How to Love an American Man (20 page)

My mouth drops and I look at Chris. “No, I definitely didn't,” I explain. “I did some theater through college, but that was it.”

“You got paid for two shows out of high school!” Nana adds. “She's always so modest.”

Chris sets down his fork and presses his palms together on the table. “Now, Kris, wait, are you wasting some of your God-given talent?”

My cheeks go hot and I feel a sweat break out across my upper lip. “No, no, there's really not all that much talent to waste. And besides, I sing in the car.”

“And in the shower, I'll bet!” Chris's grandma says.

“Exactly, in the shower as well.”

“What was your favorite play you ever had a part in?” Chris asks.

Nana pipes in. “That one about that French artist . . . you know, George something? He worked all the time till his lover left him because she'd had it up to here?” Nana whacks her hand against her forehead like a sloppy soldier.

“
Sunday in the Park with George
,” I say.

“Georges Seurat!” Chris says. “I love his work!”

Chris asks Nana about her religion, and I bury my face in my hands when she breaks into a straight three-minute monologue about the importance of rejecting the devil. “And do
you know
that
in the Bible
, it says . . .” and when she's in the middle of reciting a verse from the book of Genesis, Grandma, who's been quiet till now, rescues my sanity to ask Chris about his work. I'm impressed when he keeps the explanation to a minimum—he really wants this gathering to be about the elders.

I tell his grandmother how proud she must be of her grandson and his unparalleled success, and she says indeed he amazes the whole family but she only wishes he would stay closer to home. Chris's grandpa engages Grandma in a conversation about World War II, and they determine that he was in Germany at the same time my grandpa was. Suddenly Grandma is locked in to him, erupting at moments like a teenage girl at his stories about getting into trouble with the soldiers in his squad. “What rank was your husband when he left the army?” he asks. Even beyond eighty years old his nose comes down to a perfect bulbous point, as though it was crafted by an artist; exactly like Chris's.

“He was a corporal,” Grandma says.

“Impressive,” Chris's grandmother pipes in. Grandma goes quiet.

“He was very impressive,” I chime in. “Wasn't he, Grandma.” She nods. “He was.”

The waitress comes around with two separate tabs. “Can I get you all anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I say, accepting the bill.

“How about a driver,
dah
ling,” Nana says. She thinks she's Marilyn Monroe. “I haven't been this drunk since my third husband died!” Chris pauses from tucking cash inside his billfold to smile discreetly.

Somehow I've recovered my pulse by the time we all exit the restaurant together. Chris kisses both my grandmothers gently on the cheek as I hug his grandma and wish her well with her operation. Over my shoulder I hear him tell Grandma that the aquamarine in her vest matches her eyes perfectly, and when I turn to see her blush, Chris comes to me. “This was beautiful,” he says as he leans down and places his lips on my right cheek—so tender, his touch—then on my left. His hands run down the length of my arms, and—I know I'm not imagining this—our fingertips linger against one another for a second. Desire strikes me like lightning as he and his grandparents make their way to the pickup, which I now understand is his grandpa's.

I hold Grandma's and Nana's arms down the steps. “What'd you think, girls?”

Nana says, “His lapel was wrinkled.” I was referring to the lunch, not just to Chris, whose lapel was definitely not wrinkled . . . and isn't she legally blind? “You know how picky I am when it comes to my granddaughters' suitors.” Okay, hold on: first of all, how much better does it get than a handsome, caring, international surgeon? And second, who says Chris is my
suitor
?

“I thought it was perfect,” Grandma says before she gets into her car. I'd been fidgeting to hear her opinion of Chris.

I take Nana to the grocery store for milk, bread, and a carton of Parliaments before I drive her home. When I put her groceries away, kiss her goodbye, and get back on the road, my phone rings. It's Grandma. “Dear?” she says.

“Grandma! I'm so glad you called because I forgot to tell you something at brunch. You'll never believe it: Emma's having a baby!”

“She is? Emma, why, how wonderful! Were they trying?”

“Yeah, they've been married five years, they were ready.”

“Oh my land.” (This is a phrase I have yet to pick up.) “I'll be sure to light a candle at Mass. Dear, the reason I called is that I just wanted to tell you . . . today was the most marvelous afternoon I've had in a very long time.”

“Oh, Grandma, I'm so happy to hear that.”

“I could tell there was someone else who enjoyed it as well.”

“Who, me?” Oh no, did I make my crush obvious?

“Well, yes, I suppose you. But I was referring to your friend.” Suddenly she's addressing the issue of him with heightened mystery, leaving his name for me to surmise on my own.
You're a real minx, Grandma.

Although the possibility occurs to me: what if I am completely confused and we're talking about two different people? “You mean Chris?” The question jumps out of me uncontrolled, and the subtext to it is a
Grease
-esque
Gee whiz, Grandma, you think he really likes me?
I should really make a priority of reeling in these junior high emotions . . .

“Yes, I'm talking about Chris.”

“Really?”
I pull into the post office parking lot so I can concentrate on our conversation.

“Yes. And you want to know something, I thought he was definitely more relaxed this afternoon than he was the first time I met him.”

“Well, that's an interesting observation.”

“And I think he's most relaxed when he's interacting with you. I sure noticed him smiling at you a lot.”

“Really.” I say it with confident curiosity, but my heart is pounding, begging Grandma the love expert to be right.

“I have a hunch you bring out a side to him that most other people don't. Well, heavens, it's not my place to make the judgment based on one family brunch . . . but,” she indulges us both again, “indeed that was my sense. Plus,” I hear mischief rise in her voice, “he sure looks handsome in a suit, doesn't he?”

“Did you
see
him, Grandma?”

She giggles.

“I guess we have the same taste, don't we?”

“Yes,” she says. “I'd say we're known for loving the same men.”

“Grandma, wow, thank you for calling and . . . telling me all this.”

“But really, dear, what I called to tell you was—” Suddenly she turns solemn. “—that was such a lovely afternoon that . . . when I walked in the house just now, I cried tears of joy.”

I
INVITE
C
HRIS
and his grandparents to a Mother's Day luncheon with our family the following week. However, by now, after last week's brunch, he's disappeared completely—responding only to the e-mail I'd written to tell him that Grandma Glo was glowing after our get-together.

“Glad Grandma Flo liked it,” he replied. “If only I could remember which one she was!”

Flo?

I'm disappointed, but certainly by now I'm not gullible enough to imagine that he'd have stayed very close for long.

But in Nana's kitchen on Mother's Day it's definitely better that Chris is not present. After we three generations went to Mass together, my mom's navy seersucker suit and long strand of crystal beads strike a stark contrast to the old-fashioned wood panel atmosphere inside Nana's house. Mom gestures at the body lotion on Nana's kitchen table. “She liked the scent you picked out,” she whispers to me. Then, stretching her neck toward Nana's bedroom, she yells, “Hey, Ma, who delivered the pie on your counter?”

“Punk,” Nana says, referring to her brother, an ex-con who lives in a trailer on the edge of town. “He wanted to stay but I told him you were coming.” Nana's siblings and their kids all avoid my mother and her professional ties to the town's law enforcement.

“Keep your purse close,” Mom mutters to me. “Uncle Punk could come back.”

Right then Nana busts out of her bedroom. She's a vision in her peach golf shirt from church, teamed with crushed-velvet green elf shorts boasting bells that hang off the jagged hem. Mom and I turn to each other, and Mom's horror and confusion must mirror my own. Her voice comes out a squeak. “Just what the hell are you wearing, lady?”

“It's very chic,” Nana says, adjusting her red elastic waist-band. “I gotta show you this dance I did in Punk's hospital room a couple weeks ago before Jesus brought him back from death's door—I swear, it's just like Lazarus.”

“Hospital room? A dance for who?” Mom says.

“Why, all the nurses.”

Mom's head collapses into her hands. “Please don't tell me Ruth McGee was there.”

“Ruth McGee was so! I'd swear every nurse in DuBois was in the room to see this. Now, look up or you're gonna miss the show,” Nana says, already bouncing in place so the bells on her hem set a rhythm for her song. “Friendship,” she sings, “friendship. When you need me I'll be there . . .”

“Well, what the . . .” Mom wonders aloud. With wide eyes and mouths she and I take in the TV-tray cabaret in front of us. Mom's hand blindly walks around her chair to her purse in search of her camera.

Nana gives the jingle a grand finale with her arms shaking in the air. Then she looks down. “Hey, do these shorts give me kangaroo paw?”

Mom looks at me, dazed and confused. I wince and cover my eyes. “I think she means camel toe.”

Nana starts to laugh so hard at us—like
we're
the freaks—that she has to grab her freckled knees to catch her breath. Her legs are white and hearty, skin flapping where muscle tone once was. Amid the laughter and Mom's bewildered critique, I quietly observe that I inherited Nana's thick legs. Did I get
none
of Grandma's delicate traits?

Mom takes a minute to recover from bewilderment. “You mean to tell me you did that in front of
people we know
?”

“Well, sure,” Nana says. “They performed a regular miracle on Punk, he was swollen like a whale from his diabetes. I wanted to show them my moneymaker.”

“Dear God,” Mom says. “Just so you didn't show them your baby-maker.”

At that Nana and I begin howling, and Mom looks at me shaking her head.

“See why I married your father?” she says, and turns back to Nana. “Heck with the flowers and body lotion. We should have gotten you a gift certificate for a spray tan.”

D
AD'S CAR CLOCK READS
6:22 and Grandma's watching golf in front of Grandpa's big screen when I shut my car door and ring the bell to her house. I give her a hug and kiss, handing her the body lotion wrapped in the same girly cellophane sack as I'd presented to Nana. I gesture to the TV. “Where they playing today?”

She shrugs. “Oh, I don't know.” She has it on because golf was Grandpa's favorite thing to watch on Sundays after church. “Have a seat, you want a glass of wine?”

“Sure—if you're drinking it too.”

She gives me a sly smile and lowers her voice. “Your uncle Paul and aunt Martha were here today. We killed a bottle of white zinfandel. But sure, I'll have a glass with you.”

I follow her into the kitchen, where I have the urge to take over the task of pouring the wine myself. Dad's barbecuing for Mom, and we're planning on dinner at eight. I look at the clock: already 6:32. I step aside, out of Grandma's way.

“You want some leftover spaghetti?”

“No, no thanks, Grandma. Dad's doing hot dogs for Mom in an hour.”

“Oh.” She's disappointed because it means I'm not staying long. “Hot dogs?” She makes light of it, handing me my glass and leading me back to the living room. We take seats in her side-by-side recliners and toast each other.

“Happy Mother's Day, Grandma.”

“Oh, thanks, Kris. Hey, before I forget, did Carisa get ahold of you?”

“Yes,” I take a sip, “she e-mailed me. I was so excited, she said she wants to ask me how she'd go about getting into writing. Grandma, you know something? That girl's a writer. Her blog when she was studying abroad, did you read it?”

“Yes, but I didn't always understand her lingo and things.”

“Oh my gosh, I was obsessed. She's hilarious.” Carisa, my second-to-youngest cousin, embodies our family's work-hard/play-hard philosophy, giving it her own twist: she works hard at one thing, and that is playing hard. Before she transferred to a state university in Missouri to be closer to her parents, Carisa went to a college close to Grandma and Grandpa's Florida house. The week I was there, before Grandpa's chest pains started, he and I got such a kick out of listening to her stories about her classes and antics. He looked at me with the devil in his smile and said, “She's a troublemaker.”

“I know,” I told him, as though we were initiating her into our exclusive club of family adventurers. “I approve.”

I realized then how much I adore my cousins—especially the girls. I've wished at times that I could take them all away on some retreat vacation or move them into a
Real World–
style house, full of just us, and give them advice on guys and work and living alone and all the things I had to learn the hard way. If I love my cousins as much as I do, I can't imagine how much love Grandma must feel for her granddaughters.

“I just think about all you girls,” Grandma says, looking into her wineglass. “Carisa and her free spirit, you with your projects and traveling, Maggie's not coming home from school this summer—neither is Gabby for that matter, they both got internships. Trish is moving to San Francisco at the beginning of June . . . and have you heard? Kenneth Cole promoted Nicoletta to senior merchandiser and switched her to a nine-to-five schedule during the week.”