How to Talk to a Widower

always been an aspiring anorexic, cheered on enthusiastically by our mother.
    “I have to fit into that gown.”
    “She looks perfect!” my mother snaps at me. “For heaven’s sake, Portia, garnish the brisket, don’t bury it alive.” She turns to me. “So how are you, Douglas?”
    “Same old same old.”
    “I was worried when I couldn’t reach you.”
    “I’m fine.”
    She gives me her best you-can’t-fool-me look over the rim of her wineglass. Whenever I picture my mother it’s always this image, large knowing eyes floating disembodied over the rim of a wineglass. “Did you bring Russell?”
    “He’s outside, playing ball with Dad.” She nods and looks away. “How is Dad?” I say.
    Her expression darkens and she waves her hand. “Every day’s an adventure. He’s discovered sex again.”
    “Mom!”
    “He wants it all the time now. It’s a wonder I can even walk.”
    “Jesus Christ!” Debbie says.
    “Language,” my mother says absently, snapping her fingers twice at her. “The other day, your father chased me around the house for a half hour before Rudy could calm him down.”
    “How’s Rudy working out?” I say.
    “I give it another two weeks.” She pours herself some more wine, even though her glass is still half full. She sighs, a deep, dramatic, Oscar-clip sigh. “I love the man, I really do. But he’s going to kill me.”
    “Speaking of which,” Debbie says, turning to me. “I’ve been thinking. How would you feel about giving me away?”
    “We tried for years, Pooh. No one wanted you.”
    “Be serious,” she says.
    “Dad should do it.”
    “Dad’s insane, or maybe you haven’t noticed.”
    “He’s just occasionally befuddled. He’ll be fine.”
    “I can’t take that chance.”
    “It is what it is, Deb. If he’s a little bit off, people will understand.”
    “This from the man who hasn’t left his house in a year,” Debbie says, shaking her head in disgust.
    “What’s your point, Debbie?”
    “Nothing, Doug. I have no point.”
    My mother puts down her wineglass, nervously anticipating an explosion, but Claire walks in just in time. “Hey, Ma,” she says, kissing her cheek and stealing the wineglass in the same motion.
    “Where’s Stephen?” my mother says.
    “He had to go out of town on business.”
    “That’s a shame.”
    “He’ll get over it.” Claire takes a long swallow of wine, which she shouldn’t do in her condition, so I give her a look to remind her, and she raises her eyebrows defiantly to tell me to back off. “Hey, Pooh,” she says.
    “I wish you both would stop calling me that,” Debbie says softly.
    “Yeah,” Claire says, nodding her head sympathetically. “That’s probably not going to happen. Am I right, Doug?”
    “It’s funny, because I’d just been thinking that it was time to stop calling you that, but then you made that bitchy comment about me not leaving the house … ”
    “So it’s unanimous,” Claire says brightly. “How’s the wedding shaping up?”
    “She doesn’t want Dad to give her away.”
    “Why the fuck not?”
    “Claire!” my mother says, snapping her fingers at her. She can swear like a sailor when the moment demands it, but she hates hearing her children swear because it makes her feel old.
    “Jesus!” Debbie says. “Have you met Dad? He’s the one running around half naked in the front yard.”
    “He’s your father.”
    “Oh, fuck off, Claire!”
    If my mother snaps any faster, her fingers will start a fire.
    My sisters and I start going at it, at high speed and in three-part harmony, and when my mother’s snaps have fallen hopelessly behind, she silences us by slamming her fist down on the counter hard enough to rattle the hanging light fixtures. “You were an ugly baby, Deborah,” she says.
    “Excuse me?”
    “It’s true,” my mother says, leaning back and closing her eyes. “You looked like a troll. A swarthy little troll. I was embarrassed to take you out with me. But your father, he loved you. He thought you were the most beautiful thing on God’s green earth. He couldn’t wait for you to wake up so he could pull you out of your crib and sing to you. He showed you off to everyone like you were the crown jewels. It didn’t matter what you looked like. You were his beautiful little baby.”
    We all look at my mother. She’s never told us this before, but it’s very possible, likely even, that she’s making it up on the spot. She’s never been above some