”
    “I mean it, Mike,” I cut him off, sharper than I’d intended. “Seriously. Do not mention it.”
    He looks like he’s about to say something else, but something in my expression that I’m not even aware of manages to shut him up. I glance into the mirror behind the bar to note the exact look so that I can store it away for future use, but the maître d’ has stepped in front of me to lead us to our table, and all I can see are my eyes, which don’t look particularly threatening.

    Once we’re all seated in the dining room, my father undergoes a miraculous transformation. Sitting at the head of the table, he is completely in command, looking handsome and elegant in his pin-striped suit, his thick silver hair brushed back, staring down through his gold-rimmed reading glasses at the wine list. He speaks to the sommelier authoritatively, questions him on vintages, and then orders two wines for the table, folding his glasses and sliding them into his breast pocket, and you’d never know this was the same guy who was shagging flies half naked in his front yard an hour ago. “Sweetheart,” he says to my mother, raising her hand to his lips. “You look as beautiful as the day I met you.”
    “You’re just saying that because it’s true,” my mother retorts, but she’s smiling. Before the stroke, Stan never engaged in public displays of emotion, and after a lifetime of his consistently stolid demeanor, it’s still somewhat disconcerting to hear the unbridled affection in his voice.
    “We made love for the first time in her parents’ basement,” he announces, turning to face Mrs. Sandleman, who turns red and seems unsure of what to do with this particular nugget of information.
    Russ snorts into his water glass. Claire picks up a butter knife and mimes hara-kiri.
    “Okay, Stan,” my mother says, squeezing his arm.
    He turns to look at her. “You were wearing a white silk blouse, and no bra, and we had one of your father’s Sinatra records playing.”
    My