Free Such a Pretty Face by Cathy Lamb Page A

with their plasticky smiles to dinner and placed them in chairs around our table.
    Fiona Butterfly was lovely in her purple bathing suit with gold butterflies flitting across it.
    Katerina was also splendid. She was a naked doll, so, for modesty’s sake, Lance had draped her with a gold sari. Already two people had made comments and Lance had handed out his Lucky Ladies business card. One man almost slobbered over Fiona Butterfly. His wife yanked him away.
    “I think we should talk about your parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary party,” I said as I slipped a spoonful of strawberry sorbet into my mouth, which was supposed to “clean my palate.”
    “Even thinking about talking about Mom and Dad’s fortieth makes me want to blow in a sack,” Polly said, breathing hard, her mouth in an O. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to plan it. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to be a part of this crime.”
    “But we have to, Polly,” I said. “It’s coming up.”
    “Dad should plan it,” Lance said, his face darkening. “Nothing we do is going to be right.”
    “That’s true. He’ll hate the whole thing.” Polly put her white cloth napkin over her face and breathed deep. “All will be wrong. All done poorly. Putridly. Such a disappointment his kids are to him—it’s his wife’s fault, her family is crazy.”
    I felt my usual pangs of pain.
    “He wants us to do it so he can tell the state of Oregon what a fantastic dad he is. See here, Portland, my kids gave me my anniversary party.”
    I finished my sorbet and put my spoon down. My hands were starting to shake. See what the mention of one boorish, testicle-trouncing man can do to sane people?
    “I’m going to bring my blow-up girls to the party,” Lance announced.
    “You’re kidding,” I said.
    “Oh, stop,” Polly wheezed. “Let me get my hyperventilation under control before you throw something jack-crazy at me. I’m picturing all these naked blow-up dolls with cushy boobs sitting at the head table with Mom and Dad.”
    “I’m going to do it. Good advertising.” He reached out a hand and patted Katerina. She almost fell off the chair. I caught her by the hip and propped her back up, ignoring the pointed stares of the three well-dressed, snobby women behind me.
    “Plus I need the comfort they give me,” Lance said. “Good comfort.”
    “Are the invitations ready to go?” I asked. The party was months out, but Herbert wanted everything shipshape.
    Polly didn’t answer.
    “That was your job, Polly Wants a Cracker,” Lance said, real gentle and sweet.
    Polly balled up the napkin in her hands and rocked back and forth. Her hair was up in a ponytail, the auburn curls cascading down in red and gold. She was wearing an overly large, white T-shirt; a flowing red, cottony shirt down to her knees; and jeans. She was trying to cover up. I felt sick for her.
    “You did do the invitations, didn’t you?” I asked.
    Polly whimpered and breathed into her napkin.
    The waiter came by and discreetly took my and Lance’s sorbet cups, but not Polly’s. She hadn’t eaten hers.
    “The invitations aren’t ready, are they, honey?” Lance asked.
    Polly whimpered again.
    “You haven’t even started them, have you?” I asked.
    She threw her napkin down.
    There was an electric silence, and then I said, “I’m going to take that as a no.”
    Polly threw both hands in the air, shook them, stomped her feet under the table, and said, in a pitchy voice, “I don’t think they should have the party. There’s nothing to celebrate, and I don’t want to be a part of this lie. I hate that Mom married Dad. I hate that she’s still married to him. I see this as forty years of Mom being stuck with Dad. She probably would have had more freedom in prison with a girlfriend named Maude. And a penchant for handcuffs.”
    No one moved except for Fiona Butterfly, who fell off her chair. Our waiter scurried on over and put her right back up, then