At Day’s End
If you’re going to live a long, happy life, you need a reason.
“Well, I thought the service was beautiful,” Maggie continued as she reentered the kitchen. With two fingers, she swiped remnants of homemade whipped cream off a plate, flicking the glob, with its clumped pieces of raspberry sheet cake, into the freestanding plastic garbage can before stacking the plate on top of others by the sink, ready for the dishwasher’s third and final run. Maggie licked her fingers, savoring bits of vanilla mixed with reddish swirls of filling and cream that blended into a sticky pink paste. Six leftover plates were her reward for showing discipline over the incredible food everyone brought. A tornado of guests had already blown through, clearing most of the mess while Maggie told that story about Cindy’s prom. She finally had enough fussing, shooing away the stragglers before they could chip a dish or put something in the wrong cabinet.
Maggie and Vincent were alone.
“It was,” Vincent said as he reached and pulled out a chair. “Mags, take a seat. You’re making me nervous.”
Maggie didn’t need to be told twice. She poured a generous cup of espresso from the pot–not steaming, but warm enough. “Do you want some?”
“I’m good.” Vincent pointed to his demitasse, still half full of a double shot. “Just sit.”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” Without warning, the weight of the day lifted from her shoulders. Maggie had no idea it would take so much to keep it together. As Vincent pushed a short flute with grappa over, she inspected the front of her modest olive-green maxi dress for food spills. She never changed after the ceremony.
“Thanks,” she said. “Who did we get these from?” The glasses were a wedding present.
Vincent replied, “My Aunt Vivian.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Maggie raised her flute, inhaling the grappa’s loaded aroma before taking a sip.
“That was her thing,” Vincent continued. “Everyone got a set of these. Aunt Viv always said, ‘If you’re going to live a long, happy life, you need a reason.’” Vincent tapped his flute against the nearly drained bottle. “Somehow, she thought good grappa served in the crystal was the answer.”
After another sip, Maggie twitched her neck in response. “She wasn’t wrong. God, that’s delicious! I wonder if anyone got one for Cindy and Ben.”
Vincent dropped his eyes to the powder blue tie hanging under his collared shirt, undone to the second button. It was a Father’s Day gift from Cindy. He whispered, “We should have gotten them a set.”
“Don’t start this, Vinny,” Maggie shot back. “You know their minimalist crap spiel.” She raised a hand, pinching her thumb and forefinger together before bouncing them through the air, then popping into nothing, like a Fourth of July starburst that never exploded into the patriotic bouquet promised on the box.
There was no need to revisit. He remembered Cindy’s embarrassment over their countless picture frames on the wall, on every surface not occupied by a knickknack, or stuck to the fridge by a magnet from Niagara Falls, Disneyland, or Wildwood. He remembered the arguments over Maggie’s “blood diamond” engagement ring and tutorials on separating the garbage, recycling, deposits, and compost — why the hell would he want to collect scraps of gristle for two weeks before trash day? Vincent let it go, but he still wished he had bought them crystal flutes.
“Did you remember they got engaged one year ago today?” Vincent asked.
Maggie smiled as she took a sip of grappa. “Are you kidding? We were going to have them over eggplant parmesan.” She took another sip before asking, “But do you think they cared about what I wanted?”
Her smile disappeared. Vincent grew uncomfortable as she stared. Do I respond?
With a drawn-out “No,” emphasizing the lengthy “o,” he got an answer to both questions. Maggie placed her flute down to translate her annoyance with her hands as she continued, “They run off to Vegas and get married!
“A phone call!” She slammed her fists on the table. “I get a phone call! Do you believe that shit?”
Vincent gulped his coffee, chasing it with grappa while shaking his head the entire time. Maggie’s moment had arrived.
“I’ve been waiting 24 years for this,” she said as tears welled just above her swollen eyelids, “and I get a call that my daughter had a fucking shotgun wedding.”
Vincent sat still. It was her turn; he already had his. That was one hell of a way to learn your baby is married… and pregnant.
“‘Don’t worry,’” she said, mimicking Cindy’s voice, “‘We’ll do something when Ben and I get back home.’ Something! Do you believe that?”
He grabbed the grappa. “You want more?”
Maggie tapped a finger on the kitchen table — he grabbed her glass and filled it to the rim before placing it next to her cold espresso.
“Thank you. Salute.”
Vincent raised his grappa in response, drained it, and poured another, matching the boldness of Maggie’s pour. Tomorrow would be another long day, so he offered support. “Let’s just leave everything else and go to bed? We can deal with it in the morning.”
Maggie didn’t want more help with things we could do. “Go upstairs. I just wanna run this last load.”
Vincent tipped back his glass, then rose for the first time in four hours. “I’ll fold up the chairs early tomorrow and bring them to Mike’s. He’ll need them back so they can do their stuff.”
Maggie looked over at the dishwasher. Final rinse, Thank God!
“I’m bringing that eggplant I made,” she said.
Vincent bent over and kissed his wife on her forehead.
“Okay, babe, ’night.”
“Goodnight, hun,” Maggie said. “I laid out your white shirt and purple tie for tomorrow. Ben always liked that tie. It’ll be nice to wear for his funeral.”
Vincent climbed the stairs, shaking his head as he whispered, “We should have gotten them a set.”