How to Talk to a Widower

and self-published a virtually unreadable memoir about it which she still gives as gifts on every possible occasion. Their gazes cut through the crowd like infrared security beams in a museum, and I am the wily art thief, spinning and dodging my way across the room without setting off any alarms. But of course, a handful of them do manage to stop me, hugging me and shaking their heads, aggressively sincere, telling me how wonderful I look, like I’m the fat guy who lost fifty pounds and suddenly has a neck again. They come at me from all sides, and I’m on the verge of panic, craning my neck to find safe passage, when I see my father pushing his way through the crowd toward me.
    “Doug!” he says, coming over to hug me. He looks natty as ever in his midnight blue designer suit and lavender tie. “What are you doing here?”
    “Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls me close, and I’m a little kid breathing in the familiar scents of his dandruff shampoo and aftershave. I just want to bury my head in the crook of his neck and wrap my legs around his torso as he picks me up and carries me upstairs to my bedroom to put me to bed.
    “Come on,” he says, leading me through the crowd. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

    Debbie is positioned near the buffet speaking animatedly with some of her bridesmaids. She’s dressed to the nines in a slinky black gown, her dark hair up in an intricate French braid. “Hey, Pooh,” I say, leaning in to kiss her. “You look great.”
    “Look at your face!” she says.
    “You look at it.”
    “What happened? Forget it, I don’t want to know,” she says, pressing an exploratory thumb against my shiner.
    “Ouch! Jesus, Debbie!”
    “It’s going to be in all the pictures.”
    “They can Photoshop it out.”
    “Can they really do that? Because it looks terrible.”
    “That’s funny, because everyone was just telling me how wonderful I look.”
    She shrugs and raises a cynical eyebrow at me. “Everyone is drunk.”
    Speaking of which, my own drink has mysteriously evaporated in the five minutes since it was poured, so I wander back toward the bar, where I bump into Russ walking off with a drink in hand. “Hey,” I say. “Are we having fun yet?”
    “Oodles.”
    “What do you have there?”
    “Some tonic water.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “With just the tiniest splash of gin.”
    It occurs to me that I should not be allowing him to drink, and that this is something we should discuss.
    “Russ. Can we be serious for a moment?”
    “Doug, if we can’t be serious for a moment, then the terrorists have already won.”
    “We don’t have a lot of rules,” I say.
    “That’s true.”
    “I can’t control what happens when you’re out with your friends. I just have to trust you to make the right decisions. But I don’t want you drinking or doing drugs on my watch.”
    He regards me thoughtfully for a moment and then smiles and raises his glass. “Agreed. But surely one celebratory drink under your watchful eye … ”
    “Just go easy.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So,” I say, throwing my arm around him. “Any women here catch your fancy?”
    He looks over to where Debbie is laughing with her girlfriends and sighs. “Just one.”
    “I don’t want to sound too negative here … ” I say.
    “I know,” he says miserably. “Love sucks.”
    “Amen to that.” We bang our glasses together.
    The groomsmen congregate at the bar where Mike’s brother Max is rowdily moderating a wide-ranging discussion on the S&P Five Hundred, sports teams, and which actresses they would currently be fucking if they weren’t too busy being fat, bald, and married. I have nothing to contribute, but it’s as good a place as any to hide for a few minutes.
    “Doug,” Max says, throwing his arm around me. “I think I’m in love. Three o’clock.”
    “What?”
    “Over there,” he says, pointing. “The girl in the black dress.”
    “She’s very pretty.”
    “Are you kidding me? Look at the ass on her.” He licks his lips. “I have got to get me some of that.”
    “Her name is Claire.”
    “You know her?”
    “I do.”
    “Well, what’s her deal, anyway?”
    “She just left her husband,” I say. “She’s dying to get laid.”
    “You’re shitting me.”
    “I’m telling you. It’s a sure thing.”
    “Okay,” he says, releasing me. “Wish me luck.”
    “Break a leg.”
    I watch him approach her, watch her eyes narrow as he makes his pitch, and then watch her take a deep