Too Much Happiness

dumb. But she’s a musician. Wasn’t Buxtahoody a musician?”
    “Buxtehude walked fifty miles to hear Bach play the organ,” says Joyce in a mild huff. “Yes. A musician.”
    Tommy says, “Hot damn.”
    A girl in the circle gets up, and Tommy calls to her.
    “Hey Christie. Christie. Aren’t you playing anymore?”
    “I’ll be back. I’m just going to hide in the bushes with my filthy cigarette.”
    This girl is wearing a short frilly black dress that makes you think of a piece of lingerie or a nightie, and a severe but low-necked little black jacket. Wispy pale hair, evasive pale face, invisible eyebrows. Joyce has taken an instant dislike to her. The sort of girl, she thinks, whose mission in life is to make people feel uncomfortable. Tagging along-Joyce thinks she must have tagged along-to a party at the home of people she doesn’t know but feels a right to despise. Because of their easy (shallow?) cheer and their bourgeois hospitality. (Do people say “bourgeois” anymore?)
    It’s not as if a guest couldn’t smoke anywhere she wants to. There aren’t any of those fussy little signs around, even in the house. Joyce feels a lot of her cheer drained away.
    “Tommy,” she says abruptly. “Tommy, would you mind taking this shawl to Grandma Fowler? Apparently she’s feeling chilly. And the lemonade is for Mrs. Gowan. You know. The person with your mother.”
    No harm in reminding him of certain relationships and responsibilities.
    Tommy is quickly and gracefully on his feet.
    “Botticelli,” he says, relieving her of the shawl and the glass.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your game.”
    “We’re no good anyway,” says a boy she knows. Justin. “We’re not as smart as you guys used to be.”
    “Used to be is right,” says Joyce. At a loss, for a moment, as to what to do or where to go next.
    They are washing the dishes in the kitchen. Joyce and Tommy and the new friend, Jay. The party is over. People have departed with hugs and kisses and hearty cries, some bearing platters of food that Joyce has no room for in the refrigerator. Wilted salads and cream tarts and devilled eggs have been thrown out. Few of the devilled eggs were eaten anyway. Old-fashioned. Too much cholesterol.
    “Too bad, they were a lot of work. They probably reminded people of church suppers,” says Joyce, tipping a platterful into the garbage.
    “My granma used to make them,” says Jay. These are the first words he has addressed to Joyce, and she sees Tommy looking grateful. She feels grateful herself, even if she has been put in the category of his grandmother.
    “We ate several and they were good,” says Tommy. He and Jay have worked for at least half an hour alongside her, gathering glasses and plates and cutlery that were scattered all over the lawn and verandah and throughout the house, even in the most curious places such as flowerpots and under sofa cushions.
    The boys-she thinks of them as boys-have stacked the dishwasher more skillfully than she in her worn-out state could ever manage, and prepared the hot soapy water and cool rinse water in the sinks for the glasses.
    “We could just save them for the next load in the dishwasher,” Joyce has said, but Tommy has said no.
    “You wouldn’t think of putting them in the dishwater if you weren’t out of your right mind with all you had to do today.”
    Jay washes and Joyce dries and Tommy puts away. He still remembers where everything goes in this house. Out on the porch Matt is having a strenuous conversation with a man from the department. Apparently he’s not so drunk as the plentiful hugs and prolonged farewells of a short time ago would indicate.
    “Quite possibly I am not in my right mind,” says Joyce. “At the moment my gut feeling is to pitch these all out and buy plastic.”
    “Postparty syndrome,” says Tommy. “We know all about it.”
    “So who was that girl in the black dress?” says Joyce. “The one who walked out on the game?”
    “Christie? You must mean Christie. Christie O’Dell. She’s Justin’s wife, but she has her own name. You know Justin.”
    “Of course I know Justin. I just didn’t know he was married.”
    “Ah, how they all grow up,” says Tommy, teasing.
    “Justin’s thirty,” he adds. “She’s possibly older.”
    Jay says, “Definitely older.”
    “She’s an interesting-looking girl,” says Joyce. “What’s she like?”
    “She’s a writer. She’s okay.”
    Jay, bending over the sink,