The Ugly Truth

[A letter I wrote to DEDBG a year ago:]

Well.

On this trip, I first noticed my BJW streak when, Thursday afternoon, my ride to the airport was perhaps three minutes late. Fighting my BJW streak, I apologized to HAO for the uncharitable thoughts I had fostered in that time.

A word of advice: if you think an electronic ticket is going to save you time and paperwork, think again. That's all I want to say about United.

The baby behind me was admirably quiet and in fact her parents' cooing and gurgling were much more annoying than any noise she made, I saw the Mississippi River and Lake Michigan, and we had tailwinds: a good flight.

When I arrived in Logan, CLH wasn't at the gate, but that's okay because Logan doesn't allow that. I peed, guzzled water, fetched my duffel from baggage claim, and CLH still wasn't there. I knew she had forgotten my flight times at least once because she'd called my house that day asking RDC for the information. The most amusing thing about that call is that it came somewhat after 9:30 in the morning: CLH had recently flown into Florida at 9:30 but had omitted to mention whether ante or post meridian to our father, who by noon that day was convinced his older daughter was dead without ever considering that to get to Tampa by 9:30 in the morning CLH would have had to leave Boston by 6:30, and no sister of mine ever started a vacation at that early hour. So at first I thought she was making a RSH-joke.

She did show up, eventually, and I leapt over my duffel at her. I like still being me and forgetting that decorum frowns on adults springing over obstacles to get to what they really really want. She said during the weekend that it didn't seem like we hadn't seen each other since August, and that two of her high school friends and I are the only people for whom time and distance don't make any difference. Like gold to airy thinness beat. Less Donne-ly said, friendship expands to fit the space available.

CLH had issued her usual order for my visit: Be thou awake, and be thou hungry. I had obliged, sleeping on the plane a bit plus having the two-hour time difference to my advantage, but she was weary. We consumed mightily at Division 16--I hadn't had potato skins in years--and retreated for home to watch "ER," but my clever sister had recorded an hour of Headline News instead.

On the walk, I believe my sister's legs inspired at least three comments from passersby. This is why I don't believe the attraction comparison. Several people including CLH have told me I am objectively more attractive than my sister. Understand that I do not base my conclusion on comments from street people. CLH is taller and slimmer and presents herself much better. Anyway.

Friday we headed home, accompanying Godspell all the way and discussing BJW, and stopped in Dayville for her to pee. RRP's clinic is in Danielson, the next exit, and I got all excited but then I remembered that she went to Vermont this weekend. Too late I remembered that it was still Friday and she hadn't left yet, but she might have been in Willimantic anyway. So no RRP for the trip home. <Foreshadowing> One of the things CLH and I discussed about BJW was her pet sayings, and I contributed "We'll talk about it later" as one of her great cure-alls of conflict avoidance. CLH didn't recognize it. </Foreshadowing>

When we got to Old Lyme, DEW was home and BJW was out (and JCW was upstairs). So the three of us hung around the kitchen chatting for a bit and DEW told us that our uncle JCW2 was coming tomorrow. Tee hee. When he wears his beard, JCW2 is often mistaken for Kenny Rogers to the point that he is accosted in the street. He is the only person I know who can reliably make BJW laugh until she turns maroon (her favorite color) and cries. Plus I hadn't seen him since the third digit of the year has been a 9, I think.

My penniless mother had just bought a new side-by-side refrigerator for the kitchen, replacing the 30-year-old fridge and the freezer in the den (which dates from when I moved upstairs in fourth grade). I expressed my surprise to CLH and DEW that my miserly mother would purchase such a thing before the old fridge literally keeled over, and DEW told us that BJW wanted to get rid of the freezer in the den because she and BDL plan to make their own private den back there, "so they can cuddle," intoned my grandmother in a slightly mocking voice. CLH and I cracked up.

One of the key bits to know about living with my mother is that she is the only important person in the house. No one else has the right to use a room when BJW wants it nor is even accorded any courtesy when she wants it cleared. We remember this phenomenon from our own growing up and both of us have witnessed it now that our grandparents reside there. So when BJW strode across the deck toward the back door with a grocery bag in her arms, DEW turned to whichever granddaughter was closer and made to shove her bodily aside, exclaiming "Quick get out of the way!" These two comments of DEW's gave me a great deal of assurance (before I helped with the rest of the groceries).

We had been waiting for BJW to get home to go out to lunch--to the Hideaway that was once the Elephant Walk where I washed dishes the summer after freshling year--but BJW couldn't let herself leave until she'd made lunch for BDLy, as she now calls him. As she unpacked the groceries, I asked her if the right-hinged fridge half annoying--now you have to go around the door from counter to fridge. Because this change is BDL-inspired, she didn't even complain about it: the top of the appliance is now empty and she unpacks the groceries thither and thence downward.

I spotted something in those groceries that I have never seen before: real coffee in my mother's house. "Mom!" I exclaim in surprise, "have you started drinking real coffee?" This isn't Starbucks, mind you, but it is a whole bean purchased from the A&P and ground there, not the instant only that I have ever known my parents to drink. CLH elucidated, opening the cabinet like Vanna White while telling me that no, BJW still drinks instant and the real coffee is for BDLy. This is a major change. It's only A&P beans and not ground immediately before brewing, and then to make the drink she percolates water and grinds, but this is still quite the improvement in a) taste and b) how much effort and money she is willing to expend. Keep in mind, of course, that it's all BDLy-inspired.

She set the coffee to percolate and wanted to make him a full lunch before we left, hinting that we should stay until he arrived and then go, leaving him to eat his fried burger there. My sister is never polite when ravenous and insisted that we a) leave immediately and b) not go to lunch leaving anyone behind.

So BJW left a note for BDLy, tenderly explaining how to pour his own coffee into a mug for himself (I exaggerate) and announcing that "CLH and Lisa have taken my mother and I out to lunch." Before she taped it on the door, I had edited it: "...I ^me...". I don't know if BJW noticed, but later I asked CLH if that was extreme of me. She said she'd thought BJW had done it herself and just laughed at me.

Off we went, with CLH remembering DEW's walking capacity and therefore dropping us off before parking (a courtesy BJW said wasn't necessary but which I know DEW was grateful for). This is just a wee illustration.

When BJW had called to alert me of DEW's failing health she had offered to help me with my fare. When I suggested arriving at Logan (so I could spend time with my sister) she offered me much more help if I would use Bradley (to be fetched by and immediately have to experience the Happy Couple). My sister intervened and I got the greater amount of help even though I did arrive in Logan. This is a good thing.

BJW asked us not to mention to DEW the assistance, which was fine: Your daughter is bringing everyone home because you're at death's door. I later had cause to think BJW didn't want DEW to know for the same reason she didn't want RSH to know when she bought the new (one of English's failings: new to her. What are those words in French?) car: she doesn't want anyone to know how much money she does have. Though she be a miser, still she can't have much; yet certain parties have reason to believe it's not as little as she projects. And I mention the subject of money at all because while at the restaurant, BJW to my right slipped a check into my lap--at the same table where DEW (who wasn't supposed to know) sat.

Which is another wee illustration how daft BJW thinks DEW is but how sharp she actually is. CLH noticed the transaction so there is no reason to think DEW wouldn't've, unless you're BJW.

Again and again I was so happy CLH was there, not only because she is my sister and I love her but because it is so much easier for me to behave when she is there and because she facilitates laughter in situations that I would allow to grow tenser and tenser until they split.

We had known that BJW wanted BDL's daughters to stand up with her along with us at the upcoming nuptials. CLH asked if shouldn't they be with BDL, but she says BDL already has his four groomsMEN picked out. Four? Four and four? How old are the bride and groom and how many times have they been married already? What kind of thing are they planning? I'd really rather sit this one out. (And why does he get six attendants to her two?)

Anyway, BJW recited the "birth order" of the four of us, which she said will dictate the order we go down the aisle. One of BDL's daughters is older than I, and therefore according to BJW's plan would follow me. I did what I would've slit anyone's throat for at my wedding: I said no, flat out. I told her I was her daughter and had been all my life and no chick she'd known for less than a year was going to stand closer to her than I at her wedding just because she was older. Each pair of daughters arranged by age, certainly, but not her own pair broken up by one of the German shepherds, as CLH has dubbed BDL's daughters (whose names are Gretchen and Heidi). BJW backed down. My oh my.

My immediate opposition to being in third place was just that: to not being in second place. I was her daughter and however strained our relationship, it had to be tighter than any she had with a daughter of BDL. I deserved to be second, having put up with her for second-longest. Subsequent reflection has made me even gladder of my buttinskyism: arrangement by birth order would have implied a blended family, which step-relationship all four of us daughters deny.

As we drove up to the house BDL was in the front yard shoveling dirt. He was constructing a "rock garden" as they call it, though this be not a garden o' rocks but a circle with "a nice bi-level effect" though yet without shrubbery or any other green thing, with rock walls. It is okay but does entirely fail to impart the "you'll hardly recognize the place" effect that BJW claims.

Being Lisa and wanting to get some things straight right away (and not wanting to wait for BJW's coy fucking introductions, which would piss me off as she probably would have presented me to him instead of properly vice versa), I extricated myself from CLH's car practically before it came to a halt and strode up to him in the driveway, hand extended. "Hi, I'm LJH." This performance had my three female relatives rolling in the aisles, with CLH just cracking up, me is me, and DEW laughing because CLH had made it okay to with her own laughter, and BJW nervously giggling with concern that my forwardness might offend BDL.

I turned to their laughter and say "I just don't want him to think I'm Caccavale." (I always introduce myself with my own surname for that reason.) I should've shut up. For the rest of the weekend, my sister would, when inspired (frequently), stomp through the house, bobbing her head like Blake and in unison with her pumping hand, saying in a deep voice, "Hi I'm LJH not Caccavale." She exaggerated, of course; but she herself had told me about her and BDL's first meeting: BJW did introduce CLH to BDL instead of BDL to CLH. I was happier introducing myself on my own terms, to meet him without interference.

CLH had cautioned BJW that I would either hate BDL or be myself with him. BJW's habit of telling someone how much she'll love someone else tends to have rather the opposite effect, as the Germans Shepherds could attest about CLH and me. BJW protested the justice of CLH's statement but could not argue its truth. To her credit, she attempted no hard-sell in our presences. Therefore, on my own, I found him--him, mind you--mostly inoffensive. The news you've all been waiting for, no I didn't hate him. He is not interesting and he smokes and he wears Wranglers, but my main objection to him is what it would be to any man BJW might hook up with: how she treats him compared to how she treats her children and her parents. Continual criticism and nagging for everyone else, but for The Man in her life, continuous coddling and ego-building because each of these three men in succession have been so very very sensitive.

I can't speak for BDL yet but I can vouch for my father's not being any wilting flower, and the Dittohead even less so. She sees these gritty folk as delicate and condones in them behaviors she'd never tolerate from anyone else, including immediate relations. For the man in her life, BJW accepts smoking but (last I knew) at least retains enough integrity not to allow him to smoke in her house. By plucking her blossom from an Al-Anon garden, she limited her selection to those who agree to profess that consumption of any alcohol at all automatically makes one an alcoholic; but within that group, the regular combustion and inhalation of tobacco remains A-Okay. Especially for, let's speak in unison, The Man. To say nothing of the coffee he swills nonstop. He must have about the worst breath in the world.

Later that afternoon, DEW and I went to PGN and I saw AAC and soaked up Phoebeness. DEW and I toured the place--she hadn't been in the former main reading room since the reopening. It's still lovely, that room, with the fireplace and armchairs and portrait of Phoebe and the oak trim. And AAC encouraged me to go to the house and see MAC and RKC.

So I did, setting off through the woods barefoot--much to BJW's horror, as if after almost 29 years it came as a surprise that I don't wear shoes. RKC was at a softball game but MAC and I talked for over an hour (and Dylan was happy to see me, which was gratifying; why don't I have a dog?). I am so pleased, watching the girls grow into self-assured women with plans and ambition and self-assurance. When I went to CKC's high school graduation party two years ago, she introduced me to her boyfriend and best friend and another friend as her former baby-sitter completely without visible embarrassment. Social graces galore or she actually didn't mind, either of which is wonderful. MAC told me about her chosen college and its proximity to a city (quite the draw for a Wildcat), and the honors and biology programs, both of which she's in.

During the afternoon CLH seized on an opportunity to broach the pre-nuptial agreement topic. Not only does BDL's ex-wife owe a considerable sum for a debt, but BDL, evincing himself as the ohsointelligent man he surely is, signed an agreement that if she defaults on the loan she took out for the debt, he will pick up. BJW said, "Well, I don't worry about it because BDLy said she won't default." This woman BJW otherwise wouldn't trust with a ten-foot lightning rod. But because The Man says so.... I still want to know what ice floe she has in mind for my grandparents.

Supposedly The Happy Couple will consult with a lawyer to ensure that BJW's asset (yes, singular) is protected, but BJW said BDLy wants to put his unwinterized church camp dwelling, the COTTAGE, in her name also. I don't know what to make of that but I want BJW protected in writing, which of course might Offend the sacred BDLy by Not Trusting Him, as she sees it, instead of Protecting the Woman He Loves from the Woman Who Owes Big.

The evening meal was my first sample of BJW's cooking since she broke into my kitchen in Denver.

I had not allowed her to cook in my home. Then one night RDC was going out and she was out of control so when I got home from work, there were carrots in-not-over boiling water on the stove, and the smell of what could only be shake-n-baked chicken. An hour later, those carrots were still simmering. (She did lower the heat when I came in, but later blamed her forgetting she had a meal in progress on my talking, as if we had not been conversing. Ohsotypical.) No wonder she made our baby food for us: it's the only way she knows how to prepare vegetables. The woman also not only consumes canned vegetables in preference to frozen (or fresh) but also boils those. And she wondered why I never liked vegetables. And the chicken that night was shake-n-baked in oatmeal.

Also the seating: for our entire lives, I have sat to the head's right and CLH to the left. Because it shoves JCW out of the way, BJW seats him on the far (right) side and told CLH to sit next to him. CLH said she would sit on her own side of the table, thankyouverymuch. And I sat down next to JCW without noticing until later that I had one of the real chairs while BJW had assigned this 80-year-old man one of the folding card-table chairs. Just another wee illustration. Which I remedied Saturday night.

So for this evening meal she had prepared shake-n-baked chicken legs (do you detect a pattern here? except these were not in oatmeal), something she called Spanish Rice, and boughten bread (a half-step away, not up, from Wonder), and a spinach salad. Raw spinach, raw red onions, raw mushrooms, boiled egg bits, bacon, mandarin oranges. My grandparents are old and cannot eat such powerful food as all this raw roughage, nor eggs nor bacon because of fat and cholesterol. But she doesn't allow them to cook (not that my grandfather can) because they leave her kitchen in "such a royal mess" (N.B. it's her kitchen. Although she invited both of them to live with her, she didn't think, even after husband and children, that other people might like to get in her way--I mean, prepare their own food).

Also my grandfather has to use the bathroom before eating, but BJW doesn't think to give him a few minutes notice. So he had to climb the stairs--he doesn't use the more convenient downstairs bathroom because that bathroom is hers--and descend again before eating, not that she waited for him. Saturday night I gave him a few minutes' notice and that went smoother.

Such little details of consideration, like dropping DEW off before parking, like a couple of minutes' notice before a meal is ready, she bends over backward to make for The Man but never had made for anyone else. When someone else does so scruple, she calls it unnecessary. Her parents are just faking being old, of course.

And before we ate, grace. She wanted us to join hands, but CLH and I sat that one out. BJW and BDL clung to one another and BJW recited the fastest grace I have ever heard. I wondered if it was so fast because she was self-conscious in her hypocrisy? Apparently during Easter dinner, the first time CLH had heard grace in that house (except occasional reluctant Thanksgivings), she broke off part way through. Religious fervor had overcome her, thought CLH. Self-consciousness had tripped her, thought I when CLH told me. And again this night. Because she spoke so fast and I deliberately tuned her out, I didn't hear much of the grace until a glaring syntactical error seized my ear: "...and for which we are about to receive are truly grateful, in Jesus' name, amen." I did my usual one-eyed questioning glance but only CLH noticed and she thought I was only mocking the grace.

So we ate. If I were from Sudan I am sure I would have been much more appreciative. Now, HAO's explained Spanish Rice to me as boiling the rice not in water but in tomatoes (or tomato sauce? I wasn't sure) and it's supposed to be yummy, but this has to be one of those things that maybe other people but not BJW can make edible. I had glimpsed the preparation for this dish: the non-stick rice suffered the usual overlong boiling and then was mixed into some tomato concoction. Whatever. BDL offered us the casserole, which we declined in turn and then met each other's eye. I know we were each thinking of the same BHM story.

CLH and BHM had stopped by the house on their drive to Florida one break and BJW tried to get them to eat dinner there with our parents. My father wasn't what you'd call tolerant of BHM's being gay and the decline was automatic, but BHM was grateful for another reason: as BJW ladled out a foodish substance on the plates, she said, "Now that the girls are out of the house RSHie and I eat what we like" and, BHM said, he could not identify a single component of that substance.

(BHM and CLH had an argument once about whose mother was the more miserly. CLH won with "My mother keeps hot dogs in old peanut butter jars.")

On a butter dish lay a stick of a yellowish fatty substance. I picked the dish up and asked if there were any diary product in this item. CLH cracked up, and my mother actually realized I was condemning not her but only the oily stuff and so was able to laugh as well (CLH is so useful to have around). I fetched my sister and me (not "my sister and I") a stick of butter from the fridge and left the others to their coagulated oil. Asking if there is "any diary product in this item" now has become a phrase by which CLH and I question a thing's truth or worth.

After dinner CLH and I made short work of clean up, working companionably together while taking every opportunity to intone BJW-ly, "You're in my space" and "I'm working here" and so on. BDL also loitered in the kitchen while BJW anointed herself for the Bible class they were going to. CLH and I filled BDL in on the certain fact that one big benefit to BJW in this marriage will be having someone to mow the lawn and do yardwork again. We said it in a joking tone but meant it wholeheartedly; there was dairy product in our statements. That was one warning.

While BJW emerged was still in her room, I asked her please, enough with the Jean NatŽ (I could smell it in the kitchen), and she said that it wasn't Jean NatŽ (and it wasn't; CLH had bought it for her). Well, even a scent CLH advises reeks when you dredge yourself in it. I warn anyone with allergies to stay away from this woman when she gussies herself up. I told BDL to keep the car windows open so he wouldn't asphyxiate. Hey, I spelled that right first try, maybe my brain isn't atrophying.

CLH collapsed BJW-ly on the couch to sleep and my grandparents had retired so I finally (not quite 24 hours on the East Coast) got to the beach, during a misty sunset. I also explored the marsh walk the DEP constructed at the base of Ferry Road and was pleasantly deafened by tree frogs and all the marsh birds I can't identify by sound. A train trundled across as I arrived and another as I left: very fitting. The water, the Sound, the River, the osprey nests, the jetties, the sea glass, seagulls that actually hunt instead of scavenge in parking lots, trains, the lighthouses on Fenwick Point, Griswold Point that has now been an island for five winters. Home.

CLH and I had planned to boot BJW out of her bed and share it, as we can sleep with each other but not with her, but as CLH had claimed the one couch I slept on the shorter other, which no longer fits me exactly, as it did when BJW bought it when I was in fourth grade.

Saturday while I was on the phone with LEB, JCW2 arrived. JCW2 is about LEB's age, but when he was told I was on the phone with a friend, he assumed that this was a woman my age and so seized the phone and propositioned her in his Telly Sovalas (?) voice. Being married to Phil, this didn't faze her, but I did have to hang up. I then told him she has more grandchildren than he has, which made him cringe.

Well, JCW2 was there which means the house was shaken to its foundations with unaccustomed laughter--his belly laugh and the laughter his encourages in BJW. CLH and I went through a box of photographs he'd brought with him and he looked through BJW's albums. In a later volume of BJW's are photographs of the Dittohead, whom I pointed out to JCW2: "And look at the belly on that one." BJW heard that and said "Put that away! Do you want BDLy to see that?" I just stared at her, speechless when confronted with such seventh-grader-ism. CLH spoke up: BDL wasn't even on the property and even if he had been, her attacking me would be excessive anyway. Then I recovered and asked if BDL didn't know about the Dittohead. BJW said of course he did but it might hurt his feelings to see those photographs (!!!) which she was going to throw out anyway (!!!).

She'd better throw out all her pictures of my father, us, and our dogs, and sell the house, as we also evince the truth of The Other Men before BDLy.

CLH and I were out visiting her friend and her about-to-be-four son when BDL and JCW2 met, but I wish I'd seen it. I played happily with the boy, not thinking that this would inspire CLH to make another comment about what a good mother I'd be. Oops. I put plastic lizards and Fisher-Price animals and Matchbox cars into my hair, which delighted and frustrated the little one who instructed me in how these things should be used. He told me the same thing he tells Aunt CiCi, "I'll miss you, you know," which was very sweet, if a rehearsed piece he knows people respond to.

We shopped for dinner, which CLH was making an Occasion of for Mother's Day, and came home. JCW2 couldn't stay for supper, which was a further omen. We shepherded everyone out of the kitchen and got to work, listening to the music I'd brought on the box CLH'd brought. I had my usual air fare, Peter Gabriel Passion, Kate Bush Sensual World, and Roxy Music Avalon, and Cowboy Junkies Trinity Session, and Godspell for CLH and me to sing along to anywhere we happened to drive. I'm not going to claim that I did any of the cooking. I chopped onions, sliced strawberries, whipped cream, and set the table. Dinnertime.

All six of us sat at the table for grace and everyone but Lisa joined hands. BJW said "Lisa!" and CLH looked at me sharply. I declared I wasn't a Christian (BDL started but said nothing) and wasn't going to pretend to be one for anyone. CLH continued to glare. So I put a finger out to either side for BDL (at the head of the table, not BJW) and JCW to grasp and did not bow my head. BJW rattled out the same grace, just as fast and unheartfelt-sounding and mangled as the previous night. Afterward, I asked if she could please at least make it grammatically correct next time. BJW looked at me blankly, too verbally challenged even to infer the insult.

Spinach salad again, this time made by CLH and therefore edible: baby spinach lightly steamed to temper its roughageness without moppiness, broiled red peppers, grilled portobello mushrooms, and goat cheese. When JCW commented that this was good spinach I didn't look BJW's way but I expect BJW seethed. CLH had to assure BJW that these were sweet red peppers, not chili.

A thing strange for the majority of the participants then occurred: we cleared the salad (from the left) and served the main course on a different dish (and from the right). Ooooooo. Salmon, with a cream and shallott sauce and carmelized onion, and rice pilaf. For the ninetieth time BJW asked how to make the rice and for the ninety-first CLH said it was from a box. I swear BJW only wanted to draw attention to the fact that not everything was prepared from scratch, unlike her succulent Spanish Rice. This is the woman who serves canned vegetables and canned cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving. Then strawberry shortcake with actual whipped cream, not Reddi-Whip, for dessert. CLH had set some cream aside to which she added no sugar for DEW, another necessity that must have been a rare delightful courtesy for her. This meal was as much an occasion for our progenitors as Babette's celebratory meal was for the Jutlanders.

During the meal BJW mentioned her quest for music for the wedding. She had examined all the CDs I'd brought home and noted the artists and titles. Now she said, "I liked that Passion that you and RDC had at your wedding. Maybe we'll use that." I was aghast. I had cringed when CLH told me she'd given BJW Godspell. Perhaps, as a non-Christian, I should loosen the emotional stranglehold I have on that soundtrack, especially when my sister gives it to a Christian as a Christmas present. But I can't, not when it's someone who won't appreciate it and whose Christianity I doubt anyway. But Passion! Passion is mine. Mine mine mine. It is one of most profoundly moving, uplifting, and intensely personal works I have heard. To see Momix dance to Passion was a sacrament; to use it as our wedding theme was a sacrament; to make love to it (it's longer than Bolero) is a sacrament. For BJW to take it, casually, after hearing it but twice and with no emotional or spiritual investment in it, would profane it and me.

She had already suggested CLH wear her bridesmaid's dress for my wedding for her wedding also. I think she was concerned about budget but clearly originality was not important to her. But few hold any dress holy and none that dress, lovely as it was. Passion is holy. The argument I immediately countered with was not my own opposition, although I had already admitted that with indrawn breath and bodily rejection of this blasphemy. Instead I suggested to her the blasphemy her church might consider Passion, its movie, and the movie's book to be. "I would think your pastor wouldn't appreciate at a wedding he officiates any music written to express Jesus's doubt on the cross." So I averted that violation of my beliefs. But then...

Then there was an incident that involved such a violation of privacy for the parties concerned that I can't discuss it. That I won't discuss it (this was originally a letter to DEDBG) should be a measure of just what a violation it was. And of course the violator was BJW. That was the end of the weekend right then.

Toward the end of dinner, DEW got up to feed the salmon scraps to Squeaky, her retiring cat, and <Foreshadowing> BJW rolled her eyes </Foreshadowing>. BDL was at the head of the table and BJW to his left and I to his right, with JCW next to me and CLH next to BJW and DEW at the foot. With everyone present and at least some parties aurally inclined, BJW turned solicitously to CLH, placed a hand on her shoulder, and asked a question with information she should not have had, knowledge of which proved her habit of prying into our personal effects, and disclosure of which to BDL further proved her lack of consideration for CLH.

CLH stared at her. I glared. BJW saw the stare and felt the glare and attempted to defend herself, she who embodies all right knowledge and judgment. CLH told her that she had refrained from telling BJW because CLH didn't want BJW to know what was not her concern, and furthermore, did she have to bring it up now? implying the audience with a glance at BDL and a subtler nod toward the grandparents. "We can talk about it later," said BJW. I had scored with my prophetic BJW-ism on the ride from Boston.

BDL was sitting right there all the time, BDL who is no one in the whole fucking world to CLH, but in front of whom BJW believed it appropriate to discuss CLH's personal matters--to demonstrate how well she can manipulate and offend her daughters with what level of intimacy and therefore what a good wife&mother she is.

Background: CLH found out for certain after she broke up with someone (which she had done for other reasons) that he had continually cheated on her with several women. CLH had always been very friendly with his family, who correctly thought CLH was the bee's knees. She broke up with him the April before RDC and I got married and in May she found out about his straying dick. When she came home in June for the wedding and BJW told her about the Dittohead's betrayal and their recent break-up, CLH blurted "Oh you too?" although she hadn't planned to tell either parent about it.
So BJW of course needed all those details and asked for some reason if CLH had told the man's family. No, she had not, and no, she would not. She broke up with their son and brother for full and sufficient and unrelated causes and she saw no reason to tell them: She clearly indicated, in so many words and explicitly, that she had not and would not tell his family. Indeed, what would be the point?
CLH was friendly with the family still--his mother called the house the next day, knowing that CLH was in on the east coast and wondering if they'd see her. CLH wasn't home so BJW took the call; BJW had horned herself into Christmases at their house and so the two mothers were faintly acquainted. They chatted for a spell, and BJW took it upon herself to tell the woman about her son's infidelity.
This illustrates how easily and automatically BJW just ignores or reinterprets whatever a person says to suit her own needs. She herself had just broken up with an unfaithful man, therefore she should tell a woman she barely knows about her daughter's similar betrayal--by the woman's own son.
DMB said at the wedding that she thought CLH and I teamed up against BJW. I know she saw this behavior when she and CLH first met, the summer before in Boston, and she therefore was looking for it at the wedding. I don't agree with the teaming up hypothesis, though it's true CLH was protecting me from her and I was ignoring her as much as possible. One of the things we were pissed at her about was that she had just two days before had this conversation and once again proved her untrustworthiness.

So anyway, this conversation was in the same vein. The next day when BJW made some affectionate gesture at me and spoke of her concern for CLH, I said she had no right to a) know about it or b) bring it up c) particularly in front of total fucking strangers. BJW ignored my three points and touched a minor one: "I know, I brought it up at the wrong time." Is she blind? Is she deaf? Does she manipulate situations and words to her own advantage even if to do so requires betrayal and lies? Yes. Why? Power. I told her the fault was not in her bringing it up "at the wrong time" but her presuming a right to know about the subject at all. She acted like she didn't comprehend, whether through pretense or stupidity I decline to speculate.

After dinner, CLH and I cleaned up again while both BJW and BDL were in the kitchen. BDL told BJW that Murray, his cat, missed her. Her last note to me included her future married name and mailing and street addresses and the fact that BDLy had this cat "who doesn't know he's a cat--he thinks he's people!" Knowing her lifelong aversion to cats and particularly how she treats my grandmother's Squeaky, I said immediately, "BDL, my mother must really be in love with you to be being nice to a cat." If BDL had wanted to feed his cat salmon scraps, she'd've rassled up some tartar sauce, not rolled her damn eyes.

And as soon as we had cleaned up from the Mother's Day supper gesture CLH had tried to make, CLH left, BJW having once again driven a daughter away. Such a good wife&mother.

Sunday morning while BJW was at her four-hour church service, DEW and I finally had a chance to talk. And I told her what I said about Murray because I know just how fucking unreasonably mean BJW is to Squeaky. DEW said delightedly, "You said that?" Yes I did, because it's true. She laughed at my daring. I can do a lot that DEW can't.

That afternoon, the Happy Couple drove me to the airport, with some faux American Indian music playing. BJW is now part Cherokee herself, just like BDLy. She stopped being Irish round about when my father left her picture.