The Grievers by Marc Schuster Page A

not my buddy,” I said.
    “In any case, he said you’re the point man on this one, so it’s entirely up to you.”
    “Frank Dearborn is not my buddy,” I repeated. “You need to understand that.”
    “So nix the egg rolls.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Nix the egg rolls. Nix everything Frank tells you.”
    “That leaves us with doughnuts and crudités.”
    “Fine,” I said. “Doughnuts and crudités.”
    “You want both?”
    “Why?” I said. “Is that wrong?”
    “Usually it’s one or the other.”
    “Damn,” I said. “How soon do you need an answer?”
    “The sooner the better,” the voice said. “We’re on a tight schedule with this thing.”
    “How tight?” I said.
    “Three weeks,” the voice said. “Give or take a few days.”
    “Bastards,” I muttered. “I’ll call you right back.”
    But I never called back. Instead, I paced the living room, boiling with rage at Frank for commandeering Billy’s memorial service and leaving me to deal with shit that didn’t matter. Doughnuts? Crudités? How was I supposed to know? I wouldn’t know a crudité if I choked on one.
    When Karen came home from work, I told her in fits and starts about my meeting at the Academy, about Ennis and Frank and how they were suddenly lifelong pals, about their plans for Billy’s memorial service and how Ennis wanted me and Neil to sign a letter inviting everyone to attend or, failing that, to at least send a check. I was about to mention the call from Joe Viola and my subsequent dilemma over whether to serve doughnuts or crudités at the service when Karen interrupted my diatribe to ask if I was okay.
    “Of course I’m okay,” I said as Karen hefted a thick stack of term papers from her schoolbag and laid them on the kitchen table. “I’m just telling you about my day.”
    “Telling me would be fine,” Karen said. “This feels more like a rant.”
    “A rant?” I said. “Really? You think I’m ranting?”
    “I think you seem a little wound up.”
    “No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    “You’re sure about that?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Absolutely. Grade your papers. We’ll talk over dinner.”
    We didn’t exactly talk over dinner. Instead, I sighed and grunted and made a lot of aggrieved noises with my upper respiratory system, while I wondered whether or not the steamed carrots and broccoli on the plate in front of me might be considered crudités by those in the know. Meanwhile, the fact that I wasn’t among those in the know—that I didn’t have any idea what crudités were—was beginning to get to me, so I nodded on occasion as Karen spoke and supplemented my repertoire of grunts and groans with a bare minimum of noncommittal verbal responses based less on the content of our conversation than on my wife’s tone of voice. If she noticed I was out of sorts, she didn’t let on—at least, not until bedtime as I was pacing our narrow, unfinished hallway and shoving my toothbrush in and out of my mouth, the issue of whether to serve doughnuts or crudités at Billy’s memorial service gathering force in my head and twisting me up inside.
    “Let’s try it for real this time,” Karen said. “What’s going on?”
    “Nothing,” I said, spitting toothpaste into the bathroom sink. “By the way, what the fuck are crudités?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard me. What the fuck are crudités?”
    “So, what? We’re dropping f-bombs now?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “We’re dropping fucking f-bombs. Do you know what crudités are or not?”
    “They’re like canapés,” Karen said. “But without the bread. In much the same way that the man I married is like you but without the attitude.”
    “Attitude?” I said. “What are you talking about? I just want to know what crudités are.”
    “Vegetables, Charley. What’s bothering you?”
    “Nothing,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
    “That’s funny. Because in my experience, people who are fine don’t lose their shit when they hear a