Free The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth Mckenzie Page A

hands. Wash off the world.
    “Everything all right?”
    Paul grabbed a dish towel and twisted it. “It’s probably not fair to hate her for saying ‘in clinic,’ is it? ‘I’ll see you in clinic.’”
    “She dropped the article? What a bitch.”
    “Yeah. It sounds clammy and invasive, like she’s breathing on my genitals.”
    Veblen backed off, took two beers from the refrigerator, popped the caps. “She’d better not.”
    “Thanks.” Bottoms up. The beer tasted bitter, and landed heavily in his gut. “It’s a lot to absorb. They’ve had a big response to our call for volunteers.”
    “That’s great, Paul. See? You deserve it.”
    “The question remains, what ‘it’ is I deserve.” He sighed. “All these caring families are hanging around. It feels like a lot of pressure. I hope I know what I’m doing.”
    “That must be unnerving. Take one day at a time,” Veblen said. “No one expects you to undo the damage of the military industrial complex overnight.”
    “Ha!” He snorted. “Are you sure?” He finished his bottle. The foam bubbled on his lips, tickling like root beer and first kisses.

      4
    N OTHING A BOUT Y OU I S B AD
    A nd so, within a few weeks, the visit to Cobb was upon them. Meet the parents . A classic rite of passage, inevitable, except that the irregularities of her mother’s personality held a certain terror for Veblen. (She reminded herself that all humans were flawed, no family faultless, and whatever happened that day, it was part of the rich tapestry of life .) Her mother would surely rise to the occasion this time, wouldn’t she? And Paul, who routinely dissected brains, could surely endure her mother too.
    The couple set off early on a bright Saturday, skirting the traffic-ensnarled Bay Area heading north, past the minaret-like towers of the oil refineries at Martinez, past the ghost fleet of warships mothballed away in the Carquinez Strait, discussing the myriad future. There were so many things to talk about when one decided to get married, and Paul had waited to share some exciting news.
    “Looks as if Cloris Hutmacher has offered us her house for the wedding,” he said, his voice crackling mostly with pride, but with an undertone of something else.
    He told her he’d seen Cloris that week and announced their engagement. And Cloris had leaped right in. She said, why not her place in May? Small pink Cecile Brunners covered the arbor in May. Every guest could pluck one. The light in May was perfect, the days were long. Her caterer was amazing. Sadly, she wouldn’t be there, she’d be away. But wouldn’t it be wonderful? And Paul quickly understood that if she weren’t there, he wouldn’t have to worry about whatever it was that he worried about with his family around. As such, the Hutmacher venue was a feather in his cap, a long pheasant feather, such as those found on the felted hats of Tyrolean yodelers, and as the plucker of it, he wished to be acknowledged as a plucker extraordinaire.
    (Which reminded Veblen, as her mind was quick to fly, of her childhood confusion between peasants and pheasants ; it seemed brutal, insane aristocrats brought along “beaters” to sweep through the woods clubbing hedgerows and trees to scare them out and gun them down, which was shocking either way, really, but proved the madness of too much privilege.)
    “She sure seems to like you,” Veblen said, jealously.
    “Purely professional,” Paul said, clearing his throat.
    “But you know, I was imagining somewhere outside, maybe in the redwoods.”
    Paul said, “Wouldn’t that be kind of funky and messy? Paper plates crumpling in people’s laps, nowhere for the older people to sit—we should think of their comfort too. This would be so easy, and it’s beautiful there.”
    “I’ve never seen it.”
    “We’ll go soon. And it’s a real connection for us. It’s not some rented gazebo.”
    Veblen felt strangely unmoved. She didn’t know Cloris Hutmacher and