How to Talk to a Widower

him laugh harder, banging his hands deliriously on the table. “Kaboom!” he shouts again at the top of his lungs, waving his arms wildly over his head as he collapses into another loud paroxysm of laughter. For a minute, we all sit there in stunned silence, helplessly watching Russ, waiting for him to stop, and then my father starts laughing along with him, loud and hearty, and then, after another few seconds, so does Claire, and then me, and it spreads across the table like a wave, until we’re all laughing uncontrollably, while Mike and his parents sit there staring at us, wondering what the hell could be so goddamn funny. And if I could speak I would tell them nothing, there’s nothing even remotely funny, it’s sadder than anything you could imagine, and then I would say welcome to the family.

    By the time dessert comes, things have returned to some semblance of normalcy, which is to say that my mother is popping her Vil Pills like candy, Mr. Sandleman is talking my father’s ear off about the federal interest rates, Russ is silently and methodically buttering and eating every leftover roll and breadstick in the breadbasket, and Mike is quietly and conspicuously groping Debbie under the table.
    “It always has to be about you, doesn’t it, Claire?” Debbie says bitterly. “I should have known you’d come up with something tonight.”
    “That’s right, Pooh. I’m screwing up my life just to steal your thunder.”
    “No. You’re screwing up your life because that’s what you do. You’re just announcing it here because God forbid anyone should go ten minutes without paying attention to you.”
    “Everything happens for a reason, right?”
    “Go to hell, Claire.”
    “Language, Deborah,” my mother says absently. She tries to snap but can’t seem to get her fingers to cooperate. She washed down her pills with some white wine, and she’s ensconced in a narcotic haze, feeling no pain.
    “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Mrs. Sandleman says to Claire in a bold conversational gambit.
    “Excuse me?” Claire says.
    “The baby.”
    Claire shakes her head. “No idea.”
    “That’s right,” Debbie says glumly. “Everyone pay attention to Claire. God only knows what she’ll do next if we don’t. A sex-change operation, maybe.”
    “Take it easy, baby.”
    “Shut up, Mike.”
    “Sinatra!” my father exclaims, jumping to his feet. And indeed, the band has started to play an old Sinatra tune. “Dance with me,” he says, extending his hand to my mother.
    “Oh, no,” she says, pushing his hand away. “I don’t think I can even walk straight right now.”
    “Debbie?” he says, looking down at her.
    “Not now, Dad.”
    “Please?”
    “No one’s dancing, Dad.”
    “Wrong,” he says. He steps past the two tables behind us and starts dancing by himself along the large bank of windows overlooking the Long Island Sound, spinning and stepping in time to the music. The sun is setting and the last pink crayon slashes of light color the sky behind him.
    “Oh Jesus,” Debbie says, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. She runs over to my father and tries to pull him back to the table, but he pulls her into his embrace and begins dancing with her, humming along to the music as he goes. She struggles at first, but then she stops fighting it and her body goes limp as she settles into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. And then she starts to cry, not quietly, but deep, anguished sobs that rack her body, and he just holds her, absorbing her small convulsions, rubbing her neck, and pressing his lips against her scalp. They stay that way for a long time, long after the song has changed, rocking gently back and forth as outside the sky goes dark and the Long Island Sound slowly disappears.

    Mom vanishes after dinner, and I find her down on the beach, shoes off, standing on the rocky breakwater and looking out into the dark ocean, her black dress flapping and clinging to her, her hair released from its bobby pins to blow freely in the wind. I’m not saying my mother necessarily picks these poses purely for dramatic effect, but outside of the movies, no one really stands like that, just looking off to the horizon, thinking deep thoughts until someone joins them for a meaningful discussion. In real life we do our deep thinking in stolen moments, while we’re eating, or driving, or shitting, or waiting on line. But because that’s not