“Your second course,” the waiter says, and Gary’s mother stands up.
“Let’s hold hands and say grace,” she says.
Lila looks at Phoebe, and Gary and Marla glance at each other, like they’re not sure if it’s the early signs of dementia or the late-stage Catholicism that is making her insist on saying grace before each course. But nobody stops her.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty,” Gary’s mother says.
Jim runs his finger alongside Phoebe’s palm.
“Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
After, Jim doesn’t let go of her hand. Gary and Lila just stare at the two hands, while Phoebe tries to make jokey conversation about when and how often people should say grace in a five-course dinner.
“It’s a good question,” Jim says. “Which one is the real meal? Which one is the actual dinner for which we must be the most grateful, Professor Stone?”
“Sorry, I don’t do philosophical inquiries,” Phoebe says. “If you want to debate the categorical nature of a meal, you’ll need my ex-husband for that. He’s the philosopher.”
They laugh and let go of each other.
“We don’t need Socrates to tell us that this isn’t a meal,” Gary’s father says. “This is just frou-frou soup. And why’s it cold?”
“It’s gazpacho,” Lila says.
“Gazpacho?” Bootsie says. “Who is Spanish here?”
Gary hands Bootsie’s Tupperware to the waiter. “Can you put this in a nice crystal?” he asks.
Then they eat in relative silence, which stretches too long. The clinking of spoons against bowls becomes unbearable, the acknowledgment that the families have nothing to say to one another, except for Phoebe and Jim.
“I can’t believe I haven’t asked you this yet,” Jim says, “but where are you from again?”
“Missouri,” Phoebe says. Phoebe is acutely aware that everyone is listening. “You?”
“Pawtucket, Rhode Island,” Jim says. “The last place in America to make its own socks.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe asks.
“Factory closed, and now America doesn’t make any of its own socks,” Jim says.
“Nowhere in America?” Phoebe asks. She finds this both hard to believe and not at all surprising.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Lila says. “Jim just likes to say that for some reason.”
“Because it’s unbelievable,” Jim says. “What can we say about a superpower that doesn’t make its own socks?”
“Something about frostbite,” Phoebe says.
“Death traditionally starts in the feet,” Gary finishes.
“That’s a little morbid, Gary,” Lila says.
The waiter puts down the next course. “Filet mignon.”
They all wait to see if Gary’s mother wants to say grace again, but she is already cutting into her meat. The platter of tiny steaks seems like a mistake next to the linen suits, the white lace trim of their lives. Some of the blood pools at the ridges of the serving plate, and Jim asks, “We’re supposed to be doing the speeches after the fourth course, right?” But Lila shushes him.
“Let’s just make sure we get through the meal first,” Lila says.
Phoebe notices the lost button on Patricia’s blouse. The yellow on Gary’s mother’s teeth. Oliver, who shows too much white of his eye when he speaks. Juice, who smells faintly of wet grass and booze. The food in Lila’s teeth.
“Lila,” Phoebe says, trying to get her attention.
But Lila is worried about the time. “Is the fourth course on its way?” she asks the waiter.
“Yes,” he says.
Lila expresses concern about missing the scheduled fireworks at nine, and the waiter assures her he will put in an order to speed things along. And he does. The fish fillets arrive almost immediately, and Gary’s mother stands up again.
“Jesus Christ,” Patricia says. “Once is fine, expected. Three times, I can’t. Enough God! Did God pay for this meal? Did God buy all these tiny steaks? No. I did.”
“Actually, Dad did,” Lila says.
“Yes! And we should be thanking Henry,” Patricia says as she stands up.
“Does this family ever tire of talking about the Trash King?” Bootsie asks, and takes a sip of her gimlet.
“Thank you to the Trash King of Rhode Island,” Patricia says to everyone. “And of course, the American people for producing so much trash, for never recycling properly, they have made it possible for all of us to be here tonight.”
“Mom,” Lila hisses. “This is not about you.”
