This Is Where I Leave You

table in the front hall, but Wendy doesn’t seem at all inclined to go upstairs and quiet the baby. “We’re Letting Her Cry,” she announces, like it’s a movement they’ve joined. If they’re letting her cry anyway, I don’t really see the point of the baby monitor, but that’s one of those questions I’ve learned not to ask, because I’ll just get that condescending look all parents reserve for nonparents, to remind you that you’re not yet a complete person. And the screaming baby is the least of it. Ryan, Wendy’s six-year old, has discovered the living room piano, which hasn’t been tuned in decades, and he’s pounding out a throbbing cacophony with both fists. Barry, who has decided that now would be an optimal time to return some business calls, is pacing the hall between the dining room and the living room, loudly arguing the finer points of some deal that will no doubt add to his already grotesque fortune. Because he’s wearing a wireless earpiece, he looks like a lunatic ranting to himself. “The Japanese will never go for that,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re ready to commit, but the paper price is unacceptable.”
    The thing about people who work in finance is that they consider their job infinitely more important than anything or anyone, and so it’s perfectly legitimate to tell everyone else to fuck off because they have a conference call with Dubai. Billions of dollars are involved, so things like a kid’s birthday or a wife’s dead father are simply not at the top of the agenda. Barry is almost never around, and when he is, he’s on the phone or scanning his BlackBerry with the furrowed brow of one who is dealing with shit that dwarfs your shit exponentially. If Barry was sitting next to the president of the United States during a nuclear attack, he’d still be staring down at his BlackBerry with his default expression, the one that says You think you’ve got problems? From what I can see he is not very good to Wendy, barely registers her existence, and leaves her to do all the heavy lifting with the kids. Wendy, though, has inherited our mother’s genetic imperative to keep up appearances. Everything is wonderful. Period.
    “Cut it out, Ryan!” Barry hisses in the direction of the piano, covering his earpiece with his palm. Not because it’s annoying, not because the bereaved might want a little peace and quiet, but because “Daddy’s on the phone.” Ryan stops for a second and seems to earnestly consider his father’s request, but fails to see the upside, and so the two-fisted sonata resumes.
    “Wendy!” Barry calls, and the way it rolls off his tongue, fast and 44plaintive, it’s less his wife’s name than a tic to be politely ignored in company, which is what Wendy does.
    Linda serves up a meal of poached salmon and mashed potatoes. She circles the table, doling out heaping servings wherever she sees the white of a dish, ducking around Barry, who is still pacing and cursing loudly into his earpiece. Alice helps Linda, because Alice is an in-law and technically not one of the bereaved. Barry doesn’t help, because Barry is technically an asshole.
    Alice and Paul have been trying to have a baby for a while now, without much success. She’s taking fertility drugs that cause her to gain weight and hormones that cause her to cry about how fat she is. This according to Wendy, who also informed me that when Alice thinks she’s ovulating, she stays in bed and makes Paul come home on his lunch breaks. “Can you imagine?” Wendy said. “Poor Paul has to get it up twice a day for that ...?”
    Right now Alice is making a face as she stares at Ryan at the piano. It’s a forced smile that says I am so okay enjoying the cuteness of someone else’s child, even though I can’t seem to grow one of my own. She flashes Paul a meaningful look that he doesn’t catch, so focused is he on shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth and avoiding eye contact with the rest of his siblings.
    Ryan has apparently found something else to abuse, and the piano falls silent at exactly the same time that the baby monitor does, and the sudden quiet feels awkward, like we were all hiding behind the noise.
    “Bitches ain’t shit but hos and trix!” The rap song blares loudly across the table, and Phillip quickly reaches into his shirt pocket and sheepishly pulls out his flashing cell phone. “I keep meaning to change that ringtone,” he says, flipping it open. “Hey ... What?