BY E. P. LANDE
Copyright is held by the author.
AFTER A number of hints by both her parents, Cynthia invited her boyfriend to their home. It’s not that she was hiding Josh from them, but . . . well, Josh was different. Her parents were from the “old school” and Cynthia felt they may not see Josh through her eyes.
“Mom, Dad, this here is Josh,” she announced as she and Josh entered her parents’ home.
“Cynthia has spoken of you so often, I feel as though we know you,” her mother said as she shook Josh’s hand.
When they offered Josh a beverage — thinking he would like a glass of Chardonnay or Merlot.
“I’ll take a Bud Lite,” Josh told them.
While her father went to their neighbours’ next door in search of any brand of beer — a beverage he frowned upon — his wife made an effort at chitchat.
“Those are…unusual glasses you’re wearing, Josh. Are they écaille de tortue?” she asked, sipping her Chardonnay.
“Can’t say what they are; I picked them up at the local Kinney’s,” he told her.
“Oh…well, they are…handsome,” taking a gulp of wine. “Cynthia tells us you like music, that you play the guitar,” she said, scrutinizing the young man’s jeans having multiple rips and chains instead of a belt.
“Yeah, they say I’m like Ozzy Osbourne….”
“We heard Andréas Segovia play in Carnegie Hall once,” Cynthia’s mother said, refilling her wine glass.
“Who’s he?” Josh asked, taking a swig from the Molson’s Cynthia’s father handed him. “Man, this stuff is strong,” he burped, handing the bottle back. “You don’t have Bud Lite?”
“I’m afraid not, you see….”
“I’ll have a glass of water then.”
“We were just talking about Josh’s musical career,” Cynthia’s mother told her husband, handing Josh a glass of water.
“We’re great fans of….”
“Dear, I think we ought to have dinner,” Cynthia’s mother said to her husband, not wishing to prolong the discussion of music as she thought her husband was about to mention Jonathan Biss who had recently given a piano recital organized by her husband.
When Cynthia’s mother led them into the dining room, Josh pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down.
“Excuse me, young man,” Cynthia’s father said, addressing Josh, “but….”
“Dear, why don’t you sit next to Cynthia,” her mother said, realizing that Josh had sat in her husband’s place, as head of the family.
“What a shit-load of glasses,” Josh said, referring to the four different-sized glasses set in front of him.
“We always serve a different wine with each course,” Cynthia’s mother told him, and, realizing that Josh might not recognize the purpose of each, explained, “The largest is for water….”
“That’s what I’ll have, unless you have a different beer,” Josh said, scooping up the remaining three glasses and, getting up from his chair, set them down on the buffet.
Cynthia’s mother, turning to Josh, told him, “Tonight we’ll start with shrimp….”
“I don’t eat fish,” Josh said.
“But shrimp are seafood, not fish,” Cynthia’s mother explained.
“To me, they’re the same; I’ll just skip it,” and took out his iPhone and began checking.
“I hope you don’t mind if the rest of us eat ours,” Cynthia’s mother smiled…weakly.
The server brought in the plates and placed one in front of each person. When she was about to set a plate in front of Josh, Cynthia’s mother motioned with her eyes…and the server took Josh’s plate back to the kitchen.
Cynthia’s father poured the wine — a Pouilly Fumé — and the family ate their shrimp in silence while Josh scrolled through his messages, answering a couple.
After the plates were cleared, the server brought in a roast chicken.
“That looks more my style,” Josh exclaimed, as the chicken was set down in front of Cynthia’s father. “I’ll have the wings,” and reached over and tore off one.
Knowing that Cynthia always ate the wings, something she looked forward to all week, her mother looked at her, saw the disappointment in her daughter’s face, and said, “Josh, would you share the wings with Cynthia? I’m sure she would be most pleased.”
“Sure, in that case give me a drum,” and took up his phone again.
Cynthia’a father poured a different wine — Kistler Chardonnay —, carved the chicken and spooned roast potatoes and asparagus onto each plate.
“No asparagus for me,” Josh said, looking up from his phone. “Asparagus makes my pee stink.”
While they ate, Cynthia’s mother told them about the talk she had been to at the museum.
“They invited the curator of the Allentown Art Museum to talk about their collection of the New Hope School of Pennsylvania Impressionists . . .”
“I think I’ll try the asparagus,” Josh announced when he returned to the table after having excused himself to use the bathroom.
“I had been exposed to the movement when my friend Betsy took me to see an exhibition at the Debra Force gallery in New York . . .”
“Maybe I’ll have some wine. I need something more than water to wash down the chicken.” Josh went to the buffet and poured himself a full glass of the Kistler.
“Debra was very pleasant, explaining to me the importance of each of the artists in the movement.”
“This stuff tastes like piss,” Josh said, got up, emptied his glass in the pitcher of water on the buffet and returned to his seat, while Cynthia’s father, his face reddening, watched.
“Young man, Kistler produces one of the finest of the California chardonnays. I served it on this occasion believing you would be appreciative. However, I notice that your taste doesn’t extend beyond Bud lite.”
“I particularly remember a stunning portrait titled “Miss Randolph”, that once belonged to Hattie Carnegie.”
“Who’s she?” Josh asked, forking a whole asparagus into his mouth.
“She was one of the great couturiers —”
“The what?” he asked, his mouth full with the asparagus.
“Dress designers,” Cynthia’s mother explained. “It’s now part of the collection of someone who lives in northern Vermont. I believe the artist was Nordfeldt, of Swedish descent, who emigrated to the States in the 90s —”
“Legally? Or did the asshole hide in steerage and jump ship when it anchored in New York?” Josh asked, gnawing on his drumstick.
“In those days, this country welcomed immigrants,” Cynthia’s father explained.
“Yeah, as long as they were white Europeans,” Josh sneered, leaning over Cynthia to fork the other drumstick from the chicken platter in front of her father, replacing it with the bone of the one he had finished.
“The curator brought slides of several of the paintings in their collection, explaining each and the significance of the artist in the Pennsylvania movement.”
“Can you speak a little lower; I have to make a call,” and Josh said.
“Young man, please go into the living room . . . if you must use your phone,” Cynthia’s father told him.
After Josh left, Cynthia and her parents continued their meal. When he returned, the server cleared their plates and brought in the dessert.
“What’s this?” Josh asked, dipping a finger into the dish the server had placed in front of Cynthia’s mother.
“A soufflé,” Cynthia’s mother explained. “It’s a baked egg dish —”
“Eggs? I don’t do eggs; I’m a vegetarian,” Josh told them.
“But you ate the chicken,” Cynthia’s father remarked. “How can you say you’re a vegetarian if you eat chicken?”
“I like chicken, so I eat it. I’ll just skip dessert,” Josh told them. “I have to leave now. Made a date for a ride on my motorcycle.” He got up from the table . . . and walked out.
After Josh left, Cynthia and her parents ate their soufflé. When the server brought in their coffees, Cynthia’s father said, “Cynthia, Josh appears to be a rather nice young man. I deplore his table manners, but we understand that young people today are raised differently than in the past. You’ve told us how much you enjoy his company, and, as with other young fellows you’ve dated, your mother and I have never interfered.” He paused…to take a sip of coffee. “I’m curious, and I’m sure your mother is as well. Tell us, what is it that you find attractive about Josh; we’d like to know.”
“The sex, Dad. Josh and I have amazing sex.”
***
E.P. Lande, born in Montreal, lived in the south of France and now, in S. Carolina, writing and caring for more than 100 animals. Previously, as vice-dean, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa. He has owned and managed country inns and restaurants. Since submitting three years ago, 135 his stories and poems have found homes in publications all over the world. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net. His debut novel, Aaron’s Odyssey, a gay-romantic-psychological thriller, and To Have It All, a psychotic thriller, have recently been published in London. Dancing With Katie, an Argentine tango sweet romance will be published this year.
