Eighteen for Dinner

The table was set with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware, wine glasses sparkled, everything meticulously laid out for the dinner party. Extra maids in uniform darted about doing last minute chores and making last minute preparations. A dozen or so bottles of wine and champagne were brought from the cellar and set on ice in shiny silver buckets, candles were lit and lights dimmed. A fire had been laid in the den and several guests in black tie and tails gathered about it, cocktails in hand, chatting like old friends. Not a single thing was out of place, not a single carefully arranged rose would have dared to wilt.

I don't remember what the party was actually for, only that I had lived in dread of it for days, praying uselessly for a migraine or an outbreak of some wickedly contaigous disease - an out of town emergency would've served nicely but I couldn't manufacture one that would've deceived everyone. My husband, a spotlight seeker of the first magnitude and totally at home with his family's wealth and status, dismissed my fears as petty nonsense. Having been born and raised in privilege, he took it all for granted and reveled in the attention while I could only cling to the fringe, sure that I would be unmasked as lower middle class, out of place and certainly undeserving. Smile! he snapped me, Mingle! They won't bite you! My mother in law appeared in a gliding swirl of green satin and emeralds and took my elbow firmly. Come, darling, she stage whispered in my ear, You look lovely, let me introduce you to the mayor and his wife. I frantically reached for a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray and tried to steady my nerves and pretend that I couldn't hear my heart thundering like an avalanche of logs. Escape seemed like a faraway dream but I held onto the possibility for dear life, as if drowning in this sea of elite.

Rescue came from an unexpected source - an amazingly chubby and short statured little man with a full head of hair and an impressive beard, smoking a pipe and wearing a tweed suit - shockingly out of place in the formally attired room - smiled at me. There was something in that smile that suggested resignation and familiarity, a hint of satire at the social circus going on all around us, something that was very much like reality. I smiled back and he got to his feet and gently took my arm, suggesting that we get some air.

This was my sister in law's husband, a forensic pathologist who would one day become coroner for the parish and who would die all too young, leaving behind a cloud of suspicion about his work. But on that night, he was an outsider who recognized another outsider and did something about it. It's not an easy family to marry into, he told me, but you'll get the hang of it if you decide to stay. And now to practicalities, he relit his pipe and exhaled sweet smoke, Do you know your silverware?

We talked until dinner was served and then he deftly altered seating arrangements so that we were side by side. I paid attention to the silverware, accepted wine sparingly, kept my hands in my lap and was comforted knowing he was next to me, taking up social slack and being charming, managing to include me in conversation and making me feel entitled to be at the table. Among all the gltter and gold, I had found not just a kindred spirit, but a friend.