I’m not sure what I’m more mesmerized by—Caspian or Johan’s Dolly Parton action figures—when I realize that one of the Dollys has a scruffy mutt by her side, with long legs and a spot over one eye, like a patch. “Who’s that supposed to be?” I ask Johan, pointing at Dolly and her dog.
Johan says, “I call him Cracker Jack.”
“You gave him a name?” I ask, impressed.
Caspian sings from a Dolly song, “He wasn’t much to look at / But he looked alright to me,” and his pitch is so perfect, and beautiful, that everyone claps.
Then Parker reaches over Caspian to grab some pretzels from a bowl on the coffee table, around which everyone is gathered, waiting for Sam to serve the meal (dinner is taking forever!), and quickly the sweet song moment goes sour. In his eager reaching, Parker accidentally bumps Caspian’s…er…sock, and Caspian apparently doesn’t like to be touched. Caspian lets out a small shrieking noise that sounds like a bird being squashed by a tennis ball (served by Serena Williams). The shriek is sharp, piercing, and awful; there’s nothing Dolly-like about this noise of Caspian’s at all. The surprise chirp of horror causes Parker to jump for a moment, and nudge Jason’s elbow, which then causes a splash from Jason’s drink to land directly on KK’s very exposed cleavage. KK slaps Jason, and then Parker, but Caspian saves the day by exclaiming, “It’s not him, it’s me!”
Everyone laughs—even Parker, who Sam has told me hates this joke.
KK looks at Caspian and then shoots me a look like, Who is this guy? Not like, Who is this nutjob? but more like, Where has this guy been all my life?
When KK and I were scamming on hot guys playing basketball in Central Park, and our eyes landed on pale but beautiful, blond Freddie, we honestly had no idea about Freddie’s friend Caspian. I guess Caspian naps when Freddie’s hands are otherwise busy? We totally believed Freddie’s story about him being an exchange student from Poland. His English was stunted and accented, he was wearing a white T-shirt that said SOLIDARNOŚĆ in red, and he drank a cold-pressed beet juice to cool off during time-outs. He had the awkward but resigned dribble of a player groomed in a formerly Communist country. Seemed plausibly Polish to us. Freddie should have been excellent Sam-bait. Eastern European accent: check. Sporty-looking but poorly sport-playing: check. Bleeding-heart lefty: check. Healthy-juice drinker: check.
Fooled us.
Caspian? He has a flawless American accent (sounds like New Orleans or New Jersey, which are pretty much the same accent, according to Czarina), and his English is perfectly fluent, if not downright native. By the way he stares at KK’s cleavage, he’s definitely not gay. Freddie’s blue eyes are stone cold and unmoving, but if it was possible for drool to form from Caspian’s pert little red-stitched mouth as his green button eyes ogle KK’s maid outfit, it would.
Caspian’s charm is short-lived, however. In my direction, he exclaims, “Geraldine, I see you and your deformity! I despise you!”
Everyone looks at me. Clearly, he’s talking to me, but I don’t get it. “Who’s Geraldine?” I ask Caspian. I’m slightly wishing that Geraldine is another sock puppet. I’m feeling sad for Czarina. So many dinner parties she threw in this apartment, and here’s the most interesting guest of all time at the end of this apartment’s tenure in our family, and Czarina’s not here to meet him.
Like it’s obvious, Caspian says, “The blue cat on your dress.”
I point out, “There are several blue cats on my dress. It’s a pattern.”
“Geraldine!” Caspian spews. “The one with the lazy eye! She disgusts me.”
And there it is. Our bigot: check. Czarina would be so happy.
There’s a palpable pause from the other guests, as I believe we’re all trying to figure out exactly where that line is between eccentric and lunatic, and should we be amused or scared? Sam arrives from the kitchen, sweaty and disheveled, before we make the official determination. He carries the lasagna to the dinner table and pronounces, “Time to eat. Sorry it’s late. The sink thing threw me off. Thanks for the wrench save, Caspian.” We gather around the table and inspect Sam’s creation. It looks crisp, steaming, with browned, gurgling cheese on the top. Sam adds, “It’s a little overbaked. Sorry.”
I’m pleased. Jason Goldstein-Chung loves Sam’s lasagna, and tonight, he won’t get to enjoy it at all. If we’re lucky, it will burn his mouth and give him indigestion. Jason was never good enough for Sam, or Sam’s lasagna.
Parker pats Sam’s back supportively. “Looks delicious,” Parker says.
The salad is already on the table, and Caspian leans over to inspect it. There’s no scrunching of his nose (because he doesn’t have one), but he lets out an audible sniffing sound despite Freddie’s nose and mouth both not moving. Caspian says, “Is that…mayonnaise I smell in the salad?”
Of course we’re all wondering how Caspian actually has a sense of smell, but gentleman Sam answers Caspian straightforwardly. “In the dressing,” Sam says. “It’s a Waldorf salad.”
“Why don’t you just pile a can of lard directly on the lettuce greens while you’re at it?” Caspian spews.
“Hey!” I start to say, about to put Caspian in his place. Why’d he get so suddenly bratty? Low blood sugar? Skipped his meds today? Then I remember he’s a sock puppet. Somehow it seems exactly right that he should be so inconsistent with his moods.
KK’s already on her phone. “Just ordered a sushi platter.”
Li Zhang says, “Should we order a pizza? I mean, in addition to that amazing-looking lasagna?” Her face reveals total revulsion to Sam’s cooking. I don’t know why he’s so off tonight. Usually his meals are masterpieces. I pray the anxiety that Sam tries so hard to suffocate by not acknowledging it exists is not the chef really in charge of Sam’s soul—and culinary prowess—tonight.
Sam sighs. I sigh.
