by Sadie Black
“Wonder what’s got her all hot and bothered. I was in the middle of my Saturday morning yoga routine when she called. She kept insisting that we have breakfast at nine. I’m just thinking ‘please mom, let me squeeze in a sun salutation at least.’”
“I know what you mean.”
“What were you in the middle of?”
I paused for a moment. I should have prepared for this question. Flustered, I said the first thing that came to mind. “Shopping”.
Kaila cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Shopping,” she repeated in disbelief. “Between seven and nine on a Saturday?”
“Grocery shopping.” I corrected. “You know the fridge needed a facelift.”
“Didn’t we go grocery shopping just before your big dinner? What did you smoke last night to make you clear out your whole fridge.”
“Oh I mean, I just forgot some things. That’s all.”
“Alright.”
Kaila gave me a long look. She was not at all satisfied with my responses. I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable questions. The best I would be able to do was to deny everything and hope she got bored.
She didn’t ask any questions though. Instead, my sister just looked me up and down, probably scanning for evidence of some kind, while she waved the waiter down and ordered a mimosa with lime. I took that opportunity to ask for a Mary Shiraz, which the menu informed me was with cinnamon, a hint of Shiraz, and a strawberry spear.
As we waited for our drinks, Kaila gazed wistfully around the restaurant. Mostly she seemed to eyeball other drinks. It was Kaila who had famously said that the beauty of the brunch cocktail is that it’s never too early to start.
‘I can’t believe you got Mom to agree to come here again.” She finally interrupted our awkward silence.
“Me? No, this place was Mom’s idea.”
“Excuse me?” Now I had Kaila’s full attention, even more so than when we were discussing my morning activities.
“No joke. She insisted.”
“God. I hope everything’s all right? Oh no, you don’t think she’s going to tell us she has cancer do you?”
“Jesus! Now I’m thinking that. Thanks Kaila.”
We were saved from further conjectures by a familiar face calling to us from across the house floor. My mother was in top form, waving manically at us and smiling giddily. I could tell she was ecstatic to see us. The whole restaurant could. I didn’t care though, I was suddenly just happy that she didn’t look like a woman preparing to tell her children she had cancer.
Louise Hart was quite the specimen. She strode to the table in gray leggings and a long white tank top that covered her to her thighs. Over that, she wore a sheer, flowy top with long sleeves. She loved to wear white, claiming it was 'her color'. And, in this case, it was hard to argue. Her skin glowed like copper against the snowy shirt. She was certainly not one to dress her age, but she also took better care of herself than a lot of women in their 50s. I was actually relieved to see her so dressed up. With Mom, it was usually cotton pants and artsy vests or loose sleeveless dresses. She constantly looked like she belonged in Harvard Square, selling homemade copies of Georgia O’Keefe paintings and throwing in a booklet of her poetry for free. Sometimes it was hard to look at her and believe that she ever raised two kids by herself. That must have required of her a level of practicality that her body and mind have been rebelling against ever sense. She did all right though. Kaila was a lawyer and I a chef. Somehow, after my father left when I was still a baby, my mother managed to make a home that worked, even on her meager museum salary. I supposed I shouldn’t knock cotton pants.
Mom plopped down on the other end of my love seat, her legs flopping into a cross-legged position the way they always did when she wanted to add a little flare to an occasion. One wrist hung out of her knee while her other hand was at her ear, fiddling with her diamond earrings.
“Isn’t this nice?” She said, as if we all didn’t already know that she would much rather be at Ruby’s in Somerville, ordering the pumpkin pancakes and slathering them with syrup.
“It is.” Kaila said pointedly. She clearly wanted Mom to get to the point.
“The dinner last night went very well.” I said. Kaila glared at me for stalling, but I didn’t care. We were at The Honey Dew. I wanted to order before Mom got to the point lest she change her mind. I’d been inwardly drooling over those pineapple and cream cheese stuffed French toast squares ever since I eyed them on the menu. Crave was going to have to consider getting into the brunch business.
“Oh that’s terrific. I’m so glad! Oh honey, I hope you know how proud I am of you.”
We continued to exchange pleasantries while Mom’s drink arrived and we placed an order for about six different tapas that we wanted to try. All thoughts of that morning had been temporarily evicted from my brain in favor of delicious cream cheese filled and bacon wrapped thoughts. But really, aren't those the best kinds of thoughts?
Once the order was placed, Kaila steered the conversation back to my mother, determined to have her out with it. “So. Mom. Enjoying drinks at your favorite brunch spot?”
“Oh I know. You don’t have to be so snarky about it.” Mom rolled her eyes. “Seeing as you’re eager to know, and I’m eager to tell you, let’s get down to it.”
She paused for dramatic effect and took a sip of her guava Bellini. “Anyway,” she continued, enjoying our frustration. “You both know I just got back from my trip.”
“Yes we know!” Kaila howled. “You’re obligatory mid-life crisis or whatever. Don’t tell me you lost all of your money.”
“No Kaila. And there’s nothing ‘mid-life’ about this. I met someone.
She paused for dramatic effect.
“In Vegas?” I asked.
“Was he dressed like Elvis?” Kaila asked.
“Yes to you Moneka. No to you Kaila.” She pinched her face at my sister's teasing. “ For your information, he was dressed in a smart suit. Armani.”
“Oh, good for you Mom. He’s got bucks.” Kaila looked genuinely impressed. She raised his mimosa and announced, “to Mom and her clearly not-so-degenerate gambler.”
I was less impressed than Kaila. Of course I wanted my mom to be happy, and she did look happy. But she's always been one to dive head first into things and that usually involved her getting hurt. I decided to be happy that she had a good time in Vegas and cautiously optimistic about the rest. “Cheers,” I offered.
“So, tell us more about him.” Kaila leaned forward and dug one hand under her chin. “Was this a one time thing or are you seeing Mr. Millions again?”
“Oh, I’ll be seeing a lot of him.” A Cheshire cat smile spread across her face, giving me a chill.
I didn’t like the way she stressed “a lot”. There was definitely something else here that we weren’t getting. I wished she’d just be out with it.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Does he live in Boston?”
“Yes. On the North Shore actually. And he’s not a millionaire. But he has made a comfortable life for himself as an architect.”
“Fancy and smart.” Kaila was loving every bit of this.
It was always like Kaila to encourage our mother and than turn around and complain about her to me. We both agreed that she should be more grounded. She should try to think more practically and stop wasting her money and her time on frivolous pursuits that ultimately came to nothing. Kaila would commiserate with me and we would congratulate ourselves on our practicality. But Kaila secretly loved it. She lived vicariously through our mother so she could pretend that she was still practical and feel good about herself. Sometimes I thought that when she encouraged me to take risks, like hook up with Cole, it was only so she could do the same thing. If Kaila found out about the other night, she’d just turn to Sonia and say, “you know, this is why you’ve got to keep a level head”.
“So are we going to get a chance to meet him?” I asked. Trying to be the reasonable one at the table.
“Of course! In fact, I was hoping you’d meet him on Monday.”
“Oh.” I was taken aback by such a specific answer. “Mom you know this is Hell week for me. The restaurant opens in less than a week and there’s still so much to take care of.”
“Which Sonia assures me she can help with.”
“You talked to Sonia?” I was starting to get worried again. Why Monday? Why that day in particular? One glance at Kaila told me that her ruse was over, the concern all over her face.
“Mom, I’ve got Monday things too. Sonia can’t finish my briefs for me can she?” She paused contemplatively. For a moment, I thought she might actually be considering asking Sonia to take on some of her work.
“Please. I know that you are both very busy and successful, but this is important to me. Just give me this one day.”
“All day?” Kaila and I spoke almost in tandem.
“Yes. That’s how long the move will take.”
“Move?” Now we were definitely in sync.
“Yes. I’m moving into his house on the North Shore. It’s gorgeous. I’m so excited.” She wasn’t kidding. I could tell from the way she clutched her Bellini with both hands that she was bursting with enthusiasm for this mystery architect. For a moment, she reminded me of a small child talking about the first day of school.
“You’ve seen it?” Kaila asked. All of her former enthusiasm was wiped clean.
“No. Just pictures that he’s shown me. Ever since I got back, it’s just been packing, packing, packing. In fact, if either of your are around this…”
“Hold up Mom.” I put a finger up, feeling like the real mother at the table. “Why? Why moving in so fast? How well do you really know this guy?”
“We spent nearly the entire trip together. I’d say well enough to know I love him.”
“What? Mom, please can we just start from the beginning?” I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to not be a buzz kill and failing spectacularly.
“Ok. Well, we first met at baggage claim. We’d been on the same flight from Boston and were two of the only people traveling alone to Vegas. He made a joke about that and helped me get my bag off the belt. We parted ways and that might have been it, but we saw each other again that night. We were staying in the same hotel. Can you believe it?”
“No.” Kaila gazed dreamily at mom. She was sucking her in. It wasn’t going to work on me.
“So anyway, I go up to his Black Jack table and tell him to double down. I ended up winning him a pretty penny. He said he owed me a drink at least and that was it. From that moment on, it was the two of us.”
“A week’s worth of conversation and you’re convinced that you love this guy?”
“Well…yeah.”
Mom looked genuinely confused. For a brief moment, I felt bad for myself. Was I missing out on something essential? How could it be so easy for other people to fall in love? It was at moments like this that I felt defective. There’s a chemical or a muscle or something that makes the body love and I don’t have it. They probably just forgot mine and gave Kaila an extra one.
“Look honey,” Mom added, “sometimes you just click. Sometimes it just makes sense. This is one of those times.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“I’m not worried about if it isn’t. If it isn’t, we split sometime down the road and I move on. I’m more worried about if it is, and I do nothing.”
“You know there’s a happy medium between doing nothing and moving in with a guy a week after you’ve met him.”
“So? This is where it would be heading anyway. I’m almost 60, why waste my time?”
I had no response to that. I hated it when she played the age card. She love hiding behind her age, as if it gave her cart blanche to behave however she wanted.
“Besides,” she added, “it’ll be hard to be married if we don’t live together and there’s no way he’s fitting in my one bedroom apartment.”
Kaila spit mimosa all over the deviled eggs as they were coming out. She frantically began cleaning the dribble off her shirt.
“You’re getting married?” I asked for both of us. I tried to sound judgmental enough for both of us too.
“Oh, I don't know. It could happen, right?” Her smile was met with blank stares. “I mean, there's crazier things that could happen.”
Considering she just spent the week in Vegas with him, I was counting my blessings that they weren't married already. Luckily that was a little bit too cliché, even for Mom.
My mouth went dry. My mom was a class A flake, but this was more than I thought even she was capable of. It was hard to understand how this woman could have possibly birthed my sister and I. As I looked over at her, I could see how happy she was. Those sparkling eyes and that eager smile might melt some people, but not me. When I see a face like that, I can only think of all the thousands of ways that things could go wrong and that smile could disappear. I supposed that was one of the fundamental differences between my mother and I. I wanted reassurances. She just wanted to be happy.
“You seem angry.” She turned to me. “I know this comes as a bit of a shock…”
“Not a shock at all, Mom,” I interjected. “Not at all. This is exactly what I expect.”
“That’s not fair Moneka and you know it.”
I did know it. It was her life after all, her choices. I had enough on my plate with the restaurant; I didn’t need to be babysitting my mother as well.
“She’s not mad Mom.” Kaila dove to the rescue. “She’s just…shocked. We both are. We just want to make sure that you’re going to be happy.”
Mollified, my mom took another sip of her Bellini and smiled. “Well, promise me you won’t worry too much. I’m a big girl after all. Just meet him. Monday. Promise?”
“Yes.” We both sighed into our drinks. The laughter that followed helped to break some of the tension.
We were able to enjoy the rest of the brunch in peace. Kaila regaled us with stories about her more colorful clients and I went on more than one tirade about the repairs that still needed doing on the restaurant. Mom listened attentively, nodding at all the appropriate moments and making commiserating noises. She was good about stuff like that. I had to admit that despite her flakiness, she had some maternal qualities that many others lacked. I never felt more listened to than when I chatted with my Mom. Remembering this brought on a pang of guilt over the way I’d reacted. She would be fine. She always was. No me on the other hand, I wasn't so sure.
8
COLE
Elysian Fields was the most epically hoity-toity country club in all of Massachusetts. Just driving through the austere gates made me feel like I’d been invited to a party hosted by the royal family. The main building stretched long and low like a ranch house, oversized windows gazing dramatically out over the green. I could see small figures in plaid shorts or khaki pants, all wearing polo shirts and gloves. Of course, they wouldn’t say they were “wearing” polo shirts, they would say they were “sporting” them. Golfers. What are you going to do?
As I blustered into the parking lot in my Ford pickup, complete with scrap wood from leftover projects, I could almost here them disapproving from across the lawn. Everywhere, pairs of golfers turned their heads toward each other to make some comment or other about the misfit in the filthy truck. I had to admit; this was my favorite part about golfing. I enjoyed frustrating the expectations of the people around me.
For my Dad’s sake, I had at least attempted to look the part. I would sooner come naked than put on a pair of plaid shorts. I met them halfway, however, with some tan slacks and a polo of my own. These clothes felt alien to me, as if I were a child trying on my parents’ wardrobe. Looking down and assessing the damage, I knew with certainty that I would never grow into this. Someday, Dad would accept that.
Admittedly, the inside of the main clubhouse was a feast for a contractor’s eyes. No matter how badly I wanted to hate everything here, I couldn’t deny the expert
molding and paneling. The woodwork was pristine. The hardwood floor had an almost glassy look to it, like the surface of calm waters; I felt like I could dive in and swim around in it for a while. The spacious rooms had none of the claustrophobia of the more primitive designs. I thought briefly of the last country club my Dad liked to frequent. It prided itself in being one of the first in the region. It’s club house stood as proof, as creaky and ill-fitting as they day it was built. I shuddered.
My motto as a contractor had always been “if the best thing you can say about a place is that it’s old, then you are overvaluing antiquity”. I remembered delivering that line to Moneka when we were first discussing plans and she had wanted to rent out an old Irish pub. Old? Check. Irish? Check. Leaking? Double Check. Rotting wood? Triple check. I liked to think that she was happier in her current place and that I had something to do with that. I paused for a moment under the lobby’s chandelier, wondering if Moneka would ever let me touch her again.
“Hey Cole, my boy!” My Dad’s voice cut through my reverie like a knife.
Of course, I was happy to see him. My Dad and I have always been close, especially since mom died. But there was hanging out with Dad downtown at Fenway and there was hanging out with him at Elysian Fields. Here he was more than just “Dad”, he was “Francis Saunders: Renowned Architect”. I think sometimes he liked reliving his glory days more than he liked golf.
As I walked over to him, I could see that he had managed to overdress for the occasion. I was impressed. I generally imagined golfers were overdressed as it was. He really managed to take it to the next level. He was wearing freshly ironed dark gray slacks with a button down white shirt and a lighter gray vest. His cuffs were rolled halfway to his elbows and he wore a black golf cap to match his shoes. I couldn’t help comparing him to a 1940s bootlegger. I half expected him to suggest we “give the geezers the slip and head out back for a small bender before the fuzz get here”.
“Hey Mickey,” I said, “Where’s the rest of the gang?”