Sunday Best

by Edward O. Phillips

  “I sure hope so. I don’t catch fish, but I sure like to eat them.”

  “It’s them Americans. It’s time we started talkin’ tough.”

  Whenever I get into one of these pseudo-serious conversations, I feel as if I were suffocating. “I suppose you’re right. But we have to remember that we are an enormous small country.”

  He looked puzzled. “If it was up to me I’d sure tell ’em.”

  “I’ll bet you would,” I said, edging my way past the desk. “Is Mrs. Chadwick at home?” We both knew she was; my question was no more than a signal that the conversation had ended.

  “Yes, sir. A box of candy for your mother?”

  I nodded as I walked towards the elevator. “Sort of. Actually they’re chocolate-covered detonator caps. I really want to surprise her.”

  His reply was a blank look followed by a hearty ho-ho-ho as I stepped onto the elevator. The idea of his being responsible for building security is the stuff of nightmares, but fortunately Mother has a live-in housekeeper who would intimidate even the boldest burglar.

  I gave the bell beside the door of her apartment three short rings followed by two long, my signal to the housekeeper that I was not a crank who had sneaked past the guard. Her immense starched white unsmiling presence opened the door. “Bonjour, Monsieur Chadwick.”

  “Bonjour, Madame. Ma mère est endormie?”

  “Non, elle est dans le salon.”

  “Des chocolats, pour Madame Chadwick,” I said, pointing to the box.

  Madame’s granite features rearranged themselves into a smile. We both knew Mother would eat one, maybe two chocolates, then suggest they be put into the refrigerator to keep fresh. Once they were out of sight, she would forget about the candy, giving Madame the opportunity to finish off the box. I am more concerned with keeping Madame happy than Mother. Without a reliable housekeeper Mother would have to give up her apartment and move into a nursing home. That time will no doubt come, but not a moment sooner than necessary.

  I hung up my overcoat and carried my propitiatory chocolates into the large living room, where Mother sat in her customary wing chair, wearing a wrapper and trying to bring the newspaper into focus through the new bifocals she hates.

  “Surprise, Mrs. Chadwick, you have won third prize in the beauty contest. First prize was a trip to Afghanistan, second prize a weekend in Beirut, third prize a date with me.” I kissed Mother on her wrinkled, fragrant cheek. She considers herself undressed without perfume, or scent, as she prefers to call it. Mother has always been a Guerlain girl, beginning with Eau de Cologne Impériale and moving through Shalimar and L’Heure Bleu to Chamade, which loosely translates as drum roll. Mother is more like an oboe played off key.

  “Well, well, dear, I wasn’t expecting you. Otherwise I would have changed. But Madame is cooking a little roast of beef. There will be plenty if you wish to stay for dinner.”

  “A few little chockies, Mater. They will make you big and fat and sexy.” Like most old ladies who drink, Mother is so thin I am always afraid she will slide down the drain along with the bathwater.

  Mother gave a wheezy giggle. “Oh, Geoffry, you are a caution. Are there any with cherry centres, or nougat?”

  “Try that one there.”

  “Will you have one, dear?”

  “Not at the moment, thanks. I’ll have a biscuit instead.” I reached for a wheat thin from a bowl of crackers Mother keeps in the living room to absorb excess humidity.

  She put the top onto the box. “Mmmm, just delicious. But one will be enough for the moment. Be a dear and ask Madame to put them into the refrigerator. That way they’ll stay nice and fresh.”

  “As long as I’m going to the pantry, I think I’ll make myself a drink. Shall I give you a splash at the same time?”

  Mother looked at her empty glass as though it had just materialized on the side table. “A little one, perhaps, just to be sociable.”

  In short order I was seated on a small couch facing Mother across a scotch and soda. For someone who seems permanently out of focus, Mother has furnished her apartment with impeccable taste. The room is alive with muted colour, subtle texture, the gleam of dark wood, the glow of polished brass, the sheen of silken fabric. In her Viyella robe and the bunnyrabbit slippers my sister gave her for Christmas, Mother looks like a runaway hospital patient.

  “Mother, we have to have a little talk.”

  “Indeed we do. Mildred wants Jennifer to be married in white taffeta with illusion yoke, Elizabethan sleeves, fitted waistline, and cathedral train. Jennifer is pretty, but I fear she will be quite overwhelmed by the gown.”

  “So will you when the dressmaker’s bill comes in. And that is what I want to discuss. I understand you have volunteered to underwrite the wedding.”

  “I was married in a white lace tabard over ivory crepe, very simple lines. And I carried gardenias. They were so fragrant. Jennifer should not wear a fussy gown. I suggested the Regency look – she has a small bust and ample hips – but your sister wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I read somewhere that hip interest is fashion forward this year. But if Mildred has her way Jennifer will come down the aisle looking like Chiquita Banana.”

  “Like who, dear?”

  “An old movie star. Now, Mother, please listen carefully to what I am going to say. What I would like you to do is to grant me your power of attorney. That will allow you to forget about all the pesky financial details and save your energies for helping Mildred choose the wedding gown, plan the flowers, organize the ceremony. It will mean a great deal of extra work for me, of course, but we all want the wedding to be a huge success, now, don’t we?”

  I knew sooner or later God would get me for my guile, but my defence was that I did not want to see Mother unduly exploited.

  “We most certainly do. And if you think my granting you a power of attorney is a good idea …” The rest of the sentence disappeared into Mother’s glass. “So go ahead and do whatever is necessary. I have always had confidence in your judgement. You are so like your father. If only Craig could see his granddaughter married. How I wish he were here.”

  “Me too. Then he could give the bride away. You realize I will have to drop by sometime this week with a notary. He will ask you to sign the document.”

  “Yes, dear, whatever you say. Now, if you are planning to stay on for dinner perhaps you had better tell Madame. She may want to prepare extra vegetables.”

  “Good idea. Why don’t I save myself a trip and top us both up.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  I carried the tumblers out to the pantry and spoke to Madame. Using the kitchen telephone, I called a friend from law school, a workaholic notary who stays late at the office almost every night. I asked him to draft a power of attorney granting me complete control over Mother’s assets.

  I had not expected Mother to be so readily compliant. After all, turning over full control of your property to someone else, even a son, is a tacit admission that the Grim Reaper is drawing nearer. But Mother was obviously far more concerned over Jennifer’s gown than about any legal niceties.

  “What do you suppose,” she began before I had even sat down, “about my giving Jennifer four place settings of silver as a wedding present?”

  “You’re giving her the wedding. That’s already beyond generosity.”

  “True enough, but I would like her to have something lasting. A bride should have flat silver.”

  “Why not give her yours? You hardly ever use it these days. Mildred was given silver when she married and so was I. You could buy yourself some handsome stainless steel flatware, and Madame wouldn’t have to keep it polished. You will also be certain your silver stays in the family.”

  Mother took several sips of her vodka, a sure sign she was thinking. “You know something? You could well be right. Let me think about it.”

  Having brought Mother around to one major and one minor concession, I decided to change the subject. “Have you seen anyt
hing good on television lately?”

  “Yes, indeed. Just the other night I watched a marvellous film, all about the American Civil War. I missed the credits, so I don’t know the title. But it was about a girl named Scarlett, Do you know, at one point she wants to visit a dashing young man in prison but she doesn’t have a thing to wear, so she makes herself a gown out of portieres. Can you imagine, Geoffry? She just took them down from the parlour windows and sewed them into a gown. And very smart she looked too, I have to admit, even though I doubt she made French seams.”

  “I think I may have read the book.”

  I stayed on for dinner, carving the little roast and pretending not to notice that Mother’s demitasse was filled with dark rum. Afterwards we went into the den to watch junk-food television, where actors who cannot really act find themselves in situations that are not comical and shout at one another so they can be heard above the laugh track, the whole interrupted at frequent intervals by commercials featuring tumescent teenagers drinking a variety of soft drinks in the pouring rain. But I knew it pleased Mother to have me there, a warm body in the chair beside hers. Soon, however, I noticed her head beginning to nod. After a couple of feeble tries to stay awake, she began to list heavily to starboard. I rescued her glasses, putting them on top of the television set, before fetching Madame to put her to bed.

  As I rode down the elevator I realized how excited Mother must be over the wedding, as evidence of which she managed to stay awake right through dinner. Fortunately for me, the security guard was talking to another tenant, so I was able to sidle past without being quizzed on dirty dealings in the foreign arms market. A little learning is a boring thing.

  4.

  TRUTH IS NOT NECESSARILY STRANGER than fiction, but coincidence can sometimes be. Just happening to bump into Lois Fullerton in the lobby of my office building as I was leaving for the day bore the stamp of an artfully staged accident.

  “Geoffry Chadwick! I didn’t realize your office was in this building. I was just visiting my accountant. What a pleasant surprise!”

  Startled, I took a second to take in the shimmering mink, such a deep brown as to appear black, and the face, framed by a black scarf tied like a wimple.

  “Lois! Sorry to be asleep at the switch. I don’t ordinarily take business problems home.”

  We stood in that strained, smiling silence of people whose immediate plans are quite different. The hall was alive with the sound of Muzak. My present goal was to get home, with perhaps a pit stop at my carriage trade grocery store where the thirty percent markup is well worth the luxury of being able to charge. Not so for Lois Fullerton. She unleashed the full force of her great blue orbs, lowered her voice about half an octave, and suggested I buy her a drink, unless I had something better to do.

  I was beginning to realize Lois Fullerton was locked into a time warp. That aberrant white bedroom aside, women today do not use their femininity as a blunt instrument. For a moment I felt a flicker of irritation. I had about seventeen better things to do than buy Lois Fullerton a drink. But last Friday night I had offered to buy her lunch; maybe a vermouth and some pretzel sticks was a reasonable tradeoff.

  “There’s a new hotel just down the street. The bar is pleasant.”

  “Sounds ideal. I’d better go and tell my chauffeur to wait.”

  The bar was crowded; only a small table in the centre of the room stood vacant. Noise bounced off the hard, shiny hi-tech surfaces of marble, glass, steel, making conversation difficult. In this particular instance it was just as well. Surrounded by people and sound, Lois seemed ill at ease, a talkshow hostess without a microphone, although the definitely designer black sweater she wore under the fur drew glances, admiring and curious. A tribute to the current craze for glitter, its art deco patterns of blue and silver beads and sequins flowed diagonally from shoulder to waist, outlining her bust like contour lines on a weather map. It was a striking example of just how awful an ill-advised foray into fashion can be.

  I watched with some amusement as she tried to deal with her mink coat, as much a uniform among matrons of a certain age and income bracket as the pleated tunics and Peter Pan collars imposed by the private schools to which they send their daughters. First, Lois draped the coat over the back of her chair, to be brushed against by every waitress or patron negotiating the narrow space between tables. After the waitress had taken our order, Lois draped the coat over her shoulders, making her look not unlike Bride of Nanook. A fur coat in an overheated room is suffocating, as evidence of which she tried with her hands to keep the garment from touching her shoulders. My better nature finally surfaced, and I borrowed a vacant chair from an adjoining table on which, after three tries, Lois managed to roll the coat in such a way that it did not slide softly from the seat onto the floor. I thought of my Prince Albert hanging comfortably on a hanger in the check room, where Lois had declined to consign her fur, and realized that personal vanity is a fulltime occupation.

  “I had a long talk with your sister on Sunday,” began Lois, after a stern glance at the mink coat as though it were an ill- behaved child. “She has decided to increase the number of bridesmaids from two to five. I expect that will mean more ushers.”

  “Likewise more frocks and flowers and limousines and places at the head table. Wouldn’t it be ideal if they just got married at the courthouse, with a party afterward?” Already Mildred was being afflicted by grandeur. Five maids of honour could easily turn into ten, with escalations in all other trappings.

  “That would be a bit bleak, don’t you think?”

  “Marriage is a bleak institution. And no amount of dressing up the bride and groom like Barbie and Ken, with Debbie and Cindy and Darlene dolls as bridesmaids and a couple of Cabbage Patch Kids as flower girls, is going to disguise the fact that Jennifer and your son are very young to be making such an important decision.”

  I could tell I had struck a nerve. Lois sat bolt upright and almost upset her vermouth. “That’s not a very positive way to approach a situation which – where – we will all be working together to make it a success.”

  “Perhaps not. But you must remember I have scant experience. I was married only once, a long time ago, and the ceremony did not include a cast of thousands.”

  Lois laughed the laugh I had by now come to recognize as her way of clearing the air of tension. “You men! You’re all alike. You all hate formal occasions and dress clothes and standing on ceremony, just like little boys. Now you just leave the planning to Mildred and me. All you have to do is turn up at the rehearsal.”

  She paused for a gracious sip of vermouth. If she had told me not to worry my pretty little head about the wedding she could not have managed to be more condescending, with that reverse female chauvinism which reduces any man to lovable lunkhead, unless he has an erection. What Lois did not realize is that I learned my lessons at a tender age from H. Ryder Haggard. I am She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. At some point Lois Fullerton and I were going to lock horns, but not in a crowded bar.

  “What kind of gown do you think Jennifer should wear?” I asked. “Mildred wants something hugely elaborate, Elizabethan sleeves, cathedral train. Jennifer will look like a tea cozy. My mother, on the other hand, supports the Regency style.”

  “It’s hard to say. She had better decide soon, or the dress won’t be ready in time. A lot of brides are wearing gowns with applique: lace, pearls, beads, sequins, that sort of thing.”

  “Not everyone looks well in glitter. I seriously doubt Jennifer would.” Having delivered that little zinger (call me a little boy at your peril), I caught the waitress’s attention and held up two fingers, neatly avoiding Lois’s eye. “I understand the ballerina-length gown is making a comeback. Jennifer is no Giselle, but at least she wouldn’t trip.”

  “What did your wife wear at her wedding?” asked Lois with slightly strained sweetness. “You’ve never told me anything about her.”

  And I wasn’t about to. “She wore white.”

  In the ensuing sil
ence, a result of my refusing to rise to the bait, the sound of overlapping conversations from adjoining tables flowed between us. Murmuring something about how central heating dried out her skin, Lois opened her alligator bag, took out a small, coffin-shaped box with a mirror in the lid, and proceeded to repair her lip gloss. I watched, bemused. Heavy lipstick seems to have come back into style, bringing, to me at least, untidy memories of the forties and fifties. It was a time when all actresses in black-and-white movies had large black lips. It was also a time of heavy-handed chauvinism lurking under a veneer of shallow sophistication. “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.” “No woman needs an M.A. but a MRS.” “When she was good she was very good, but when she was bad she was better.”

  During this time I had a brief fling with an older woman, by at least five years. She had been divorced, which pushed her by definition into the fast track. She once performed an act of love, which at the time made me uneasy, but, upon reflection, seemed pretty damned good. (Candy is dandy but a lick is quick.) I can still remember a moment of horrified consternation in the bathroom, when I thought I had contracted one of those dreadful diseases they used to warn servicemen about during World War II. It turned out to be nothing more than lipstick on my dork, but the experience left a scar. At least eye shadow doesn’t come off on your dainty private parts.

  Watching Lois put on her mouth, I indulged in some random speculation best left unrecorded. Then I glanced at my watch.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Lois, but I must go and collect my car. I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

  “Oh, but … In that case I’d better finish my drink.”

  I pulled out a credit card and paid the check, gulping the second drink I had ordered. Then I reached for the soft, slippery mass of fur on the chair and managed to shake it into the semblance of a coat.

  As I helped her into the mink she smiled her disarming smile. “If it wouldn’t be too much out of your way, could you give me a lift home? I dismissed the chauffeur.”