We decided on an intimate dinner party. Never mind I had never met Harold's parents before. Never mind I was a vegetarian and his family wasmeat-and-potatoes-Midwestern. Never mind Harold's father was a mortician.

I met Harold Anderson nearly three years before at the health food store on 45th Street on a rainy Saturday night. Clearly, neither of us had any big social plans for the evening. Harold was seeking out flax seed for a regularity problem. He had that corn fed Minnesota good looks, a blond shock of hair that boyishly flopped onto
his forehead, gray-blue eyes that begged to be noticed behind a set of frail wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the glasses, he always squinted at me as if I wasn't quite in focus.

The dinner party was planned, as luck would have it, for another rainy Saturday night. Harold's parents were in town for a mortician's convention. Harold was in charge of meat. I was in charge of 'side dishes'�. I settled on squash soup and an asparagus strata.

Harold was working on a large hunk of pork. He kept looking over at me so I finally asked him if there was anything wrong.

'That might be a little exotic for my parents.'�

I ignored him. 'What kind of wine do they drink?'�

'Oh, they don't.'�

'Don't what?'�

He looked confused. 'Don't drink ' you know, alcohol. They'll have milk.'�

Milk? I checked the fridge. Nope, no milk.

'Harold, when were you going to tell me about the milk thing?'�

'Sorry, I forgot.'� He looked chagrined. 'Water will be okay.'�

'I can't just serve water.'�

'Okay, do coffee then. With some of that fancy creamer of yours. That way they'll think we're a couple of gour-mets.'� He pronounced it like the baseball team.

I changed into my standard demure outfit: cream linen slacks and a turquoise silk blouse, two buttons unbuttoned, no cleavage. When the knock came at the door, Harold looked over at me, stricken.

'Aren't you going to answer it?'� I whispered across the room.

'You do it,'� he whispered back.

I rolled my eyes and opened the door. I was met by a large, ruddy face, eyes peering at me through rain-drop soaked glasses ' Harold's face on steroids. Behind him stood a little round woman, a dumpling with arms and legs. As I offered my hand, the man captured me in a bear embrace and forced the wind out of me.

'Ed. Ed Anderson. You must be Caroline.'�

I had stiffened like one of his cadavers. My family didn't hug. We were a family of hand-shakers and air-kissers.

I ushered them in from the porch. They were dripping, leaving a large puddle on our new parquet floor. I looked down at my silk blouse, now a mass of water blotches and wrinkles. Harold was still hiding back by the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon and wearing my 'Kiss the Cook'� apron.

It's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.'� I said.

'Oh, no.'� His o's strung out to four syllables. 'The name's Ed. No Mr. Anderson here!'� He turned to wink and whispered behind a massive hand, 'Makes me feel old, don'cha know.'� He gestured toward the dumpling. 'This here's Cassandra.'�

She came at me, all rolls and pink cheeks, arms outstretched. I braced myself.

'Sorry about your floor, dear. Now don't you listen to him, there. Just call me Sassy.'�

'Nice to meet you, Sassy,'� I sputtered into her hair, getting a mouthful of Aqua Net.

Harold came to life. 'Hey, Mom, Dad, how's the convention?'�

Sassy piped in, 'Oh, those guys get wild at these things, Harold. Like a buncha college boys, I tell you.'�

I tried to picture a mortician frat party.

'Well, dinner's ready. Why don't we all sit down?'� While Harold assigned seats, I served the soup.

'Mom, Dad, coffee?'� Harold offered.

Sassy pouted. 'Oh, Honey, do you have any milk? My tummy has been acting all funny ' all this rich food, ya know.'�

'No, Mom, no milk. Sorry.'�

She was clearly disappointed. 'Water, then. Water would be fine.'�

'I'll have coffee, Son.'� I silently thanked Ed until he took a sip. 'What kinda coffee we got here, Harold?'�

'It's Starbucks, Dad. French Roast.'�

'Oh, that Starbucks. It always tastes kinda burnt, if you ask me.'�

'Would you rather have water, Dad?'�

'No, no'�don't want to be a bother. Coffee is fine.'� He added more creamer, sending the coffee overboard onto the table.

Sassy looked down at her bowl, then up at me. 'What kinda soup is this, dear?'�

'Squash soup,'� I replied. The damn stuff had taken hours to prepare.

'Where's the squash?'� She looked bewildered.

'It's pureed.'�

Maybe Harold was right. I hadn't appreciated the exotic nature of squash.

'Oh, you used that food processor gizmo, eh? Never used one, myself. Want ta keep all my fingers, don'cha know.'� Sassy chuckled.

'Soup's good, Caroline.'� Ed had inhaled his. 'Maybe we should puree the rest of dinner!'�

Harold carved the pork roast while I collected the soup bowls. Sassy hardly touched hers.

As Ed watched Harold carve the meat, he was moved to share the story of how he had to saw through Jim Olson's ankle to get him into his burial suit. 'Had to do it,'� Ed explained, 'that foot just wouldn't budge.'�

Mid-slice, Harold looked up at his father.

'Uh, Dad, Caroline doesn't do animal flesh.'�

Very graceful, Harold.

'Oh, but I wasn't talkin' animal flesh, here, now was I, Caroline? All that carving just reminded me of ole Jim.'� Ed slunk into his chair.

Sassy tried to save the conversation. 'I'm not too fond of that animal flesh myself, Caroline. I remember back on the farm when mama used to disembowel the chickens.'� She shuddered.

Ed, eyes fixed on his empty plate, muttered, 'Jim Olson was my friend. I'd a'never have done that if he was alive'�.'�

It was going to be a very long evening.

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