Chapter 3.

3.

We had all the ingredients of a perfect road trip: clear blue skies, puffy white clouds, three lanes of swiftly moving traffic, and a newly serviced Jeep Wrangler with a full tank of gas. Tammy was a good traveling companion; she knew how to read a map, she chose radio stations she knew I could tolerate, and she’d packed a small insulated cooler with sodas, snacks, energy bars, Tylenol, breath mints, Kleenex, Handi Wipes, and just about anything else we might need.

The problem was Little Miss Chatterbox in the back seat. Generally speaking, my sister cared for two different types of foster kids. The first type never said a word. Through some combination of bad luck, bad parenting, and various forms of trauma, they’d learned to keep their mouths shut, and they spoke only when spoken to. They asked no questions and volunteered zero information. As if they feared the slightest wrong syllable might result in disaster.

Abigail clearly fell into the second category. These were the kids who couldn’t stop talking. They were always on, always sharing, always making bids for your attention and affection. These kids seemed happier than the silent ones, but Tammy warned me that looks could be deceiving. She maintained that the chatty kids were equally trauma tized and sometimes a lot worse. They just did a better job of hiding their pain.

Abigail had a thousand questions about Maggie and Aidan: How old were they? Where did they meet? When did they know they were destined to spend the rest of their lives together? After an hour of Q&A, I sighed long and loud, trying to suggest that enough was enough, but the kid kept going: How many guests were invited? What kind of cake were they serving? Would the reception have live music? She cross-referenced our answers against the enormous book in her lap: Lady Evelyn’s Complete Guide to Wedding Etiquette . My sister had found a used copy at a library book sale for a dollar, and she’d encouraged Abigail to study it so she’d know how to behave at the ceremony. The bride on the cover was straight out of 1965, and the pages were brittle and yellow and stank of sour milk.

“Are you walking Maggie down the aisle?”

“Yes.”

“You have to stay on her left side, Mister Frank. If you walk on her right side, it’s bad luck.”

I glanced at my sister. “Is that true?”

She shrugged. “If Lady Evelyn says so.”

Abigail leaned over the book with a sharpened pencil and underlined a key passage. “You should read all of Chapter Seven. There’s a whole list of Daddy Dos and Daddy Don’ts. Would you like to hear one?”

“No, thank you.”

I reached to turn up the radio but Tammy pushed my hand away. “I’d like to hear one,” she said. “I bet there are some good tips.”

“ Do tell your daughter she looks beautiful,” Abigail read. “ Don’t criticize your future son-in-law. Try to focus on his positive qualities.”

I said, “I’m already doing that,” but Tammy went, “Hmmph,” like she wasn’t so sure.

“ Do make friendly and intelligent conversation with your new in-laws. Don’t introduce controversial topics, such as the plight of the Negro.”

“Jesus, Tammy, how old is this book?”

“Honey, we don’t use that word anymore. It’s offensive.” Then Tammy proceeded to explain that the advice was nevertheless on point. “We want to discuss safe topics, like recipes and horoscopes.”

“Here’s something I don’t understand,” Abigail said. “If the bride’s family hosts the wedding, why are we going to New Hampshire? Why isn’t Aidan’s family coming to us?”

“Maggie wants it this way,” Tammy said. “She planned the wedding without our input.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story, honey. The bottom line is, the Gardners are paying for everything.”

I glanced at Abigail through the rearview mirror. “I’m paying for the alcohol,” I told her. “It’s eight thousand dollars.”

“Eight thousand ? Seriously?”

“That’s a lot of money, right? Alcohol is the most expensive part of the wedding. But I took care of it.”

“You must be rich, Mister Frank.”

Tammy snorted. “He’s not rich.”

“I do all right.”

“Honey, listen,” Tammy said. “Aidan is rich. And Aidan’s father is mega rich. But me and Mister Frank, we’re just middle-class.”

“Like average?”

“Exactly. Some people have more. Some people have less. We’re right in the middle.”

“I want to be mega rich,” Abigail said. “How did Aidan’s father get mega rich?”

“He worked very hard in school,” Tammy said. “He got good grades in science and math, and then he went to Harvard, and then he started his own business.”

“With his wife’s money,” I added.

“Why does that matter, Frankie? Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Everyone carries on like he’s this incredible self-made zillionaire, but the truth is he used her money to get started. Her family is crazy wealthy. Her grandfather built oil rigs.”

“Fine, Frankie, you’re right. Like most married couples, Errol and Catherine shared their money, and then Errol turned it into more money.”

“How much more?” Abigail asked.

“Ooodles and oodles,” Tammy said. “They’re worth more than everyone you know combined. But my point is, if you work hard enough, you can have everything they have. Don’t goof off in school like me and Frankie here.”

God, she was really getting on my nerves. “I never goofed off in school, Tammy. Why would you say that?”

“I just meant you were never Harvard material.”

“Can I be Harvard material?” Abigail asked.

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying. All you have to do is work for it.” Tammy reached into her cooler for a bag of Goldfish crackers and tossed it back to Abigail. “And then make sure you visit me after you’re rich and famous. Remember how I took care of you. And then take me for drives in your stretch limousine, okay?”