One of the most memorable professors from my college years was Dr. Dragonbreath. Dr. Dragonbreath had the kind of halitosis that could peel wallpaper or wilt flowers and I was so traumatized after just one lecture sitting in the front row of his class that I have been obsessed with fresh breath ever since.
My partner and I were visiting his folks in New Jersey recently, and over dinner with his mother and brother I unwisely told my Dr. Dragonbreath story. My partner’s mother, Duckie, a practical sort, wanted to know why no one just told the professor that he had bad breath, and I mentioned that telling your professor that his breath is toxic is not the best way to ace a class.
My partner’s brother, Ned, shook his head. “That’s stupid,” he said with his mouth full of chili. “You’d be doing the poor guy a favor. If I had bad breath I would hope someone would be honest enough to tell me the truth.”
An awkward silence ensued. My partner and Duckie exchanged a knowing glance across the table and I stared at my plate, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Ned stopped eating his chili, looked at his mother and said, “What’s with the look?”
I immediately began wishing I was dead. Duckie and Ned cannot get through a single meal without angry words that end with Duckie in tears and Ned storming out of the house. “This chili is excellent,” I said to Duckie, employing a stall tactic that I knew would not work. “Do I detect cilantro?”
She ignored me. “Eat your chili,” she told Ned. “Why don’t you have some more onions, while you’re at it.”
Ned put on his “I’m a reasonable man” face. “Seriously,” he said, “if I had bad breath I hope someone would tell me; how else would I know?” This was a valid point. Ned is in his late 50’s, lives alone and has never been married. (You do the math.)
Duckie put down her fork. This was not a good sign since she rarely put her fork down while there was still any food on the table. “Fine,” she said evenly. “Sometimes your breath is not springtime fresh. We never wanted to tell you and hurt your feelings.” I held my breath. The use of the term “we” was a masterful ploy to make sure no one left the dinner table unscathed.
What happened next was exciting. “I can’t believe that you would embarrass me like this in front of a stranger,” Ned began, as all eyes turned to me. I was instantly resentful; sure the other three people at the table shared the same last name, but I’ve been breaking bread with this group for almost twenty years so the term “stranger” seemed a bit cold. I felt compelled to defend myself in the strongest possible terms: “Nice talk,” I said, but everyone ignored me.
Duckie pointed out that Ned had asked for honesty. This was true. My partner said Ned had had bad breath since they were kids. (Also true from what I’ve been told.) Ned said that my partner and Duckie always ganged up on him. (True again.) I asked if anyone wanted more cornbread and everyone ignored me.
The finale was predictable. Ned accused Duckie of always favoring my partner, (very true, but who could blame her?) and Duckie, in tears denied it. Then Ned stormed out of the house and slammed the door behind him and Duckie, weeping, went to her room and slammed the door behind her.
My partner and I looked at each other for a long moment and then he sighed. “Thank god he left,” he said helping himself to more chili; “that could have gotten ugly.”