Free Larry's Party by Carol Shields Page A

leaves and flowers all day long. But he keeps his mouth shut. The last thing Stu wants is a fight.
    His son calls him Dad or Da; in return he calls Larry nothing, just you. Neither of them can remember when this started, but Larry recognizes his no-name status as a temporary form of shyness on his father’s part; ha! temporary for life. But shyness is all it amounts to. After all, his dad lent him money for his down payment, didn’t he? And he had a load of top-quality topsoil delivered to Larry’s house yesterday morning before Larry and Dorrie were even out of bed.
    Six o’clock. Larry’s folks always sit down for supper at six sharp, even when it’s a special occasion like today, and even though Midge hasn’t turned up or had the courtesy to telephone. The drapes have been pulled shut all day to keep the heat down, and the light seeping into the living room is the color of dusty amber. It’s crowded with the table pulled out and with having to squeeze in extra chairs and the hot dishes lined up on the sideboard. Little Ryan starts making a fuss, grabbing at the tablecloth, and Dot frets about him knocking over the glass dish of pickled onions. She’s really worried about death, that her table of carefully prepared food will bring damage, not nourishment, to those she loves best in the world. “Sit down, Mum,” Larry says, as he pulls out her chair - a rare gesture in this house, an unbelievable gesture - and helps her to settle comfortably. He’d like to lean over and touch his cheek to the top of her freshly combed hair. “Well,” she says looking around, “pick up your forks, everyone.”
    At that moment Midge in shorts and an orange and pink T-shirt bursts through the back door, her car keys jingling from the fingers of one hand, a bag of dinner rolls in the other, her contribution. She drops the rolls in the center of the table, still in their plastic Safeway bag. The next minute she’s dragging in an immense unwieldy wrapped parcel which is a birthday present for her brother, but which won’t be opened until after dessert, after the candles are blown out and the pie consumed. Larry already knows it will be something for the yard, a piece of gardening equipment or an exotic plant maybe. His sister has always known how to read him. Mits, he calls her, or Mit-Brain or Pigeon.
    She takes her place at the table, squeezing in between her mother and Dorrie, waving her arms. She’s steaming with a jumble of excuses and fresh news, as well as with the humid heat of the day. Sorry, sorry, sorry, everyone, she says, but she’s been away all weekend to an anger workshop at a Gimli resort. Two hundred women took part. If you signed up early you got ten percent off, but she only heard of it on Friday afternoon, so she knocked off work early, said she had a headache, then packed up the car and hit the road. No time to phone, just a spur of the moment thing, an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. There was an anger workshop leader up from the States. Yeah, really, that’s her specialty. What a woman! Gray hair down to her waist, barefoot, and she’s got a PhD in something or other, she’s a doctor, that’s her title, travels all over the place, writes books, gives lectures, TV talk shows, Phil Donahue and so forth. Holler it out, that’s what she demands of her anger groups. Scream, yell, weep till you pee, hang on to each other. Tell your story, then bury it, and that’s what they did. They gathered on the beach early this morning, just as the sun was coming up over the horizon of Lake Winnipeg, two hundred shouting, half-clothed women, and in one orchestrated moment - there was a sort of drum roll provided and a loudspeaker - each of them threw into the mild waves a symbolic pebble, their compacted rage, their flinty little burdens of hoarded injustice. Oh, God, it was beautiful, the peace of it, the relief. Right there on the beach there were these gigantic urns of tea, it’s called peace tea, it’s made