How to Talk to a Widower by Jonathan Tropper Page A

mother smiles and takes his hand.
“In the Wee Small Hours,”
she says, nodding.
    “That’s the time you miss her most of all,”
he sings hoarsely, kissing her hand again.
    “He loves Sinatra,” my mother says to the Sandlemans, blushing profusely.
    “Subject change, please,” Debbie says.
    My father nods. “So,” he says, addressing Mr. Sandleman. “Phil, is it?”
    “Howard.”
    “Howard, then. Tell me again what business you’re in?”
    “Commercial real estate.”
    “Ah.”
    Phil was my father’s younger brother who was killed in Vietnam, and whenever my father reaches for a name, Phil seems to be his default response.
    When the wine arrives, my father tastes it and nods his approval to the sommelier. After all of the glasses have been filled, he lifts his glass and says, “I’d like to propose a toast to the happy couple.” We all raise our wineglasses except for Claire, who raises her eyebrows at me instead, before demonstratively grabbing a glass of water.
    “Debbie,” my father says, turning to face her. “You’re my little girl, and no matter how far you go, and how much you grow, that will never change. And now, as your wedding day approaches, I just want you to know how proud your mom and I are of you, not because of all you’ve accomplished so far, but because of the kind of person that you are. I can still see you in your little pink whale pajamas, curled up on my lap and singing to me about the itsy bitsy spider. I remember it like it was yesterday … ” His voice trails off and his eyes are suddenly brimming with tears. “Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I still expect to see that little girl come running into our bedroom, dragging that stuffed frog you had, and take a running jump up into the bed to cuddle with me.” He grabs a cloth napkin from the table and wipes the tears off his face, looking around at everyone. “I’m still in here,” he says fiercely, apropos of nothing.
    And now I can see that Claire and Debbie are both crying, and I can feel the hot wetness building up in my own eyes.
    “Stan,” my mother says softly, staring at him through her tears.
    “It’s okay, Evie,” he says, clutching her hand in his free one as he clears his throat. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, no matter how old we all get, you three will always be my children, and Debbie, you will always be my baby girl.” He raises his glass higher. “To Debbie and Phil.”
    “Mike!” Debbie snaps at him, and I want to throw my plate like a discus and cleanly sever her head.
    “Right,” my father says. “To Debbie and Mike.”

    The dinner goes on, the way these things do. Debbie talks to Claire and Mrs. Sandleman about the flowers and the band, my mother drinks steadily and charms Mr. Sandleman with war stories from the theater that we’ve all heard a million times before, and Russ excuses himself for a minute, is gone for fifteen, and comes back with his eyes glazed over. “You had to get high right now?” I whisper to him. “It was so important?”
    “It was a biological imperative, dude. It is fucking intense in here.”
    “It’s just dinner with the family.”
    “Come on, man. It’s like there’s a hunk of C4 strapped to the table and we’re all just waiting to see when it will detonate. I can’t believe you dragged me here.”
    “You invited yourself along, remember?”
    “You should have blown me off, like you always do.”
    “I do not blow you off.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “I was pretty clear about how awful this would be. You said you wanted to see Debbie.”
    He nods, and looks across the table at my little sister. “I know you can’t see this, because she’s your sister and all, but she is beyond hot.”
    “She’s your aunt.”
    “Step-aunt, and maybe not even that. It’s not like you adopted me. Remember? The gray area? Your colossal failure to step up?”
    “Jesus, Russ. Will you give it a rest already?”
    “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m too