Sunday Best

by Edward O. Phillips

  Sunday morning I stopped at the local greengrocer, a Third World small-time entrepreneur who stays open from dawn to dusk seven days a week. I wanted some cut flowers to take along to Mother, who enjoys the idea of a present far more than the gift itself. I’m just getting my own back, I suppose. When I was a small boy, the very first question I asked if either parent had been away, even overnight, was, “What did you bring me?”

  The only flowers the greengrocer had left was a bucket of early daffodils in late middle age. We worked out a deal: three dozen for the price of two. I hoped perhaps the sheer volume of blooms might help conceal the fact that they would barely last through the afternoon.

  Carrying an armful of flowers, like Tosca making her first- act entrance, I pushed my way into the lobby of Mother’s building. The security guard stole time from his Sunday paper to check me out.

  “Morning, Mr. Chadwick.”

  “Morning, Sam.”

  “Says here there’s goin’ to be a by-election, Conservative versus NDP. Who do you think’ll win?”

  “The Conservative, naturally. You know what they say: ‘A fool and his money are soon elected.’ Is Mrs. Chadwick at home?”

  “Yes, and your sister just got back from church a few minutes ago.” He began to laugh. “That was a good one.”

  I smiled and moved towards the elevator. Mildred doesn’t believe in going to church any more than I do. I guess the idea of a legitimate sermon seemed a lesser evil than watching the sermonizing on television with Mother. Not in the least concerned with the niceties of dogma, Mother feels that so long as someone is talking about God it is ipso facto good for you, like calcium supplements.

  I gave Mother’s doorbell my secret ring.

  “I’ll get it,” brayed a voice, and the door flew open to reveal Mildred in all her mourning glory. “Geoffry!”

  “Sorelina!” If we had embraced any more stiffly we would have clanked.

  “Flowers for Mother? How thoughtful. Here, I’ll go and arrange them. You hang up your coat and say hello to Mother. Make yourself a drink,” she threw over her shoulder as she disappeared through the swinging door.

  Mildred has a way of taking over. On those infrequent occasions she comes to my apartment she manages to make me feel like a guest in my own house. And I always have the overpowering urge to do the reverse of what she says, like throwing my overcoat onto the floor and stamping on it, cutting Mother dead, and going on the wagon.

  But, as I have occasion to remind myself, I am an adult.

  Mother sat in her favourite wing chair wearing a blonde wig, which looked as though it had just landed. From a central part, two waves swooped low over her forehead before taking flight in U-shaped curls over her ears. The shiny acrylic fibres quite overpowered Mother’s small features, from which time, cigarettes, and vodka had erased all traces of former prettiness.

  “Here he is, Mother, number six on your list of dream dates, hot on the heels of Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Douglas Fairbanks, Ronald Coleman, and Harpo Marx. Do blondes have more fun?” I gave her the customary kiss.

  “Your sister brought it down. It makes me feel like a loose woman, but I have to wear it while she is here. Fetch me a drink, will you, dear? Mildred said I wasn’t to start until you arrived.”

  “You should have asked me to breakfast, not dinner. On the double, Ma.”

  I pushed my way into the pantry, where Mildred was cutting stems and sliding them into one of those devices made of wire mesh which holds flowers at angles that defy gravity. She had on her beautiful flower face, corners of her mouth slightly raised in a kind of blissful smile, rapt, in awe of nature’s bounty.

  “You were badly taken on these daffodils, Geoffry. They’re just about gone by. You really should take them back, only Mother would be so disappointed.”

  I paused a moment. Whenever I am with Mildred I find myself counting up to ten more often than a kid watching “Sesame Street.”. “They were all he had. Sunday and all. What’s with this locking up the liquor?”

  “I thought it wouldn’t hurt for Mother to wait for you before she started drinking.”

  “Mother waits for nobody. She has her first drink on the stroke of noon. It is her house. It is her liquor.” By way of emphasis I added an extra, generous shot of vodka to Mother’s drink, then added a little soda to my own before pushing my way backwards through the swinging door.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mother. “Cheers!” She took that long, first swallow, which is always the best. I followed suit.

  “Have you had a pleasant weekend with your baby daughter – who is currently engaged in making something very lovely with the daffodils I brought you.”

  “That was thoughtful, dear. I do so enjoy daffodils.”

  Mother took another swallow and ignored my question. She has always endorsed the “least said, soonest mended” approach to family differences. We sat in silence, bracing ourselves for the onslaught of Mildred and my daffodils, for which her painstaking arrangement would entitle her to grab most of the credit. Mother and I can sit together without speaking for long periods without feeling the least bit uncomfortable. We drink and, in our own private way, are convivial.

  I respect people with whom I can share silence. I have even loved a few.

  Mildred entered the room carrying the bowl of daffodils as though it were the head of John the Baptist on a platter. “See what Geoffry brought, Mother? They’re beautiful, but a bit passé. I had to cull and cut the stems.” She went to put the flowers on a cherry wood commode.

  “Not there, dear,” said Mother, just this side of sharply. “The bowl will draw moisture and mark the wood. Put them on the glass top.”

  Mildred complied and returned to the pantry for her drink, which by rights I ought to have poured and brought in. Not bloody likely.

  “Geoffry,” she began, even before she sat, “I’m glad you’re here. There is much we have to discuss.” She picked up Mother’s ashtray and emptied it behind the fire screen masking a purely ornamental fireplace. Madame would have to vacuum up the butts on Monday morning.

  “I’m listening,” I said, consciously avoiding Mother’s exasperated look.

  “I had dinner with Lois Fullerton last night.”

  I grew instantly interested, but did not let it show. “That’s good. It’s high time you two met. Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  A slight pause preceded Mildred’s answer. “Yes, although she did give me a false impression. On the telephone she talked about a little potluck supper, and I dressed accordingly, high neck and a short skirt. She sent the chauffeur to pick me up and served a meal which would have put Escoffier to shame.”

  I could not quell a small chuckle. “Tell me, was her neckline at the 49th parallel, the Mason and Dixon Line, or the equator?”

  “She makes no attempt to conceal her thorax, if that’s what you mean. I had no idea she was so-so flamboyant. And that house! The rooms are to be admired, not lived in. Five quid for the complete tour including the garden. Throw in an extra ten shillings and see the secret staircase.”

  “But she is underwriting the cost of the reception.”

  “True enough. That means we can spend more money on the ceremony itself.”

  “Within reason. Have you once sat down with Jennifer and discussed what she would like? It is her wedding, after all.”

  “If Jennifer had her way she would be married on the back porch with a reception in the high school gymnasium. She has already insisted that she does not want the ceremony videotaped.”

  “Good for her. Neither do I. I have no intention of joining actra so I can give the bride away. And I repeat: it’s her wedding, not yours.”

  “Your father was so handsome on the day we got married.” Mother spoke from the depths of her chair, already adrift on vodka and memories. “Mind you, he was always handsome, but on our wedding day he was particularly handsome. Poor Craig.” Her glass stood empty.

  “I’ll get you another drink, Mother
.”

  Ignoring Mildred’s censorious look, I reinforced both Mother’s drink and my own.

  “I had a talk with Jennifer last weekend,” I began as I returned to the room. “She wants only two attendants, her sister and her best friend.”

  “Bruce’s brother has three daughters. We must include them in the party.”

  “Why, if Jennifer doesn’t want them? They’ll be at the wedding. I’m sure Conchita, my cleaning woman, would love to be a bridesmaid, for a gringa. She could be your token ethnic.”

  “You’re just being foolish.”

  I said nothing. I was not about to slug it out with Mildred over wedding expenses with Mother in the room.

  “I had hoped to have a word with the minister this morning after church, but he ducked right out after the service without even greeting the congregation.”

  “Maybe he had a heavy date.” On those few occasions I have attended St. Luke the Apostle, I never listened to the sermon. Usually I study the Reverend Cameron and wonder: does he or doesn’t he? Good looking, in an austere way, he has the kind of profile that compels devotion. I suspect he may even have a sense of humour. A small, hand-lettered sign beside his official parking lot reads: Park Not Lest Ye Be Towed. However, I must confess I have always shied away from men of the cloth. I prefer men who undress, not defrock.

  “I understand his wife recently ran off with a doctor of theology,” I continued. “Nobody would have paid much attention had the doctor of theology not been a woman.”

  Mother spoke. “I read The Well of Loneliness once, a long time ago. Extraordinary book. Who would have thought?”

  Mildred said nothing. A rigidly conventional woman, she is nonplussed by sexual irregularity of any sort.

  “As long as we’re on the subject of the wedding,” I continued, “isn’t it about time for you to think of getting married again? Some nice guy, divorced or widowed, who hates living alone and wants companionship?”

  “How can you say that, even as a joke?”

  “I’m perfectly serious, Mildred. You are what passes in the community for a good-looking woman. Also you are a skilled household engineer. You still have your teeth, so get out there and bite the apple. But you’ve got to shed the mourning. Slide gracefully into matronly mauve, or menopausal mulberry. Better wear that wedding ring on a shoelace, around your neck. And I hereby volunteer to give you away. Mother, do we have time to top up before dinner?”

  “If we are prompt.”

  I escaped to the pantry before Mildred had a chance to huff and to puff and to blow the house down. I suppose she really is a good-looking woman, if you happen to like the type. She takes after Father more than I do, and he was a fine-looking man. Mildred has all the necessary components – regular features, good skin, clear eyes, abundant hair – but she lacks the inner radiance without which no woman can be beautiful. My wife, Susan, was as plain as a split-rail fence if you examined her feature by feature; but she had vitality and a kind of luminosity that made her beautiful, to me at least.

  Much as I enjoy pulling Mildred’s leg, I was more than half serious about her getting married again. Mildred lacks the imagination to apprehend the future. With Jennifer married, she will suddenly find herself alone, rattling around the house where she has raised three children. At a time when Toronto real estate has never been more vigorous she might well be tempted to sell the property and return to Montreal, to take care of her elderly mother. It was a prospect I did not wish to contemplate, at least not until the wedding had been dealt with and my pen pal laid to rest, preferably in a block of concrete.

  “Geoffry, there is something I would like you to do for me, for the wedding,” began Mildred no sooner had I entered the room, “and that is to find a good photographer. It makes more sense to hire someone local than to bring a man down from Toronto.”

  “But, Mildred, I know absolutely nothing about photographers. I avoid them even more willingly than I avoid a friend in need. The last time I had my picture taken without protest I was six months old. Why don’t you ask Lois to engage one?”

  “Because I don’t want the wedding photographed through a lens smeared with Vaseline so that she will look younger.”

  “Vaseline! Oh, goodness me.” Deep in her wing chair, Mother shook with silent laughter.

  “Last night she showed me sketches of the dress – gown – outfit she is having made for the wedding. One might even think she intended to jump out of the bridal cake. And speaking of cake, she wants to have a groom’s cake, one of those heavy, dark fruitcakes stuccoed with almond paste which is cut into little pieces and put into little white monogrammed boxes for the guests to take as souvenirs. What could be more old-fashioned, not to say banal? I suggested dragées, little baskets of sugar-coated almonds, but she insists on the groom’s cake. She even wants to pay for it.”

  The ramifications of putting a piece of dark fruitcake into a white box had me stifling giggles. “I have always favoured comfits myself,” I volunteered with a smile having nothing to do with my remark.

  “Do you know she even has a software program, on a floppy disc, for her home computer? The Failsafe Wedding Planner, it’s called. She showed me the menu: Wedding budget, Gifts received, Rehearsal guest list. What could be more trite? If there is a power failure we’ll have to cancel the wedding. She even wants to know the colour of the bridesmaids’ gowns so she can coordinate the tablecloths. Someone really ought to tell her the only thing the mother of the groom has to do is wear beige and keep her mouth shut.” Mildred paused for a sip of her drink. “Never mind; she is giving the children a house as a wedding present.”

  “I thought it was the bride who was supposed to bring the dowry. Are you sure they really want a house, or are even entitled to one? Starting married life in a house is like playing your first recital in Carnegie Hall. Where is there left to go? Do they know where they are going to live? Teaching jobs are scarce. Douglas will have to go where the work is.”

  “They’ll settle in Toronto, or Montreal. Universities are always in need of funds. Lois is certain something can be arranged.”

  “You mean buy Douglas a job with an endowment?”

  Mildred said nothing, but she sat there looking like the proverbial cat who has just swallowed the canary.

  “Poor Douglas.” I shook my head. “With a mother like that I’m surprised he doesn’t still suck his thumb.”

  “They must have a microwave oven,” said Mother, who tunes in and out on her own frequency. “I understand they are quite indispensable for young married couples who are working. Keep it away from the children, though. I heard of a little girl who put her bowl of goldfish into the micro wave. Quite spoiled the appliance.”

  “I’ll bet the fish were even less happy than the parents.”

  The housekeeper’s massive starched presence filled the doorway. Ordinarily Madame’s expression makes the Lincoln Memorial look jolly. Today, however, she looked particularly thunderous. No doubt Mildred had been dropping a few household hints. My sister would not hesitate to tell the Angel Gabriel he was playing flat.

  I rescued Mother from her chair and steered her into the dining room, where an overdone roast of lamb waited to be carved. My sister is one of those women who cannot walk across the room without her handbag. She takes it to the telephone, she carries it to the bathroom, she probably tucks it under her pillow at night. Needless to say, she marched it into the dining room. After I had carved the lamb and served the vegetables from Mother’s silver-plated vegetable dishes, which conduct heat away from whatever is inside, I sat and watched Mildred open her bag and spread a variety of coloured brochures on the table in front of her placemat.

  “We were taught it was rude to read at the table. Lift your fork, Mother.” I began to eat. Having had no breakfast, I was hungry, fortunately.

  Mildred ignored me and spoke to Mother. “I still haven’t made up my mind on Jennifer’s china pattern. I have to inform the bridal registries before the invitations go
out. Did I tell you the invitations are to be engraved, with individual names written in by a calligrapher? It will cost a bit more, granted, but so much more distinguished.”

  “After the wedding you can have the copper plate from the printer made into an ashtray,” suggested Mother, still awake as a result of her curtailed vodka ration. “I still have mine. I use it for hairpins.”

  “Good idea,” I chimed in. “But shouldn’t you let Jennifer choose her own china pattern? She has to live with it.”

  “Jennifer wants pottery!” replied my sister. “When she gets to our age she will realize a sideboard filled with good china can be a comfort.”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, unconvinced. In the basement storage area of my apartment building sits a small wooden crate marked simply “china.” Inside, carefully wrapped, are the four place settings of Royal Doulton with which Susan and I set up housekeeping. I have not used the china since Susan died, but I cannot bring myself to give it away. I guess that crate is my own private archaeology, shards of a past life that once was mine. Whoever sorts through my possessions after my death can deal with the crate. By then I will no longer care.

  Between bites of lamb, Mildred riffled through pages. “You certainly can’t fault Aynsley. But not Pembroke. I couldn’t stand facing that bird day after day. Even the exotic garden is a bit much; Jennifer won’t be serving dinner at the Taj Mahal. Thank goodness there’s more to Wedgwood than Jasperware. I’ve had more than my share as Christmas presents. And Morecroft, all those puce flowers. I really don’t think Jennifer wants that Greek key marching around the rim of the plate for the rest of her life. It looks like the kind of thing children draw around the pages of their exercise books, don’t you think? And nobody, but nobody, could live with a pattern named California.”

  Mother put down her fork. “You must choose an open pattern in case you want to replace breakage. Lydia Parsons once threw the soup tureen at her husband, and when she went to replace it she discovered the pattern had been discontinued. So she decided on a plain white one. It did look clinical.”