How to Talk to a Widower

breath and start to speak, and as much of an asshole as Max is, I actually feel a little sorry for him. He’s back two minutes later, red faced and dejected. “You are such an asshole,” he says.
    “You lasted longer than most.”
    “That girl has got some major issues.”
    “Come on,” I say, patting his back. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
    “Doug,” Mike says, coming up behind us. “You see Potter?”
    “No.”
    “Neither have I and he’s supposed to give the toast. I hope everything’s okay.”
    Dave and Laney. Shit. I forgot they’re going to be here. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with, I’ll have to pretend not to notice Laney staring balefully at me all weekend. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
    “Well, I don’t know what could be keeping him, but would you mind stepping in for him tonight if he’s a no-show?”
    There is irony, and then there’s my life.

    Once everyone has found their seats, and I’m safely sandwiched between Russ and Claire, my buzz having settled down to a nice, insulating hum, I am finally able to relax. My mother, looking radiant in her salmon-colored gown, sips at her wine and surveys the room with a satisfied smile. She leans against my father, who kisses her scalp every few minutes and taps his fingers along with the band, happily greeting all the well-wishers who stop by to greet him. “Stan!” they say. “Great to see you!” And he says, “Great to be seen, Phil, great to be seen.”
    They are positively beaming, my parents, vibrating together in their happiness, and I love them like never before. The rest of us talk about nothing in particular, cracking jokes and gossiping about our assembled relatives, and it’s all moving along swimmingly until Mike starts tapping his water glass with a knife, and a hush falls over the room as he stands up to speak.
    “Debbie and I are so happy that you could all be here to celebrate with us. All I can say is that I never believed someone this beautiful would ever be willing to marry someone like me.”
    “You and me both, buddy!” Max shouts out, and everybody laughs.
    “Anyway, I just wanted to ask my good friend Doug, who, coincidentally happens to be the brother of the bride, to offer a toast.”
    I look up, horrified, as the room breaks into applause. I seem to recall Mike asking me to fill in for Dave, but I figured he’d give me some warning before I had to go on, and that’s when I’d planned to worm my way out of it. So when the clapping dies down, I’m still slouched in my seat, wondering what the hell to do.
    “Doug?” Debbie whispers across the table nervously.
    “You’re up, dude,” Russ says.
    I stand up slowly, turning to face the fifty or so expectant gazes, and it occurs to me that I’m somewhat drunker than I intended to be. They all seem far away, which is good, but so do I, which could be a problem. “You need a drink,” Claire says.
    “You have no idea,” I say, and the room erupts into spontaneous laughter.
    “I meant for the toast.” She hands me somebody’s wineglass.
    Faces swim and merge kaleidoscopically in front of me, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “As many of you know, I’m not very good at this,” I say. “In fact, I think the last time I did this was at Claire’s wedding, and if you were there, you know how well that turned out.” Strained laughter flutters around the room like a trapped bird looking for a window, and Claire shoots me a wide-eyed look of alarm. “I meant the toast, not the marriage. Oh … shit.” Claire shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. “That toast didn’t go over so well, is all I meant. And neither, apparently, will this one, so I think I’d better quit while I’m ahead.”
    “You’re doing great, man!” Max shouts, laughing his ass off.
    “Hey,” Russ hisses up at me. “You’re stinking up the room.”
    “Feel free to take over at any time,” I snap back at him.
    And to my utter amazement, Russ pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.
    “What are you doing?” I say through clenched teeth.
    “Just go with it,” he says and then, clapping demonstratively, “Thank you, Doug,” and there’s nothing to do but collapse back into my chair.
    “Excellent,” Claire whispers to me, still shaking her head incredulously.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just … sorry.”
    She nods up at Russ. “Our boy is wasted, by the way.”
    “He only had one drink.”
    “The waiters have