I gave myself one last look in the bathroom mirror. Yes, in fact, life could get better. The pimple in the middle of my forehead could disappear. I’d tried makeup and that didn’t work. Only one thing left. Bangs. I sectioned off some hair, took the scissors to it, and the deed was done. A moment with the flat iron. Swiped the bangs partially to the side. Some hairspray. Good-bye pimple.
My parents eat dinner at six o’clock. Precisely. If everyone’s ass is not in the seat promptly at six, and the dinner is delayed by five minutes, my mother declares the meal ruined. The pot roast is dry, the gravy is cold, the beans are overcooked. It all tastes perfectly fine to me, but what do I know? My major cooking accomplishment is a peanut butter and olive sandwich.
I arrived at ten minutes to six, said hello to my dad in the living room, and paused at the dining room table on my way to the kitchen. The table was set for five people. My mom, my dad, my grandmother, me … and one other person. I immediately knew in my gut I’d been suckered in.
“Why is there an extra place set at the table?” I asked my mother. “Who did you invite?”
She was at the counter next to the sink, and she was bent over a steaming pot of drained potatoes, mashing them for all she was worth, her lips pressed tight together.
“We invited that nice young man, Dave Brewer, who swindled all those people out of their houses,” Grandma said, pulling a meatloaf out of the oven.
“He didn’t swindle anyone,” my mother said. “He was framed.”
I eyeballed the pudding, sitting in a bowl on the kitchen table, and gauged the distance to the door. If I moved fast I could probably get away with the pudding before my mother tackled me.
“There’s something different about you,” Grandma said to me. “You’ve got bangs.”
My mother looked up from the potatoes. “You’ve never had bangs.” She studied me for a beat. “I like them. They bring out your eyes.”
The doorbell rang and my mother and grandmother snapped to attention.
“Someone get the door,” my father yelled.
My father took the trash out, washed the car, and did anything associated with plumbing, but he didn’t get the door. It wasn’t on his side of the division of labor.
“I got my hands full with the meatloaf,” Grandma said.
I blew out a sigh. “I’ll get it.”
If Dave Brewer was too awful I could let him in and just keep right on going, out to my car. The heck with the pudding.
I opened the door and took a step back. Brewer was a pleasant-looking guy with a lot less hair than I remembered. The athletic body he’d had in high school had turned soft around the middle; in direct contrast to Morelli and Ranger who seemed to come into sharper focus as they aged. He was half a head taller than me. His blue eyes had some squint lines at the corners. What was left of his sandy blond hair was trimmed short. He was dressed in black slacks and a blue dress shirt that was open at the neck.
“Stephanie?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“This is awkward.”
“For the record, this wasn’t my idea. I have a boyfriend.”
“Morelli.”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t want to tangle with him,” Brewer said.
I felt my eyebrows go up every so slightly. “But you’re here?”
“I’m temporarily living with my mother,” he said. “She made me come.”
Good grief, I thought, the poor dumb schmuck was worse off than I was.
At one minute to six the food was set on the table, and my father pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the dining room. My father took early retirement from his job at the post office and now drives a cab part-time. He has a couple steady fares that he takes to the train station five days a week, and then he picks his friends up and drives them to the Sons of Italy lodge where they play cards. He’s 5′10″ and stocky. He’s got a lot of forehead and beyond that a fringe of curly black hair. He doesn’t own a pair of jeans, preferring pleated slacks and collared knit shirts from the Tony Soprano collection at JCPenney. He endures my grandmother with what seems like grim resignation and selective deafness, though I suspect he harbors murderous fantasies.
I was seated next to Dave with Grandma across from us. “Isn’t this nice,” Grandma said. “It isn’t every day we get to have a handsome young man at the table.”
My father shoveled in food and murmured something that sounded a little like just shoot me. Hard to tell with the meatloaf rolling around in his mouth.
“So what are you doing here in Trenton?” Grandma asked.
“I’m working for my Uncle Harry.”