Nothing Fancy

Derek’s sister was having a barbecue at her house in Tucson. Nothing fancy, she said on the phone. Derek heard the word barbecue and stopped listening.

On Saturday he came out of the bedroom in a cream jacket, a cream shirt and cream pants, all the same brand, all bought that week.

“You know there’ll be ribs,” his wife said.

“I like to be dressed properly,” Derek said.

There were fourteen people in the backyard. Shorts, flip-flops, one man in a T-shirt with a hole under the arm. His sister was carrying a plate of raw chicken, and she stopped when she saw him.

“Derek,” she said. “It’s a yard.”

For twenty minutes he stood very straight by the fence, holding his paper plate far away from the jacket. Then his nephew ran past with a bottle of ketchup, and the ketchup went across Derek’s cream sleeve in one long red line.

Everybody went quiet.

Derek looked at the line for a second. Then he took off the jacket, dropped it on a chair and rolled his sleeves up.

“Where’s the meat?” he said.

“Now you’re dressed for a barbecue,” his sister said.