The Brutal Heart

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My husband’s birthday is May 1, the day when Mother Nature officially declares the garden of earthly delights open for the season. It’s a good fit for a man with a lusty heart and the greatest passion for life of anyone I’ve ever known. When we began to plan the barbecue we were hosting to celebrate Zack’s fiftieth, I reminded him that the rule for the number of guests at children’s parties was the child’s age plus two. Undeterred, Zack kept adding names, and we mailed out seventy-five invitations. It promised to be a lively crowd: our family, Zack’s law partners and associates, friends of mine from the university and politics, people we simply wanted to get to know better. On the afternoon of the party, Zack came home early and together we made a last pass through the house, making sure everything was where it should be. As we checked out the rented crystal in the kitchen, Zack was impatient. “Come on,” he said. “If there aren’t enough glasses, people can drink out of the bottles. There’s something I want to show you outside.”

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