Just about every time they were at her parents’ apartment after one or two in the afternoon or at night, but not when they only came to say goodbye before they drove to Baltimore, her father would say “Like me to make you a Bloody Mary, Martin?” If it was five or six or later, he almost always said “Sure, I’d love one; thanks. But please not too strong.” If it was earlier, he’d say “Much as I like your Bloody Marys, it’s a bit early for me to drink, but thanks.” “I make it with V8 juice,” her father would often say. “And no Tabasco pepper sauce in it for you. I know you don’t like hot foods, and I won’t make it too strong.” “Still too early for me. You have one,” and her father would usually say something like “I’ll wait till later, when I have my one drink for the night. But you, you’re a young man, and can take one now and one later.” Gwen would sometimes say “A little drink won’t hurt you,” and he’d say “Sweetheart, you know I don’t like anything alcoholic to drink till around six or seven. Not even a glass of wine if we’re having lunch at a restaurant. Though I will make an exception for one of your father’s Bloody Marys after five.” “Be a good husband and listen to your wife,” her father would say. “She knows I make a good drink.” “Grisha,” her mother said a couple of times, “if he doesn’t want one, don’t force him. He knows what he’s doing.” “Who’s forcing him? I know what I’m doing too. Stay out of it,” and she said something like “Grisha, please don’t talk that way. You’re with the children. It doesn’t sound nice.” “Okay,” he’d say, “but a short one. And half the vodka you put in your evening Bloody Marys.” “Not half; that’s not a drink,” and he’d say “Half,” and her father would smile impishly and say “Good, I’ve got a customer. One Bloody Mary coming up. Gwendolyn, can I get you anything?” and she’d say “Nothing, Poppa.” “I can open an excellent bottle of red wine a client gave me. He’s a wine expert. Said it was top-notch. I don’t drink it and your mother never touches a drop.” “It’ll go to waste if you only open it for me,” and her father would say “It won’t go to waste. Maybe you’ll have two glasses. And then you’ll take whatever’s left home with you. I’ll recork it real tight.” “All right, then, but like Martin’s, a small one. I’ll open the bottle for you,” and her father would say “Let me do it all myself. It’s a great pleasure for your mother and me to see you here and you both so happy,” and if the kids were with them, “and my darling grandchildren so pretty and healthy.” Because of a problem her father had with both ankles for years, he’d shuffle instead of walk, his feet, in orthopedic boots he only wore at home, barely lifting off the floor. Still, he insisted on getting the drinks himself. “Sit; sit; it’s good exercise for me. I haven’t been on my feet all day.” Smiling, he’d shuffle to the kitchen, and a few minutes later, shuffle back to the living room holding a small tray in both hands with the Bloody Mary on it. “No; again, it’s good exercise for me. Let me get the wine too.” Then he’d sit and say “So how is it, Martin? The wine I know is very good.” “A little strong, but a terrific drink. As I said, you make a great Blood Mary. And I’m not just saying that. You know I was a bartender before I met Gwen, and yours is vastly superior to the ones I used to make, and I had the best ingredients to work with.” “It’s the V8 juice. Much better than regular tomato. And no Tabasco sauce. A few drops would have made it even better, but you didn’t want. And I know you don’t like salt — with my ankles, I shouldn’t either — but I sprinkled a little in out of habit. Gwen, your wine? What I gave you couldn’t have been enough,” and she’d say “It was plenty. Your client certainly knows his wine.” “Seeing you kids enjoy your drinks so much,” he said a few times, “I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary myself. I was going to wait, but what for? It’ll still be my only drink of the day.” He’d get up—“Let me, Poppa,” Gwen would say. He’d say “No. Yours would never be as good as mine.” “
