How to Talk to a Widower

like they stopped Ikea, Bed Bath & Beyond, and the expansion of a local synagogue. Like all fairly affluent suburbs, preservation is the priority, not growth.
    Consequently, it’s next to impossible to venture into downtown New Radford without running into someone you know. Because one way or another you’ll have to pass Starbucks, and there’s always someone you know coming in or out of Starbucks. I never really thought about it until Hailey died, at which point simple trips to buy soap and razors turned into a grueling obstacle course of pity and gross fascination, friends and neighbors all eager to squeeze my arm, or hug me and ask me how I’m doing, or slowing down in their cars to point me out, rubbernecking in the parking lot like I was a disabled tractor trailer pulled over to the shoulder of the highway.
    But it’s morning and Claire wants her Venti Nonfat Mocha Latte or whatever, so in we go. We’ve missed the work crowd and now the place is filled with women, coming from the gym, headed to the gym, young mothers sitting in groups, mommy-thongs rising up over their low-rise jeans and designer sweatpants as they bend over their toddlers. I nod awkward hellos to a number of people I know tangentially, who all smile and nod and they’re probably averting their gazes almost immediately, although I can’t be sure since I’ve already averted mine.
    “I don’t belong here,” I mutter through clenched teeth to Claire. “I don’t even drink coffee.”
    “Like a vegetarian at a steakhouse,” she says.
    “Like an atheist in church.”
    “Good one,” she says approvingly. “Much better subtext.”
    “Thanks.”
    And here comes Mandy Seaver, one of New Radford’s many housewives turned real estate brokers, a pleasant-faced, chubby woman who served on the PTA with Hailey, and used to bring me lasagna, garden salad, and inhumanly large wedges of her Harvey Wallbanger cake on Thursdays. Mandy, who would confide tearfully to Hailey that her husband had stopped touching her ever since her C-section, and who cried so loudly and consistently at the funeral you would have thought it was her wife they were burying. “Doug!” she yells across the shop, creating a small commotion as she charges noisily across the tiled floor. She grabs both of my elbows and then realizes that there’s just not much to do with someone’s elbows once you’ve gotten ahold of them, so she lets them go, her hands falling awkwardly to her sides. “It’s so nice to see you out and about.”
    “Hi, Mandy.”
    “You look good,” she says, her eyes crinkling up with concern.
    “He looks like shit,” Claire says, turning to the counter to order what sounds like six drinks but turns out to just be a coffee. Mandy frowns at Claire, looking her up and down, worriedly speculating on the nature of our relationship. I sometimes forget how Claire looks to other women, stunning and too aggressively sexy for the suburbs.
    “Don’t worry,” Claire says. “If I wasn’t his sister, I’d be out of his league.”
    “Oh,” Mandy says, and, in spite of myself, I’m annoyed by the expression of relief that briefly crosses her face. “I can see the resemblance.”
    “Bite your tongue.”
    “Claire, Mandy; Mandy, Claire,” I say.
    “Nice to meet you,” Mandy says, shaking Claire’s hand. “Do you live in the area?”
    “Greenwich,” Claire says. “Just visiting for a little while, to get Doug’s ass in gear.”
    “That’s nice.”
    “Okay,” I say, trying to nudge Claire away. “That’s enough.”
    “I mean, it’s been a year already,” Claire says, easily sidestepping me.
    “Has it been that long?” Mandy says, surprised. “My God. It feels like so much less than that. I still have Hailey on my speed dial.” And then, out of nowhere, her eyes are brimming with tears. It always strikes me as bad form to exhibit more grief than the bereaved, like showing off your new Lexus to a guy who drives a Ferrari. You think that’s horsepower? You don’t know shit about horsepower.
    “Anyway,” Claire says disapprovingly, turning on Mandy. “It’s been a bit longer, actually. And I think it’s high time Doug got back out there. Don’t you agree, Mandy?” Claire is one of the only people I know who can bully you into liking her.
    “I suppose, if he feels ready,” Mandy says hesitantly, terrified of Claire.
    “Claire’s ready,” I say wryly.
    “He’s not even thirty,” Claire says. “What’s he supposed to