Friedley

The scene is this: an antique looking room lined with books and filled with Persian rugs, Victorian furniture and numerous knickknacks collected over a well-lived, well-traveled life. A grand piano occupies the far right corner of the room. Stiffly dressed waiters hold trays of French sounding appetizers while smartly dressed men drink wine and try not to fidget with their ties. Elegant women stand in their silk and velvet dresses, silhouetted by the three fireplaces. They look like something out of an old black and white movie: perfectly coifed and movements liquid. They are obviously High Society. It is apparent in their trilling laughs and the way they bring their wine glasses to their mouths to take a tiny sip. It is what numerous actresses have rehearsed and attempted to mimic, casually formal elegance which comes naturally to these women.

By the piano stands a girl of about sixteen dressed in a crème silk blouse and an olive felt skirt. Her arms are crossed and she is nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot whilst trying to keep her balance in gold colored heels. Her expression is one of forced congeniality and a false smile graces her face as if she is thinking What the Hell am I doing here? She could not be more different from the other woman.

This awkward girl standing by the piano unfortunately happens to be me. I have been forced to attend the Strawbridge Family Christmas Dinner, an annually held formal affair that I dread with a passion. One might think my dislike of this event to be an unfamily-like and misanthropic attitude but the truth is I am perfectly justified in my sentiments concerning this affair. When I think of a Family Christmas Dinner, images of hyper children and home cooked dishes served onto Styrofoam plates fill my mind. It is quite the opposite of where I am now. There are no children here. In fact, I am the youngest, the second youngest being about thirty two. There is nothing as miserable and boring that this, at least, nothing that I can imagine.

So I stand on the outskirts of the guests, barely touched by the cloud of amiability which surrounds them. I lift my eyes above the crowd to find a certain long haired head. For a brief moment, I am happy that I decided to wear heels tonight. They lend me a certain height which I find very acceptable.

Finding the head in question, I see that my aunt is in conversation with some obscure relative whom I have never known until this night. Some family we are, I think as my hopes of finding a talking companion are dashed. Or perhaps not, as I see a falsely blonde woman of about forty years (or more as she appears to have done everything to mask her age) saunter towards me. Her eyes twinkle and her face is reddened from the half empty wine glass in her perfectly manicured hand. I highly doubt that this is her first glass.

“Oh hello dear! How are you?” the woman (I think her name is Debra. No idea how exactly I’m related to her) gushes in what she assumes is a maternal voice. To me, she simply sounds drunk. She is a very grating woman, at least to me. Her manner is demeaning for she treats me as if I were a child dressed in a pink bunny suit. However, I mask my pain and answer her. “Very nice, thank you. And you?” At this point, my smile is so forced that it is painful to maintain.

“Pleasant! Tell me, how is school going with you?”

“Very nice. We’re studying The Catcher and the Rye in English.”

“Oh, that’s a nice story.” She’s never read it.

“I liked it. J. D. Salinger is an amazing author. I think he’s now my favorite. Did you—”

“Oh that’s nice. My, you’ve grown. Last time I saw you was when you were four. You were so cute then! How old are you now?” So I have met her before.

“Sixteen.”

“Wow, that is old.” I all but wince at this. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Oh please, not this. Anything but the boyfriend question!

“No.”

“Well you better get a move on, sweetie, or they’ll all be gone!”

Then, just as I am about ready to grab her wine glass and gulp down the remains, a waiter enters and announces “Dinner is ready!” and I am rescued from the woman.

Earlier, my grandparents and I had peeked into the dining room to discover where exactly we would be sitting (For some reason, we always have assigned seats). My grandfather is to be at the head of the table, Grandma in the middle and I at the end. I didn’t bother to check who is to be next to me; it was going to be a boring evening anyway.

As it turns out, I am seated between an old man whom I have never met and my second cousin-in-law Margaret. Margaret is generally considered to be the beauty of the family. And she is very beautiful, but it is a dark beauty, all black hair and brown eyes. Her skin is an Italian olive shade, giving her an exotic air. I believe she is highly aware of this as she tries to add to it by claiming to be a vegetarian and traveling to India every other week. She is friendly enough but a bore to talk to. Thankfully, my grandfather rises to read the prayer chosen for the dinner.

A silence falls and I bow my head with the rest of the family, wondering what my incredibly conservative great aunt would think if I told her that I’m an atheist and I believe Jesus was a hippie.

He finishes and we mutter amen. Waiters come through the swinging kitchen door and dinner is served. I am glad for this for it gives me an excuse not to talk. Instead, I eat my food and listen to the conversation around me, trying not to imagine what my liberated friends are doing this evening. Probably homework, I think, remembering that it is a Tuesday. However, I am not spared from conversation as the old man next to me introduces himself.

“Hello, my name is Freidley.”

I am taken aback at first. It is about the oddest man I had ever laid eyes on. His hair is all white and erratically poufs, reminding me of Albert Einstein. He has the appearance of a fuddly-duddly old man, good natured and friendly. He is the only man in the room wearing a bow tie (and a very loud one at that) and his glasses are perfectly round and thick framed.

I immediately take a liking to him.

“Hi,” I answer back.

“So, who are you related to?” He asks me, invoking a suppressed giggle from me. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one confused by our family tree.

“Well, somehow to everyone in this room, but I have no idea how. Basically, my grandfather is Ned and my grandmother is his wife Rachel.” And on an after thought I add, “Oh, and Darby and Dennis McCarthy are my aunt and uncle.”

“Darby got married!” he exclaims and then mutters, “No one told me that!”

“Well, now you know!” I answer with a bit of cheek. Freidley seems the type who wouldn’t mind that.

“I swear, once you get to be my age, people start marrying and dying right and left. Every other week I’m either going to a wedding or a funeral. Or the occasional Christening which are the worst.”

I laugh right out loud at this and Freidley smiles. Perhaps he, too, is happy to have someone to talk to. He is very amiable and absolutely hilarious, but it seems to be the type my family would treat like a ridiculous pet, like they treat me.

“Euh, you laugh now. Before you know it you’ll be my age and then…” he trails off for he cannot think of what my then will be. I fill him in.

“And then I’ll be the grouchy old lady with thirty cats and who all the neighbourhood children are afraid of. At least, that’s what I hope to be.”

Freidley smiles and chuckles at this. “So, and I am perfectly aware that this question has already been asked to death, but what are you studying in school? I’m curious about that.”

For once, this question doesn’t annoy me. I think it is because he asked about my studies instead of the over used “How’s school?”

“Well, I’m taking Astronomy this semester.”

Freidley appears surprised at this. “They offer Astronomy in high school?! We didn’t have that!” he says with a hint of jealousy. Then, with curiosity, he continues, “What do you do in it?”

“Well, we had to memorize eighty-eight constellations and know about how to find the location of a star, the sky grid and stuff like that.”

“What ever happened to just plain old Chemistry and Biology?”

“It’s still taught. Actually they are required.”

There must have been some resentment in my voice for he says rather than asks, “Science isn’t your thing.”

“Nope,” slipping into informal speech. To hell with the rest of the people around me. As far as I am concerned, Freidley and I are the only ones there.

“What is?”

“English,” I say. “I’m a big literature and writing person.”

His eyes light up with excitement, as if he is a child who has been given a cookie before dinner. “English was my favorite subject in school. I very much like literature. What are you reading this year?”

I list for him the books I’ve been forced to read this year: The Sound and the Fury, Beloved, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and The Catcher in the Rye. Freidley seems a little dubious about The Sound and the Fury and he has never heard of Beloved.

“It’s a book by Toni Morrison,” I answer. “It’s about an escaped slave who kills her daughter to protect her from slavery and the ghost of the baby comes back to get revenge.”

“Sounds like a pleasant book to read.”

I laugh. “It’s a very creepy story but the writing is incredible.”

“I’ll have to look into that. But you mentioned The Sound and the Fury?”

I nod.

“That seems a little heavy duty for high school,” he says.

“Well, it’s an honors course.”

His eyebrows raise. “You must love reading then.”

I answer affirmatively. “I love the books we read in class, but some of them aren’t as enjoyable.”

“Like what?”

“The Sound and the Fury.”

“I don’t blame you,” he laughs. “Some people don’t read that until college.”

“It is hard. I mean, Faulkner’s a good writer and all, but he is so difficult to read.”

“Did you know it probably wasn’t Faulkner who wrote his works?”

I cock my head at this, surprised, yet not really, that Freidley likes conspiracy theories. No wonder we get along so well. I ask him to tell me more and he does, seemingly quite happy to tell me this. It is very amusing and I ask him if he believes the same about Shakespeare.

“Oh no, Shakespeare was a genius. Have you read any of his stuff?”

“Yes, Twelfth Night is my favorite!”

“Which one is that?”

“It’s the one where Viola disguises herself as a boy and works for a Duke who she falls in love with and then he sends her to woo Lady Olivia who then falls in love with Viola who has a twin brother who shows up and falls in love with Olivia.” This all comes out in one very long breath.

“I take it that this is one of his comedies.”

I nod my head. “I saw it performed at the Arden Theater. They did a really good job.”

Our conversation turns into an exchange on literary thoughts. He is very interested in what I have to say about certain novels and offers advice like “never read Ulysses.” Somewhere along the line I reveal to him that I write on my own time and my ambition to become a published author. I am very surprised by his response to this. Usually when I reveal this, people simply smile and nod while thinking that I am delusional. Before Freidley, only one of my friends has actively encouraged me to pursue my ambition. Freidley doesn’t say much, but at least he takes my ambition seriously.

While desert is being served, I realize that almost two hours have passed, all of which I have spent talking with Freidley! I smile as I eat my desert, making a mental note to thank my great-grandmother for seating me next to this charming man. I can’t remember ever having a conversation with an adult, an elderly man at that, and being treated older than two. He didn’t treat me like a mindless teenager either which, thanks to Margaret’s younger days, is the general assumption of the rest of the family. Instead, he engaged me in an intellectual conversation where we exchanged ideas and thought. It’s a wonderful feeling, being treated like an adult.

For once, I’m actually sad when Christmas Dinner comes to an end. Even after the actual meal is over, Freidley sits with me in the living room whilst everyone else laughed obnoxiously and drinks more wine. Freidley and I snickered at their slightly drunken antics and contented ourselves with literature and pulling a cracker or two.

So at the end, my grandparents came to fetch me, thanking Freidley for keeping me company.

“I’d be happy to do it any time,” he answers and I smile brighter than I have all evening. They turn to bid everyone good night, pulling me along with them. I look back at Freidley, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you,” I say and want to say more, but his smile tells me that he already knows. My grandparents call me, urging me to hurry up. I am about to tell him good night, but he beats me to it.

“I’ll be looking for you on bookshelves,” he says and smiles one last time before turning and bidding adieu to some third cousin twice removed.

Later in the car, I find myself looking forward to next year’s Strawbridge Family Christmas Dinner.