“It’s about the Glynns,” said my mother after she’d gotten herself under control. “Mr. and Mrs. Glynn.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, they were invited to the mayor’s for dinner. It was Clam Fest time, and the mayor was having one of those big dinners he gives for important people. Everyone wears a tuxedo, you know. The men, that is. It’s all very fancy, and they eat French food. Little canapés on rounds of colored bread—green, yellow, red.”
“Where did you hear that?” asked my father.
“Oh, it’s in all the magazines,” said my mother.
“The mayor’s parties are in the magazines?”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. They’re not that famous—but the sandwiches are.” She laughed, and she looked at my father quickly, moving her eyes but not her head. “I’ve seen them there. The canapés. On little rounds of colored bread.”
Her tone was odd. She seemed to be making a plea. (If I could hear this tone, I must have been growing up very quickly in those days.) It seemed to say, “Please don’t contradict me, Bert. Maybe I’m making some of this up. Maybe I don’t know anything about the canapés at the mayor’s parties, but please accept my little invention. It makes sense. It fits the story. Please just let me have this little thing of my own.”
“Little rounds of bread,” she said again. She made a circle of her thumb and forefinger. “Green, yellow, red.”
My father looked at her for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the road. “Oh,” he said. “Sure. I see. We ought to do that.”
“What?” she asked.
“Make some of those sandwiches and give a party.” I think my mother and I were equally astonished to hear him say this, but for different reasons. To me, it suggested that my father might like to have a good time, but when I hear my father speaking now, in memory, and see the wonderful little smile on my mother’s face, the surprise in her eyes, “Make some of those sandwiches and give a party” sounds like one of the most romantic things my father ever said.
“Maybe we should,” said my mother. She squeezed his arm. “So, anyway, there they were, Mr. and Mrs. Glynn, at the mayor’s party. And of course they were having a wonderful time. They were talking with everyone, and laughing, and drinking champagne, and eating the canapés. Then there was dinner, a long dinner, served in courses, everything from soup to nuts, and more champagne of course. And then, oh, I don’t know, maybe someone played the piano—of course, someone must have played the piano—and there was dancing, and more champagne.”
“Ella,” said my father.
“Well!” she said. “Probably.”
My father said nothing.
“By the time midnight rolled around,” my mother went on, “the Glynns were a little high. I’m sure their heads must have been spinning—what with all that champagne, and meeting all those important people, and the dancing and everything. So, when they were leaving, they said their good-byes to the mayor and his wife and they went down the steps and started off in the direction of home. Their home. Calling out, ‘Good night!’
“And the mayor called out, ‘Good night!’
“And Mr. Glynn called back, ‘A fine night! A fine night.’
“And off they went.
“Well, the party began breaking up. People began leaving in little groups, making their good-byes. And just as the last people were leaving, while they were standing on the porch saying good night to the mayor and his wife, along came Mr. and Mrs. Glynn. Walking along, arm in arm.
“Everyone stopped talking. The mayor must have wondered what they were doing there. He probably thought they’d decided to come back for more champagne.
“So he called out to them, ‘Did you forget something?’
“And Mr. Glynn said, ‘Yes.’” Here my mother began to giggle. “‘We forgot our car.’”
We all laughed. As the laughter subsided, a pleasant fatigue came over us. I slumped into a corner and yawned. My mother leaned against my father and rested her head on his shoulder. He drove at a slower pace. None of us spoke, but if we had, we might have thanked the Glynns for the nightcap they’d given us.
[to be continued]
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🎧 806: “It’s about . . .”