Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

Richter’s broad gestures. Every few seconds his large swooping hand landed on some part of Mother, her shoulder or hand or arm. Her smile was fixed and her body rigid against his incursions.
    “He’s by himself this year,” I said. “Usually he brings his latest girlfriend or wife. He’s been married four times.”
    “Jeez.” Luke studied Mother and Dr. Richter. “He likes her, he really goes for her, I can tell.”
    “He’s been coming on to her as long as I can remember. Even when he had a wife or girlfriend standing next to him. Maybe he sees her as a challenge. But she’s not interested.”
    “He’s lucky. He doesn’t realize he’s cozying up to a poisonous spider.”
    I looked down at a potted hibiscus, watched a pollen-gilded bumblebee back out of a red flower, and wondered why I still felt this urge to defend Mother.
    ***
    Luke and Theo and I sat at one of the improvised long tables and Mother and Michelle sat at the other. Dinner was cold ham and roast beef, potato salad, julienned cold vegetables, and Rosario’s meltingly tender butter rolls. Mother would only go so far in carrying on Renee’s tradition; she wouldn’t set up a messy barbecue on the patio and cook hamburgers and hot dogs.
    At our table a long serious debate about the pros and cons of timer-controlled lawn sprinklers gave way to fascination with the idea of heart surgery on cats and dogs. Everyone chewed contentedly and urged Luke to describe myriad unappetizing surgical procedures. 
    Every time I glanced Mother’s way our eyes met. Half of my mind was keeping up with the conversation, while the other half frantically tried to construct plausible answers to Mother’s inevitable questions.
    ***
    As afternoon slid into evening, the sun broke through the clouds and burned red low behind the trees, reaching through the foliage to lay long fingers of pink light across the grass. When the meal was finished, Mother went into the kitchen and emerged a few minutes later bearing aloft a white-frosted cake with lighted candles.
    The guests burst into song. Happy birthday, dear Michelle.
    Perennially delighted by the cake and the attention, Michelle laughed and blew out the candles.
    “Born on the Fourth of July?” Luke said.
    “Yeah. I forgot to mention it,” I murmured.
    Why had I always felt this pang, as if the celebration of my sister’s birthday denied something to me? It didn’t make sense. Certainly I wasn’t envious of a song from these people.
    With a wry smile, Luke said, “I hope your birthday’s livelier than this.”
    I laughed. “Mine’s even quieter, actually. Just the three of us.”
    “Not this year.” He stroked my back. “August 26. You’ll have a birthday to remember this time, I guarantee.”
    I grinned. “I’ll look forward to it.”
    My sister, smiling prettily, laid cake slices on the guests’ plates. Rosario had made two cakes to ensure we’d have enough for everybody. Twenty-four years old, Michelle was today. Mature in some ways, still so childlike in many others.
    Mother’s cherishing gaze never left Michelle’s face. However hard I tried, I never brought that look to Mother’s eyes, that soft smile to her lips. Some kind of obstacle had always stood between Mother and me, something that made us draw back from one another. For all her show of love and concern and closeness, for all the gentle touches, she withheld herself from me, while her love for my sister overflowed, uncontainable, demanding expression.
    ***
    “Rachel.”
    I turned to Dr. Aaron Krislov, distinguished professor of psychology at Georgetown University, a bearded man in blue Bermuda shorts and a yellow Izod shirt that stretched thin over his bulging belly. “Before it gets too dark,” he said, “could I wangle a look at your animals?”
    Half a dozen others asked to go along. Luke and I led them down through the trees to see four orphaned baby raccoons and a battle-scarred squirrel. Everyone was disappointed to hear they’d missed the hawk.
    ***
    When I stepped back onto the patio, I saw Mother and Theo in the kitchen. She stood straight and still, hands clasped, her eyes boring into Theo as she spoke words I couldn’t hear. He raised an arm a couple of times in a gesture I recognized as a plea, but she went on talking and didn’t allow him to interrupt. 
    I spun around, searching for Michelle. She sat at a table chatting with Melinda Morse and nibbling the last of her cake.
    When I reached her, I squeezed