I heard Glenda tell Mom that since 9/11, she felt that John was experiencing those old urges, and she was worried that his old habits might resurface. I knew that she seemed worried about the new couple my mom invited, and I changed the subject back to the pervert. I said to Leo, “If we ever meet a three hundred pound hair lip, I’ll have you do all the talking.”
“You are an asshole.”
“I am what I am,” I said. John and my dad entered the living room with drinks for the woman as the doorbell rang. My mom opened the door, and the new couple Sherrill and Bill Publican entered our home. They seemed to be the same age as my mother and father. Sherrill looked good with her blond hair curling above the collar of her navy blue blazer.
She wore ruby earrings, a gold necklace, and a gold watch. Filling out a tight blue skirt, she nervously fingered the button below her large breasts. A thin, tall man, Bill wore gray slacks and a pink sport shirt with a jade clasp for his string tie. He combed his full head of hair in the style of Donny Osmond, and his musk cologne permeated the room.
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Renee looked good except for the circles under her eyes. It was as if she experienced a pain so deep the balls of her feet bled, and the blood rose from her soles of to the area above her cheeks and below her eyes.
Leo and I entered the room. We shook hands with the men and hugged the women. My dad took their orders for drinks, and my mother led everyone to the patio for finger foods and conversation. When she became aware that John, Luc, and my father were trading war stories, she led the guests to the dining room table. As we began eating, the conversation died, proving the old axiom: the quality of the food is proportional to the volume of the