We don’t seem to run out of things to talk about.
We even talk football.
“It isn’t only whatever you called it,” I tell Bailey. “A bunch of guys beating each other into the dirt. Sure, it’s physical, but it’s also mental. A lot mental.”
She makes a scoffing sound.
I shake my head.
I explain a few simple plays. I describe the decisions a quarterback faces when he sees the defense lining up, the decisions the defense has to make in those same seconds.
She admits that maybe she’s misjudged the game and I tell her she has and when we watch a game together, she’ll see that it’s more like a chess game than she thought.
She laughs. “Uh huh. Except with four hundred pound chessmen,” she says.
I grin. “Three hundred pounds,” I say, “but who’s counting?”
The time passes quickly and before long, we reach Schenectady. It turns out to be something halfway between a city and a town, at least that’s how it strikes me. It’s old, some of it is handsome, some is tired looking, and some is emerging into twenty-first century life. I like what I see, but it turns out Bailey actually grew up just outside Schenectady in a place called Washingtonville.
She asks if I want a quick tour. I tell her that would be great—and it is. Seeing the turf that was once hers is kind of like seeing her when she was a kid.
The house she grew up in is a comfortable-looking white colonial with black shutters and a deep porch. There’s an old rocker just visible at one end; Bailey says she used to sit there for hours, her nose buried in a book, and I can tell she’s glad to see the chair is still there.
The elementary and middle schools are a couple of miles away; past them is the high school. We drive by the library—she also spent lots of time there, she says with a wistful smile. Then we head up Main Street and yeah, that’s really its name. Same as in far too many small American towns, there are several shuttered stores, but there are also signs of renewed economic life: a Thai restaurant, a crafts shop, what looks like a small art gallery. We agree that’s all good to see.
The inn is just outside the town. On the way, we pass a structure that looks like a badly decorated birthday cake.
It’s the country club, Bailey says. The scene of tomorrow’s big event.
The Wedding.
“You’ll hate it,” she assures me. “I mean, you cannot imagine how awful it will be.”
I shift gears as we start up a steep hill.
“Did I ever tell you about the O’Malley family get-togethers?”
She looks at me. “No. And believe me, Matthew, whatever you’re going to say—”.
“Matthew O’Malley,’” I say in my best Uncle Harry voice, “how old are you now? Ten? My, you’ve grown so big! Not as tall as your cousin David, of course, but at least you’re not a midget anymore. Too bad David couldn’t be here, but he’s at MIT on a teen science retreat.”
Bailey smiles. “Okay, So we all have horrible memories of weddings and family parties when we were kids, but—”
“Hello there, young man. Remember me? We haven’t seen each other in years. Your cousin David said to send you his best. He can’t be here. He’s at Oxford, starting his Fulbright scholarship. And what’s new with you, Matt. Anything?”
I get a giggle this time. “All right. Family gatherings can be tough, but—”
“It’s Matt, right? Haven’t seen you in—must be a decade. David sends his regards. Couldn’t get here. He’s giving a speech at TED tomorrow. TED. You know, that incredibly prestigious organization? He’s talking about sperm donations. Specifically his. He’s so brilliant that Cambridge is setting up a chair in his name. Well, actually, not a chair. A giant sperm bank. They want a thousand women with genius level IQs to bear his babies.”
Bailey roars with laughter. “You’re making that up.”
I grin. “Yeah, but it’s close enough to the truth. I hate these big family things. They’re like giant contests that are fun for everybody but the contestants.”
Bailey’s laugh turns into a sigh. “Violet loves them.”
“Violet’s in for a fall. Bride or not, you’ll be the star of the show.”
“Me in disguise, you mean.”