A Hostess Gift

I said I’d take care of the dishes.

No one argued. My friends and family had learned that I like to be useful. I always say it’s my hostess gift. I slipped away from the chatter—half a dozen conversations stacking on top of one another—and let the sound of running water fill the gaps.

The sponge was damp from earlier use and smelled faintly of lemon. The water came out hot, almost too hot, but I kept my hands under it anyway. It made the task feel serious, like I had a job to do.

Voices spilled in from the dining room and living room—laughter, sharp little gasps, a chair scraping against the wood floor. Someone was recounting a story about a car breaking down, while another kept interrupting with jokes. In the den, a basketball game enthralled a group of guys. There was a kind of rhythm to it, like music I hadn’t learned the steps to. I smiled once or twice, even though no one could see me.

The kitchen was warm. Too warm. Between the oven and the crowd and the weather that couldn’t quite seem to make up its mind, I could feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck-hot flashes again. I opened the window above the sink, allowing a cool breeze to blow in.  It smelled fresh, like someone had just mowed their lawn.

I fell into a rhythm. Plate, rinse, stack. Glass, rinse, stack. Forks last, carefully scrubbing between the tines. I hummed a little without realizing it. Not a real song, just something to match the clink of ceramic and the rush of the faucet.

Every now and then, someone would drift in to grab another drink or check on the food. I stepped aside, smiled, and said, “excuse me” or “no problem,” or “go ahead.” No one stayed very long, and no one offered to help. I didn’t mind; I needed a break from socializing.

There was a blueberry pie on the counter—the one I brought. Still untouched, it was tucked between a pan of brownies and something in a trifle dish with layers too pretty to ruin. I hadn’t expected it to go quickly. I made it from scratch, but it turned out a little lopsided and slightly too dark around the edges.

Out the window, I could see the backyard. Evening shadows stretched across the patchy grass. The dog was chasing nothing in particular while some of the kids tossed a football back and forth. Everyone had found their place. Chairs pulled into little circles, drinks in hands, heads leaned close in conversation. It was a pleasant evening.

I scrubbed the last pan twice. It didn’t really need it, but I wanted to be sure, and I wasn’t quite ready to return to the party. The suds slid down the drain like snow melting. I dried my hands on a dish towel and folded it neatly over the oven handle, then looked at my watch. It was still too early to head home. Sighing, I poured myself a glass of wine. I drank down half the glass in one swallow. I refilled and headed back into the fray.