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The process of Lucy’s baby-naming seemed simple. Saturday morning they’d call my kids to the pulpit, prayers would be offered, and then parents and child would sit. No muss—I assumed. No fuss.

In a normal world.

It began innocently enough. Long before the weekend, the mother of my children announced she’d host a lunch at her home. Harmless, you say? Easy? Simple?

“You know,” said Aunt Helen while shopping, “I never heard from Stacy or her mother about tomorrow.”

I greeted her pronouncement with silence, hoping it would go away.
“Am I invited?” she continued. “No one ever called me.”
Readying my thoughts, I prepared to speak.

“Don’t worry. It’s not your place,” she assured me. “You can’t invite me to someone else’s home.”

‘Struck me we were moving on until when, with staccato-like zeal, she interrupted herself: “Am I invited? Do you know?”

“I will take you to services and the luncheon, Aunt Helen. Of course you’re included.”
“I know you said you’d pick me up,” she shot back. “I am not asking if I am INCLUDED. I am asking if I’m INVITED.”

The gift of silence was short-lived.
“Who else will be there?”

(This, in an ordinary setting, is a fair question. This, in an ordinary setting, is apolitical). Nothing, however, in my tante’s being—from her razor-sharp mind to her ravenous persona, is “ordinary”. And I had to answer. I knew where we headed, but I had to answer.

“Well,” I opened, “Michael, Meredith and Max, Stacy and Jason…Lucy of course…Jason’s Dad and Donna…

(She was, I knew, listening for the H-word).

“…And Harriet and Denise….”

(It was, to this demented nonagenarian, the shot heard ‘round the world. For reasons neither fit to print nor founded in logic, Helen had, some months ago, boycotted Harriet. Our aunt was no sweet little old lady in this; she had not been wronged; it was strictly her venom speaking. Indeed, Harriet, the love of our father’s life, has been a saint to our family since she’d met Al Bogart at the Columbus JCC some forty years ago. She is our children’s grandma, great-grandmother to five on this wing alone, and beloved by everyone Bogart).

Except one.

“Harriet’s coming?” she spit out, (giving me the look our father’d hurl in a hearts game when I’d pass him the spade queen without protection).
“Of course,” I affirmed. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Who called her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I shall assume you did since she is not related to your ex-wife anymore.”
(Not wishing to engage, I kept silent).

“And another thing,” came The Voice, “you know, do you not, that Stacy has never called me to announce her engagement?”
(More silence).
“…And I am certain she called Harriet…”
(Even more silence. Her comments were getting further apart).

“And another thing…” she rewound: “Will I be able to see Lucy or will they hide her from me? I barely saw her at the Seder…And Max? Will he be at your ex-wife’s?”

It was only Thursday, and I was exhausted. By Friday, ‘though, the plans had changed. Hal got ill, and while passing on temple, thought was he’d come for lunch. What followed then was dominoes, Bogart style:

1. With Hal/Margie out, Helen passed on Park, asking only to be picked up for lunch AFTER shul. (Alas, everybody—especially Helen—loves Raymond).
2. With Helen in my post-temple car, Michael urged to be dropped off at his mother’s first. (Alas, everybody—especially Michael—avoids Helen).
3. Me? I’m the gentle breeze in the family: For reasons I’m certain my aunt deems coincidental, she was always in my car alone. I was just, let’s say, playing Morgan Freeman in “Driving Miss Crazy”. ‘ Put 300 miles on the car but sure made a lot of people happy.

There was a symmetry to last Saturday and I wondered if others noticed.

Harriet greeted Helen and Helen grunted. Helen greeted Michael and Michael grunted. And everyone smiled at the babies.  Lucy was beautiful, of course and Max was a charm. So mobile.

And my brother showed up, smiling.  By operation of law, then, this made Helen smile.

And finally—it was time to leave. Driving back with Margie, I borrowed her car for a bit. This freed up Michael to drive off with his family, and of course, left me where it all began: driving one-on-one with a ninety year-old lady…

And praying for silence.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 30th, 2012 at 8:26 pm and is filed under Up From Dysfunction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.