The Bowmansdale Family Picnic Pavilion

We gathered in Pavilion 4 to celebrate the twins’ graduation from high school. Uncle Jigs brought Jim Beam in an empty 32-oz. Gatorade bottle. Suzie and her waif of a husband, Mark, came trolling in an hour late and expected us all to greet them as royalty. My cousin Felicity brought her poodle, despite the “no dogs” signs posted literally everywhere. My mom fought with Aunt Jessica about how dark the hot dogs should be cooked, but my brother ignored them both and cooked them to his liking (charred but edible).

Across the lawn, in Pavilion 7, the rest of the town feasted on roasted pig and played small games of chance to benefit the Lions Club.

It was a grand day all around, I suppose.

I sat on an old picnic bench that sagged beneath my weight. I had brought a deck of cards to entertain myself with solitaire, but Felicity came over and challenged me to rummy 500. Considering how long this goddamn picnic would probably last, I suggested rummy 10,000. She laughed in her nasally way, and I pretended like I was joking.

Her poodle was named Hoffer, for some reason. I never understood the logic behind pet names. Growing up, we had a black lab named Pickle. I’m not kidding.

Hoffer was sniffing around my feet when Felicity began a long-winded rant that started with her boss’s unequal treatment of the call center staff and ended with her confiding in me that she was a lesbian and planned to use this picnic to come out.

“Why the hell would you do that here?” I asked.

“Everyone’s here.”

“We’re here for the twins, not to congratulate you on your sex preference.”

She snorted and, amazingly, Hoffer came over, as if she spoke to her dog in snorts. “Whatever, Jimmy. I’m just telling you because we’re buds.”

She called us buds, but we hadn’t hung out in probably 20 years. Our history of being buds was limited to one summer when we were both 15 years old and found a stash of porn in Uncle Jigs’s basement closet. It didn’t occur to me then how much she liked watching naked women.

“I’ll back you up, but you know your mom will freak.” Her mom, Aunt Jessica, liked to talk about family values and God. She volunteered for the local Republican committee. She didn’t believe in relative truth. There was one way, the Right Way, and we were all responsible to get ourselves in line.

“This is the first I’ve seen her in six months,” she said. She gave a kissy face to Hoffer and slapped the top of the deck of cards. “Shuffle and deal.”

The twins walked around as if on parade, thanking everyone for showing up, collecting cards that probably had cash in them. They were both accepted to State, main campus, where No. 1 would study psychology and No. 2 would study anthropology. I don’t mean to be rude. I know their names are Marjorie and Melody, but I see them only once or twice a year, and I can’t tell them apart. All I know is I used to call Marjorie margarine just to piss her off.

I was up by 300 points on Felicity when Hoffer spotted another dog at Pavilion 7 (can nobody read signs?) and bolted. Felicity ran after the sprinting poodle frantically, leaving me exposed for a visit from Aunt Jessica.

She sauntered over and made small talk, asked about my work and whether I was still seeing that “lovely young redhead,” which I wasn’t. Then she blatantly fished for information about her daughter. How was Felicity? Did she seem happy? It had been so long since they spent time together. Would I mind telling Felicity that she was having a small cookout on Labor Day and she’d love to have her daughter there?

I gave all the best answers: good, yes, that’s too bad, and of course I’d pass along the message.

Felicity came back laughing hysterically but still out of breath. “This little fucker dodged and dipped all over the place! I couldn’t catch him. I was over there yelling his name and everyone just watched except for one guy who scooped him up and brought him to me.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t want dogs here,” I said.

“Shut up.”

“Your mom wants you to go over for a Labor Day cookout.”

Felicity stared with a look I couldn’t even identify. Was it horror or hatred? “What did she say?”

“She said she wanted you to go over for a Labor Day cookout.”

“Besides that.”

“She asked if I was still with Rayann.”

“Are you?”

“No, she left me two months ago after I was fired.”

“Wait, they fired you?”

“Sales were down. It’s how it goes. I’ve been writing again, so I’m good.”

Felicity leaned down to mock scold Hoffer. “OK, so she just told you about the cookout? She didn’t even ask about me?”

“Well yeah, of course. I told her you were good and gay.”

The color drained from her face. “You did not.”

I laughed by myself. “I did not. But if you look that deathly afraid of her finding out, how do you plan on announcing this glorious truth?”

She didn’t storm off, but she walked away and didn’t talk to me the rest of the day. I played solitaire until Uncle Jigs got blitzed and started dancing with no music. Aunt Jessica and Felicity were talking by themselves in a corner. I don’t know if she told her mother, but I didn’t see any major reaction.

Over in Pavilion 7, some kids started playing catch. Families were mingling and laughing over pulled pork sandwiches and potato salad.

The twins finally made their way over to me. I remembered then how to tell them apart: Marjorie, or margarine, had a small mole over her right eye. I congratulated them on graduating and wished them well. “You both have a great future ahead of you,” I said, which was probably the same thing everyone said. And for a few of us, we actually meant it.