maryann aita

The Dinner Party

“Remember. If they break out a board game, we politely decline and say we have to go.”

As she said this, Tracy placed her palms on Allan’s chest. She perched on her high heels on the second step of the concrete stairs leading to Caleb and Kitty’s new house. Even planted on the sidewalk, Allan’s forehead was two inches above hers. She was leaning on him. Literally. He was beginning to think he might be manly enough to be taken seriously—maybe. 

He eyed her forehead, debating whether to show some sign of affection, but then he saw the pendant hanging between her breasts—the plunging neckline of her red dress left a gap between them. A raindrop of silver dangled there, like a bubble in a level indicating the perfect alignment of her bust line.

“Allan?” 

His eyes met hers. “Got it,” he said. “Can’t imagine it’s as bad as you say, but I got it.”

Together, they ascended the austere steps to the house. Tracy’s finger depressed the doorbell, releasing an echoey chime around them, followed by a giddy screech over the thumping of footsteps inside. 

“Get the DOOR!” 

“I’m going! Jesus!”

Allan raised an eyebrow and looked to Tracy. She winced. 

Why had she brought him here? Every mention of Kitty spun Tracy into a flurry of gestures and expletives. Yet, here they were, together, at the “housewarming from hell.” Maybe this was her way of dumping him. Six weeks of intermittent dates was too soon to meet the crazy sorority sister—unless her tactic was to get him to break up with her before she had to break up with him. 

The door swung open, revealing a stocky man putting on his second shoe. He reached his free hand out to shake Allan’s. Allan looked to Tracy, who was gently shaking her head in frustration. He accepted the hand of the door-opener and noticed the man’s half-combed hair along with a small stain on the collar of his faded button-down. 

“I’m Caleb. Nice to meet you,” he said, now fully standing, both shoed-feet on the floral entryway carpet. 

“Allan.”

“And it’s great to see you, Tracy! It’s been months!” Caleb’s eyes darted between Tracy’s face and the precarious pendant on her chest.

“You look great.” He was one syllable away from drooling. 

Allan saw this as an opportunity to remind his object of courtship that he had some evolutionary value: he could protect her from the wandering eyes of men—other men—and show his worth as a provider. He slipped his hand around her lower back: gentle, but possessive. Not overly possessive—just enough to remind her that he was there. For her. The first step in convincing Tracy that he was indeed long-term boyfriend material. 

 “Thanks, Caleb. Nice to see you. Is Kitty in the kitchen?”

“Tracy! Oh my god is that you?” 

A small, voluptuous woman wielding a spatula galloped into the hallway.  

“Tracy! Oh. My. God. You look… AMAZING!” 

Kitty smashed her in a hug, the spatula floating above their heads as she twisted Tracy in her clutches. Tracy’s arms were pinned at her sides. Allan watched her hands lift as if to free themselves. She looked like a penguin. A giant, crimson penguin.

“Hi.” Tracy mumbled.

The woman released her, pulling back to take Allan in. 

“Kitty,” she said, extending her spatula-free hand.

“Allan.” He nodded and went to shake Kitty’s hand, but it drooped there as if it belonged to a lazy E.T. He held her fingers in his for a moment then Kitty turned back to Tracy. She ushered Tracy to the kitchen, muttering about how Elaine would be here soon and I’m making cookies and oh my god what have you been up to it’s been forever. 

Allan watched his date disappear, unsure if he had the ability to stop it. He turned to see Caleb with his hands in his pockets, staring at him. 

Allan smiled.  

Caleb scratched his nose and returned his hand to his pocket. 

“So…” Allan began.

Caleb shrugged and walked into the living room. Alone in the foyer, Allan became eerily aware of the décor: duck paintings arranged prominently above an IKEA cabinet with a jar inscribed Breast Implant Fund. He moved to the living room, where he found Caleb pouring Jameson into a mug. 

The mug read: Don’t Talk to Me until I’ve Had my Coffee. Behind him loomed a large orange and yellow impressionist print—a misfit above the leather couch and reclining chairs.

Almost nothing had happened since he had entered the house, yet he felt utterly doomed. 

“Could I have a drink?” Allan asked.

Caleb came back with a mug of whiskey for him.  “Sorry, we haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

Allan sipped at it. He winced. 

“I’m gonna put some music on.” Caleb sounded excited, as if he had discovered his purpose. “Any requests, buddy?”

When had he become “buddy?” 

“Whatever you like is fine.” As he threw it out there, Allan worried about what he might have unleashed. It wasn’t that Caleb gave off any particular warning, but he’d known him for ten minutes and given him absolute control of the music. It was like a bar with a jukebox cornered by a bachelorette party. They stuff it full of quarters and set the lineup for the next hour:  Shania Twain’s greatest hits followed by a boy band medley. 

Instead, nothing played while Caleb coaxed his music player to pair with Bluetooth speakers. 

Allan looked across the open floor plan from the living room to the kitchen, where he had a full view of Kitty and Tracy. Kitty shoved a drawer closed with her hip and wielded a handful of spatulas. She gripped them between her fingers, like an inept superhero, and flung them in circles as she spoke. He could hear her above Caleb’s frustrated mutterings. 

“Eight spatulas. Who needs eight spatulas?” 

Tracy shrugged and took a swig of her beer. Allan fidgeted with his own drink, staring into the darkness of it. He was never much for Jameson. Dry. Unadventurous. Probably how Tracy was describing him in the kitchen. Most of their early dates had fallen on nights he was on-call. Then there was the two-week antibiotic regimen. And the anti-malaria shots. 

Caleb got the music working—some kind of ambient horn and keyboard medley—and was now on a tirade about Starbucks. 

Allan kept glancing toward the kitchen. Kitty was spinning, alternating between washing dishes, checking on something in the oven, and chopping. Allan figured she was chopping vegetables, but her angle interrupted his view of whatever was on the receiving end of her butchering. And, from Tracy’s stories, it seemed possible that Kitty was smacking a knife on a barren cutting board as she vented. 

“I thought moving in together would make it easier, man.” Allan turned his attention back to Caleb. He was nostalgic for the Starbucks rant.  “Now we just have loads of crap and more arguments about the crap,” Caleb said. 

How had he become a source of solace for this near stranger? He had no idea how to respond to it. So, he swigged from his mug, trying to mask his grimace from the sting of the drink. 

Suddenly: the doorbell. Allan felt like he’d just won a parole hearing. Freedom. 

Kitty trudged to the door.

“Have you met John?” Caleb said.

Allan shook his head. 

“Every time I meet him,” Caleb went on, “literally every time, he introduces himself and asks what I do. I've met him six times. And every time, I tell him I’m in finance. Then he says, ‘me too’ and asks me what I do and I tell him I’m a trader and then he says, ‘me too’ and asks me about a bunch of technical questions. Six times. And this is how it goes every time.”

Allan took a long sip of his whiskey. He cringed as he drank, unsure whether the whiskey was at fault.

“Here he comes.” Caleb nodded to Allan, who shot a look across the living room to meet Tracy’s gaze. She looked exhausted. Her beer was probably empty.  

Over the sound of Kitty squealing and sharing hellos with the new guests, Allan contemplated walking over to Tracy, but didn’t know if she was interested in comfort or quiet. A good potential boyfriend would be able to detect this. If she wanted comfort, ignoring her would make him look insensitive. If she wanted quiet, he risked a minor confrontation. Of course, she might have wanted him to check on her and then leave her alone. He'd encountered this phenomenon a lot in his dating life: no, I want you to want to talk, but I don't want to talk.  Tracy's desire to be alone was a trait he had initially loved in her—a trait any partner of his would need to have—but she didn't seem to need him at all. Or maybe she was bored of him already.

He figured he should give her some kind of signal, but she was staring down through the neck of her beer bottle. Another beer! Obviously. He could ask her if she needed a drink. A perfect way to demonstrate his attentiveness without being intrusive. As he moved toward the kitchen, what must have been Elaine and John entered the living room. Kitty trailed behind them.  Elaine waved at them both and said nothing, then followed Kitty back to the kitchen.

John introduced himself to Allan first, then, turned to Caleb. “It's nice to meet you,” he said. 

Caleb shot Allan a glance with what might have been a wink encoded in it. John interrogated Caleb about his work, asking questions about stock points and tossing out financial jargon. Allan used Bank of America, but was considering switching. Maybe one of them would have some advice.

Caleb kept sneaking Allan glances. At first, they felt like a stupid inside joke, but eventually bordered on flirtation. Allan was regretting neglecting his own date. As always, he'd spent too much time running through his decision-making algorithm and failed to act. Now, she was watching him from the opposite end of the room, thinking about how quickly he'd fired in bed two nights earlier, how unmanly he was, what an inadequate mate he made. There he was, flailing like a weak swimmer without a life vest. 

He strained to hear the conversation in the kitchen, hoping eavesdropping would imbue him with even an infinitesimal feeling of power. 

“Elaine! I love your dress,” Kitty said. 

It was a long-sleeve shift two shades beiger than burlap. He’d tell Tracy he remembered what a shift dress is later. He’d been listening. 

“Oh, thank you, Kitty! Can I use your restroom? We were stuck in traffic forever.” 

“Of course. Here, I’ll give you a tour of the house. Come, Tracy.”

The women clomped out of the kitchen—Elaine in cowboy boots despite the eighty-degree weather. Their distinct footwear created a discordant symphony on the hardwood floor.  

Tracy was gone. The ship he’d fallen from was drifting away. He was stuck here, treading water with two men in khaki pants talking about trading futures, as if you could just swap your life with someone else’s. What he would have given to swap his life with anyone else’s then.

Having defected from the conversation on a subject matter he knew almost nothing about, Allan relegated himself to the couch. The condensation from his mug dripped onto his pants. He counted the drops. 

“Allan,” John said, “What do you do?”

Allan blinked and sighed and straightened up, like a soldier scolded into line. 

“Oh. I uh—I’m a doctor.”

Caleb and John both lowered their drinks. Caleb’s eyebrows raised. Allan knew what was coming.

“A doctor? No shit!” said Caleb.

“What kind of doctor?” asked John. 

“I’m a pediatric oncologist.”

Allan waited to gauge their responses. When dealing with his patients, he’d say “cancer doctor,” but adults didn’t usually need further information. 

“Shit. That’s heavy,” said Caleb.

This was it. The slow retreat. Perhaps he had finally found his way out of the living room. They would do whatever they could to prevent their girlfriends from discovering him, the intelligent, moderately attractive, doctor.  Who works with kids.

“What’s that like?” said John. 

“Uh—I don’t know how to, um…”

They stared at him, waiting for an insight into the world of medical miracles. 

“It’s…” He considered his audience. “I went to Africa recently. That was, uh…neat.”

“Nice.” 

“Cheers?” Caleb shrugged.

They clinked their drinks together and sipped. 

The music stopped playing. The speakers had unpaired themselves. The three men stood around in silence with their hands in their pockets.

Tracy walked back into the kitchen. She opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a mug. She tucked her hair behind her ear and Allan smiled. She looked up as he did and smiled back. She'd always been attractive, but he couldn't stop staring at her. Maybe it was the red, or the plunging V, but he felt like a 13-year-old again, totally unaware of what was happening to his body—despite possessing a deep knowledge of the human body. So, he waved, subtly, to distract her from the fact that he couldn't stop staring at her, but also to remind her that he was there. He was putting up with this. He could rescue her if she needed him to. Really, he was trying to call out to her: Please. Don’t leave me.

“So, dinner should be ready in about a half an hour,” Kitty announced as she and Elaine returned to the kitchen. “Why don’t we play a game while we wait?” Without music to dampen the sound, her voice echoed throughout the house. 

The color in Tracy’s face vanished. Her once bright cheeks now looked more like Elaine’s dress than the sexy red number she was wearing. He knew her interest in him was waning. He imagined the conversation that had transpired on their tour of the house. Wow, a doctor? Not great in bed, though? Kids? Cancer? Well is he looking to settle down? Kind of a wimp? He wracked his brain for a suggestion, but it was cluttered with images of Tracy’s breasts and ways to deliver bad news to children. 

“Is that enough time for a game?” Allan said. “Maybe we could just…” All he could think of was what he usually told his patients: play with Ms. Bunny and Mr. Turtle, which did not go over well out of context.

“Of course it’s enough time! I’ll get Clue.” Kitty said. She darted out of the room with the energy of a seven-year-old and returned a minute later with the game. 

Tracy had buried her face in her hands. Taking this as a signal—and an opportunity to touch her—Allan walked over to kitchen and rested his hand on her shoulder. Almost immediately, he worried the gesture was too platonic. He should have gone for the waist. It was too late. He’d already ruined it. 

He whispered, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of an excuse to leave before dinner.”

“Malaria?” She said. 

He laughed. 

He kissed her on the forehead, forgetting they were in such close quarters with Tracy’s friends. She smiled, though. He had committed. He was long-term boyfriend material. He was husband material. Get it together, Allan.

"Thanks for trying, though," she said and kissed him on the cheek. Major boyfriend points. 

They laid out the game on the oversized dining room table, along with the assortment of mugs guests were drinking from and two unopened bottles of wine. Tracy also grabbed the bottle she’d opened earlier and placed it between her and Allan. He looked longingly at his mug of dishwater whiskey on the end table. She must have taken notice because Tracy offered him her mug, from which he obligingly drank. 

He thought about grabbing her hand under the table, but he needed another two mugs of wine to get there. 

Kitty assigned Miss Scarlet to Tracy because of her outfit. Elaine was Miss White because of hers. Kitty went with Mrs. Peacock. Caleb insisted that the “doctor” be Professor Plum and couldn’t stop laughing at his own suggestion. John and Caleb played the roles of whatever they were closest to on the board. Allan thought about saying that Caleb should be Colonel Mustard because of the stain on his shirt collar, but wasn’t sure how that would go over in this crowd. He added it to his tally of things to tell Tracy later.

The minimal strategy and cut-throatedness required of Clue made for an uneventful and repetitive social experience. The accumulation of empty wine bottles on the table made for widespread overconfidence, and inflated entertainment value, in a children’s board game. 

Cards flashed back and forth across the table. Kitty stood each time she made a guess at whodunnit. It was clear tensions were building as Caleb and Kitty would check their notepads under the table to keep them secret from everyone. After scratching something onto her paper, Kitty said, “I can't believe I forgot the appetizers! I'll get them.” She slunk to the kitchen, trying to peer over Elaine's shoulder at her cards. 

Tracy and Allan were at the end of their bottle of wine when Kitty came back with a bowl of salsa, a bag of chips, and a tray of deviled eggs. Allan ate three of them.

“I think I’ve got the weapon,” Elaine said. 

“We’ve all got the weapon, Elaine,” said Caleb. 

“Well I’ve got the room narrowed down to just three.”

Allan looked at the cartoonish type on his notepad. He hadn’t checked anything off. He glanced at Tracy who was doodling on hers. He scribbled DEVILed Eggs? and slipped it to her in his best efforts to be clandestine. She giggled to herself. Boyfriend points. 

Kitty caught this gesture and eviscerated whatever amusement they’d found in it. “Stop cheating!” she screeched.

Allan blushed, like he'd been caught passing notes in fifth-grade. His mental age had further devolved. 

"Chill out, Kitty. We're not cheating. And it's your turn anyway, so why don't you just win the game and we can eat?"

“Oh, is it my turn?” said Kitty, resting her fingertips on her collarbone as if she'd walked out of Gone with the Wind.  She stood up. “I think I know it!"

“What?” screamed Caleb. “How can you possibly know? You definitely don’t know.” 

“I do too! I figured it out!” 

Tracy scribbled underneath Allan's note: It’s happening.

Still not sure if he had had enough wine, he made a bold move and grabbed her hand under the table. They were going over the rapids now. It was do, or die. Possibly literally. 

Allan watched John swallow a deviled egg whole. 

“Fuck you, Caleb! You always tell me I’m wrong!”

Allan looked at Tracy. She drank the last of her wine. He whispered to her, "Think we could make a run for it?"

"Funny," she said. 

"Seriously." 

They both looked to the door. 

Empowered by food, John stood up and tried to smooth the situation. Allan immediately regretted not trying to be more diplomatic. “Caleb, if she’s wrong, then the game keeps going. Let’s just—"

“Fine! Fine! Ruin the fucking game!”

Standing at the head of the table, Kitty made her accusation. “It was…” 

As she built the dramatic tension of her guess, John grabbed a chip and dove into the salsa. “This is really good, Kitty. Did you make it?”

“Mmhmm,” She smiled. “Now for my win. It was Mr. Green, with the lead pipe, in—"

No one heard the final component to her guess as John started coughing violently and grabbing at his throat. 

“John? Are you OK?” Elaine asked, rushing to him. 

“Is he choking?” Tracy said. 

“His face looks like it’s swelling up,” Allan said. “Does he have allergies?” John appeared to be nodding, but could also have been trying to dislodge something from his throat or have lost control of his body entirely. Allan also considered that he might be faking so he could leave this fucking dinner party. 

“He’s allergic to peanuts.” 

“Oh fuck!” shouted Kitty. 

“What? Are there peanuts in something?” Tracy said as she dropped Allan's hand and jolted up.

“No. I fucking lost!” Kitty was holding the envelope with the winning answers inside of it. While everyone had been trying to help John, she’d been checking to see if her accusation was right.

“You what? You are worried about this fucking game when my boyfriend might be dying?” Elaine, whom Allan was unable to assign a single personality trait to up to this point, looked murderous. 

“Kitty, are there peanuts in anything?” Tracy shouted. 

“Sometimes she puts them in the salsa,” Caleb said. Then, turning to Kitty he asked, “What room did you guess, Kitty?” 

“Who puts peanuts in salsa?” Elaine screamed. Allan had the same question.

He tried to ask Elaine if John had an EpiPen, but was drowned out by everyone’s shouting. Allan checked John’s pocket—nothing. “Tracy," he said into her ear, resting his hand on the small of her back, "Can you help me see if he has an EpiPen? Maybe in Elaine’s purse?”

John was lying on the ground, flailing about as Caleb, Kitty, and Elaine screamed in a cacophony of inaudible insults and interrogatives. 

“But the room, Kitty!” 

“I’m not telling you, Caleb!”

“My boyfriend is fucking dying!” 

Here, in the WASP-ridden suburbs, in a house with a breast implant fund jar, Allan’s medical career would be done in by a game of Clue and a bowl of salsa. A man was dying on the floor. He would bury his body with these people—the once-a-year friends of his might-be girlfriend, bound for eternity in the circle of hell reserved for adults who are way too competitive at board games. 

It was Allan, in the living room, with his dignity. 

She ran to Elaine’s purse and dumped it out revealing several condoms, a bottle of nail polish, a Twinkie, some half-empty packs of gum, and several loose dollar bills. There was no wallet. She finally found an EpiPen under some Pokémon cards that had tumbled out.

She gave it to Allan, who jammed it into John’s thigh.  

Realizing John was all right, Elaine stopped shouting. She crouched next to him and thanked Allan. Then she saw the contents of her purse splayed on the floor. She gasped and looked at Tracy. 

“You went through my purse?”

Tracy’s mouth fell agape. “Your fucking boyfriend is OK, thanks to my boyfriend. You’re welcome.”

Allan stood up and wiped his brow. Boyfriend. 

With the room’s attention directed at Allan, he picked up Caleb’s full mug of whiskey from the table and swallowed it in two gulps. Tracy raised an eyebrow and gave him a half-smile. He grinned back. Manly.

Turning to the group of spectators, Allan said, gesturing toward John, who was still lying on the floor, “You might want to take him to the ER.” He turned back to Tracy. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

The couple sprinted for the door and descended the austere concrete steps together.

"You called me your boyfriend." 

"Is that not accurate?"

"No, it's just...I thought you were bringing me here so it would be easier to break up with me or something."

"You're too fucking sensitive, Allan," she said and took his hand.

From the bottom of the stairs, Allan could faintly make out Caleb's voice. “But what room did you say, Kitty?”