Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (7 page)

He and Betsy already had a daughter and two sons—Gretchen had been nine, Teddy seven, and Caleb five when Angelica was born—but she was the one who did him in, the one who, with the merest lift of her delicately arched brow, yanked at his heart like it was a big, fat flounder on the line, the one who pierced him with the pooch of her pursed, pink baby lips. He could still remember the hot weight of her pressed against his chest as he’d paced the living room with her in his arms, the velvety feel of her head as it tucked so neatly under his chin, the avian melodies of her gurgling. Gretchen had been solemn and phlegmatic; she soon turned into an oversized, galumphing girl. Teddy was red faced, colicky, and squalling; Caleb was so introverted that they thought for a while he might be autistic. Angelica, however, lived up to her name: she was a dream baby dropped into their lives at just the moment when the marriage had begun to show its first ugly and eventually fatal fissures.

Betsy was already griping about money, and about his drinking, which at that point was hardly out of control, but she was such a puritan that she couldn’t let a guy get a little buzz on without huffing and hissing about “dependency” and “enablers”—by the former she meant his nightly beers; by the latter, the drinking buddies with whom he’d liked to kick back a few at the end of a long, dreary, commute-propelled week. Angelica had been an accident but a happy one, and for a while they really thought she was a sign that they were meant to remain together and a family. Whatever his problems with Betsy and with the booze, Lincoln loved his children, loved them in a way that stretched, broke, and entirely remade him. And Angelica he loved most of all.

He put the phone away. She was not going to call back, not now. But he would keep his word and speak to Gretchen. Right away. Now if only Caleb would get here already; Lincoln was mighty tired of waiting.

Just then something shifted in his mouth, and a piece of the tooth broke off; he felt a sharp edge scraping the surface of his tongue. Discreetly he spat the fragment into his palm. How worn and yellowed a bit of bone it seemed. The sight of it made Lincoln want to cry. But of greater concern was the now-jagged edge of broken tooth in his mouth, as well as whatever raw pulp or nerve might be newly revealed. The Advil had blunted the pain, but Lincoln knew the respite would not last long. There were not that many capsules left in the bottle; he’d have to replenish his supply.

Tucking the fragment into his pocket, Lincoln looked around at the milling crowd. JFK was now foreign turf; he had not lived on the East Coast in more than a decade, and he seldom visited. Several times he was jostled by the people hurrying past, and the strap of his carry-on bag—secured the night before with duct tape—broke, so he was forced to tuck it under his arm, which was awkward at best. His only other piece of luggage was the garment bag that contained his tuxedo; he handled the rented garment with slow, exacting care. When he got to the motel, he would steam it out in the shower. Even though the place was sure to be a dump, he had no desire to stay with Betsy, despite the offer.
We’ve got so much space, after all,
she had said, and he’d thought,
Rub it in a little more, why don’t you? And how about adding a little
salt
too?

Betsy had finally landed the big kahuna, the one she’d wanted all along, a rich guy who could afford the fancy spread in Great Neck, along with a pair of his-and-hers Mercedes—no kidding, the vanity plates read
His
and
Hers
—as well as maids who washed her delicates by hand and cleaned up after the snappish, noisy little dog that she had acquired. He knew all these particulars from Teddy, who, though not averse to sharing in his stepfather’s largesse, nonetheless enjoyed poking fun at the to-the-manor-born pretensions of both his mother and her second husband.

Lincoln cautiously began circling the lounge in case Caleb had come in and he’d not spied him yet. In addition to being in pain, Lincoln was also ravenous, for he’d never actually eaten that granola bar. He badly wanted a coffee but was worried the heat would cause the tooth pain to spike, so he settled for an overpriced corn muffin purchased from a vending machine. In vain he attempted to peel back the film of hermetically sealed plastic as his frustration mounted. Finally he clawed the damn thing open. Once the sticky-surfaced, doughy-centered blob was revealed, he took a big bite, avoiding the side where the broken tooth lay in wait. He looked at his watch—again—and then anxiously scanned the waiting area.

Still no sign of Caleb. He quickly finished the muffin, which was bland and gummy; when he looked down, he saw a festive sprinkling of crumbs all over the front of his shirt. He brushed them off. The tooth fragment was still in the pocket, and he pulled it out to inspect it more carefully.

It could have been a piece from a 3-D puzzle; the companion piece was in his mouth, still attached to his gum, still a blessed part of flesh and bone—
his
flesh,
his
bone. This broken bit was the future, though, an intimation of what was to come: decay, loss, the inevitable shedding of the mortal skin. He ran a pinky over the fragment one more time before pinging it into the trash. It didn’t even make a sound when it hit. Yeah, death awaited him, like it awaited every single other living creature on the planet. But not today, damn it. Today Angelica was getting married. Woo hoo! Now where the
hell
was Caleb? Lincoln was just about to pull out his cell phone when he heard his son’s voice—“Dad! Over here!”—hailing him from a few feet away. Finally!

“So sorry I kept you waiting!” Caleb said.

Lincoln’s annoyance dissolved as he drank Caleb in. He was deeply, unnaturally tan and wearing an expensive-looking blue-and-white-striped shirt—Lincoln knew he shopped at places like Paul Stuart and Thomas Pink—and a pair of artfully weathered jeans. Keds so white they must have been bleached, no socks, hair slicked back from his high forehead with some kind of gel. Lincoln had once stayed at his Chelsea apartment, and in the small but well-appointed bathroom, with its stack of thick folded towels and glass canister of bergamot-scented soaps, he found enough hair-care products to stock a small salon. Caleb took his appearance very seriously. He always had. His predilection in boyhood for pressed khakis worn with neat leather belts, three-button polo shirts, and argyle sweater-vests had worried Betsy. That and his interest in baking; by the age of eleven, the kid was turning out coconut layer cakes, Key lime tarts, and butterscotch blondies by the panful. But what the hell? If the kid was gay, the kid was gay. Or at least that’s the way Lincoln saw it.

“Hey, Dad,” Caleb said now, simultaneously smiling at his father and reaching for the bag still wedged uncomfortably under Lincoln’s arm. He examined it before tucking it under his own. “Little mishap in transit?”

“The strap broke,” Lincoln said, falling into step beside him.

“There’s a place in town that repairs shoes and luggage. We could stop.”

“Not worth it,” said Lincoln.

“How about getting you a new bag?”

“Caleb.” Lincoln put a hand on his boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Really.”

“If you say so,” Caleb said, and smiled again.

When they reached Caleb’s car, parked at the far end of the lot, Lincoln stowed his bag in the trunk and laid the garment across the backseat. Then he turned to envelop Caleb in a big, crushing hug. “I missed you,” he muttered against Caleb’s tightly muscled back. He knew his son was serious about his weight training. “I missed you all.”

“Missed you too,” Caleb said, gracefully extricating himself from the embrace. Lincoln felt tears—sudden, hot, wholly embarrassing—welling in his eyes. Jesus, it was hours before the wedding was even scheduled to start, he hadn’t touched a drop, but here he was, weepy as a five-year-old on his first day of kindergarten. He didn’t want Caleb to see him like this, didn’t want to burden him with his own rush of feeling. Abruptly he yanked open the car door and slid inside.

“How are things back at the ranch?” he asked, hoping the hale-fellow-well-met tone would mask any lingering traces of emotion. For the twentieth time he ran his tongue over the surface of the broken tooth but resisted sticking his finger in to further the probe.

“Well, let’s see,” Caleb said, hands on the wheel, not looking at Lincoln. “I haven’t seen Angelica; she’s been sequestered. But that’s all right: Grandma has taken over her role as family diva at least for the day.”

“Really?” Lincoln had not seen Betsy’s mother, Lenore, in years, but he remembered her self-dramatizing flair quite well.

“Last night she was in a state because Tess Kornblatt and Bunny Epstein won’t be there.”

“That’s old news; Angelica showed her the guest list months ago.” Lincoln took advantage of the opportunity to observe his son in profile: the familiar curve of his forehead; the full, almost girlish lower lip; the tiny, blurred scar, a faint reminder of his childhood bout with chicken pox, at the corner of one eye.

“That’s what Mom—and Angelica—kept pointing out. But you know Grandma.”

Lincoln let that one slide. “So, what else is going on?” he asked brightly. “Work all right?” Caleb was in retail; he had job in the men’s department at Barneys. “And weren’t you talking about moving? With—with…that guy—” Damn, why couldn’t he remember the name of his son’s new boyfriend?

“Bobby,” Caleb supplied. “And, no, we haven’t moved yet. We’re still looking for a place.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road, as if he was intentionally avoiding Lincoln’s gaze. “Work’s fine.” Clearly, it was an afterthought.

“Bobby,” Lincoln repeated. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.”

“That’s okay, Dad,” said Caleb, finally turning to face Lincoln. “You’ll meet him today, actually. He’s back at the house now, sound asleep.” His expression relaxed into a smile. “I think you’ll like him.”

“As long as you like him,” Lincoln said. “That’s what counts.”

“I love him,” said Caleb. He sounded serious, even grave. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire life.”

Your entire life?
Lincoln wanted to say.
And how long has that been? You’re a babe, a pup. A
pisher,
as Lenore would have said.
Still wet behind the ears.
Something cautioned him against speaking, though, and he was grateful for the slender thread—Of self-control? Of respect for his son’s admission?—that kept him from blurting out that first thing that came into his head.

The car slowed, and Caleb turned in to the entrance to the motel. It was outside Great Neck proper, and with its gamely planted circle of weed-choked grass, empty, flaking swimming pool, and hideous pus green façade, every bit as seedy and derelict as Lincoln had envisioned.

“This is it,” Caleb said. He pulled up in front of a sign that read
CHECK IN HERE
and parked. “Hey, are you all right?” he asked, swiveling around to look at Lincoln.

“Me? I’m fine,” Lincoln lied, though the Advil did not seem to be doing the trick, and he felt the refrain of the earlier pain begin a faint chorus in his mouth.

“You don’t look fine,” Caleb said. He was staring. “You look kind of gray, in fact. And you’re sweating, Dad. There’s sweat all over your forehead.”

“People sweat,” Lincoln said. However dismal the room was going to be, he longed for Caleb to leave so he could be alone in it, alone with his pain.

“I feel kind of bad leaving you here,” Caleb said, shifting his gaze from Lincoln to the cruddy motel. “Why don’t you let me drive you back to the house? You could stay there—Mom said it was okay.”

“No!” Lincoln said, and when Caleb looked taken aback, he tried to soften it. “I just wouldn’t be comfortable staying there. But I appreciate your concern.”

“Dad, I don’t think you’re making a good choice, and I am not leaving you here.” Caleb leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Either I take you to Mom’s, so I can keep an eye on you, or to a doctor. Your call.”

Lincoln debated whether to tell Caleb the truth and finally decided it would be easier than continuing this standoff. “It’s not a doctor I need,” he said. “It’s a dentist. Only I’ll wait until I get back to the West Coast to see one.”

“You have a toothache?”

“I have the mother of all toothaches,” Lincoln said. “I was ambushed by a stale granola bar, and I broke a molar.”

“Ouch,” Caleb said. “That must hurt. But we can find you a dentist; Mom must know someone who’ll squeeze you in for an emergency visit.”

“I’ll be all right,” Lincoln said. “I’ve got Advil.”

“Dad, you broke your tooth and you look terrible. Why don’t you want to see a dentist? It’s no big deal; I’ll drive you.”

“No dentists, no driving,” Lincoln said firmly. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he was free to dig around in his bag and pop another couple of Advil. So what if he’d taken the last ones only an hour or so earlier. Clearly he needed reinforcements.

“You take those things dry?” Caleb said. “Jesus.” He shook his head. “Anyway, why are you being so stubborn? I don’t get it.”

“Because this is Angelica’s day, and I don’t want to add any, and I mean
any,
stress to what is already a very stressed-out situation.”

“Ah—so this is about Angelica the princess,” Caleb said. He uncrossed his arms and raked his fingers through his hair. “What else is new?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lincoln said. The car was hot and stuffy, but he made no move to get out; he did not want to bring Caleb into the motel room.

“Just that some things never change. Angelica was always your favorite.”

“Not true,” Lincoln said, though of course it was, it was. But he thought he had hidden it better. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Dad, who are you trying to kid? Of course she was your favorite. She still is.”

“I love all of you,” Lincoln said. God, he was practically croaking. “Very much.” Guilt snaked through the pain, lacing in and out of it like a braid. Had he really been so transparent, so obvious?
Everyone knows everything all the time
, his mother had been fond of saying. Well, it looked like she had been right.