Cash Out

by Marshall Thornton

  “But you can’t not have a romantic life,” I said, feeling my cheeks blush. Except for one fling that had ended badly, very badly, and a few steamy kisses, I’d been single myself for more than two years.

  “I devised a plan for that,” Aunt Katie said. “I never date anyone I think I might like.”

  “That’s sounds horrible,” I said before I could think.

  “No, it’s wonderful. I get a little nookie and as soon as I begin to tire of whomever, I dump ’em.”

  I couldn’t criticize. I could name at least three gay guys I’d known just like that—actually, Leon was a bit—

  “Katie, did you know Cotton before?” Louis asked.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Well, you’re both from Grand Rapids.”

  “Grand Rapids is larger than you think. There are three different high schools for one thing. Not everyone knows each other.”

  This was a different answer than she’d given me that morning at the registration desk. I wondered why? It certainly didn’t matter if she’d known Cotton years ago. Did it?

  I decided to approach things from a different direction, “How did my mother and Cotton meet, do you know?”

  “I got the impression he did some kind of legal work for her,” she said.

  “What kind of legal work?”

  There was absolutely nothing my mother would need from a mob lawyer. I was sure of that much.

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Katie said. “And even if I did know, I’m not sure I should tell you. I wouldn’t want to violate a confidence.”

  “She’s my mother.”

  “Yes, and you should ask her. I’m sure she’ll tell you. I’m just saying I shouldn’t tell you.”

  We pulled into short-term parking, got out of the car, and crossed the street to the Delta terminal. As we did, Aunt Katie tried to keep up the conversation by asking Louis questions about Los Angeles, Silver Lake and our apartment building. He answered each question politely and then asked me, “Do you have their flight number?”

  “No,” I said. “But it comes in from Grand Rapids at 1:24 p.m.”

  Aunt Katie glanced at her watch. “Perfect. They’ll be landing in about six minutes.”

  I found the blue screen that displayed the flight times and read it. “They’re coming into gate A5.”

  As we began following the signs to the gate, Louis asked, “So what is it you do for a living, Katie?”

  “Not damn a thing.”

  “That’s nice work if you can get it,” Louis said.

  “When I ran off with my neighbor’s husband, it turned out he was scandalously wealthy.”

  Somehow, I had the feeling she had not been surprised by that.

  “Eventually, he tired of me and gave me a nice settlement after I had a lawyer call him and use the word palimony. I decided to settle in Scottsdale mainly because I didn’t know a soul there.”

  “What do you do with your time?” I asked, when we got to the gate. There was a small crowd of people waiting for their friends and family to disembark.

  “I dabble,” Aunt Katie explained. “I try this and that. I made this poncho, for example. Horrible, isn’t it? I wouldn’t wear it, but I invested something like a hundred hours in it. Not to mention the money.”

  “It’s nice,” I lied. It was ugly and time consuming.

  “You’re so sweet, just like your—oh look, people are starting to come out.”

  We looked over to the gate and there were two older, surprised looking women clutching purses and carry-on bags. One of them was also juggling what looked like a foil-wrapped ham. I couldn’t help watching them as they fell into the arms of a much younger group of people, children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces—their bags and the ham quickly pulled away. The women drawn into the arms of their family; the surprise now gone from their faces. Only smiles now.

  There was the flash of a camera welcoming a young man home. He wore a military uniform. Which made me remember: “Louis, you forgot the camera. Marc’s going to kill you.”

  “Oh golly, how terrible,” he deadpanned.

  When I turned back, people were flooding out of the gate and then there was my mother. She looked good, with brilliant white hair, rosy cheeks and dark eyes full of life. Over her shoulders hung a thick cardigan. Holding her elbow was Preston Cotton. He was not what I’d been expecting. I mean, I don’t know what I was expecting, but this gentleman was not it.

  In his sixties, he was only a couple of inches taller than my mother, wore a black suit jacket over a multicolored checked shirt, and ill-fitting jeans. He had salt-and-pepper hair, gigantic eyebrows and a round, red nose. It was then I realized they’d been drinking on the plane.

  That shouldn’t bother me. They were both adults, after all. And people did often drink on airplanes. But it still bothered me. It made me wonder if Cotton the kind of man who drank a lot? And if he was, would it have a negative effect on my mother’s life? Of course it would. How could it not?

  My mother saw me and hurried over, wrapping me in a humid, squishy hug. She did smell of alcohol, but also of a perfume I didn’t recognize. My father had always bought her L’Air du Temps for Christmas. I was used to her smelling that way, but now she smelled completely different.

  “You changed your perfume,” I said into her ear.

  “Cotton got me Chanel Number 5 as a prewedding gift.”

  I should have said something to the effect of “It smells nice” or “Isn’t he great,” but Aunt Katie stepped forward and practically screamed “Angie Pangie!”

  “Katie Bug!”

  Seriously? I thought as I stepped out of the way to let the two women embrace. Louis had taken it upon himself to introduce himself to Cotton and was pumping his hand. My mother noticed and pulled away from Aunt Katie, saying, “Cotton, this is my Noah.”

  Even as my mother attempted to lead Cotton to me, the others were between us—Marc, Louis, Aunt Katie—so I stood on my toes. And as I looked over Aunt Katie’s shoulder, I waved, “Hi.”

  “Nice to meet you, son,” he said, waving back.

  Aunt Katie said “Hello” to Cotton, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Yes, well,” he said stiffly and then to my mother, “We should hurry.”

  I couldn’t tell from that greeting whether Aunt Katie and Cotton knew each other or not. They could be strangers or they could not like each other much.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Two of Cotton’s daughters, Becky and Reba, are coming down from Chicago on a charter with Becky’s husband, Sonny.”

  “We’re meeting them at baggage claim.”

  “Yours or theirs?” Louis asked.

  “Ours. Their flight was due in twenty minutes ago. They should be there already.”

  We began moving. Aunt Katie had joined arms with my mother and chattered nonstop. “You look just the same, Angie. It’s like no time has passed at all.”

  “Oh, you always were a terrible liar.”

  “And you were always too modest.”

  As we got onto an escalator, Louis asked Cotton, “How was the flight?”

  “It was fifty degrees when we got on the plane. The pilot said it’s eighty here.”

  “It’s a dry heat, though,” I said. “It’s not the same eighty degrees you get back East. It’s really not that bad.”

  As though noticing Cotton hadn’t actually answered Louis’ question, my mother said, “The flight was wonderful. Cotton told the stewardess we’re getting married and she brought us a split of champagne. For free! I think that’s so sweet. Don’t you?”

  “Angie, they do that for everyone in first class,” Cotton said.

  “Oh, I didn’t notice.”

  “Not everyone drinks champagne in the morning,” I pointed out.

  “Oh hush. It was almost noon,” she said to me and then, to Cotton, “My son, the prude.”

  I wasn’t a prude. Not really. Except when it came to my mother. Somehow, she al
ways brought that out in me.

  4

  Just as he’d thought, Cotton’s children were already at the baggage claim when we got down there. I noticed Sonny Leone first. He looked exactly like a mob lawyer, dark and oily. He could have been an extra in any of the Godfather movies. My feeling of dread increased. Well, all right—skyrocketed. How could I let my mother marry into this awful family?

  The two girls—well, young women—stood nearby. One wore a daffodil patterned sundress with a white cardigan and a pair of Doc Martin Mary Janes with ankle socks, while the other was dressed completely in black: sneakers, jeans, sweater set, head scarf and sunglasses. They barely looked related.

  When they saw Cotton, they came right over and embraced him. Yellow sundress first. Cotton turned and introduced them. Becky was the one in yellow, Reba in black. Then he indicated a bland-looking young man with sandy hair and pasty skin I hadn’t noticed at all, saying, “And this is my son-in-law, Sonny Leone.”

  Immediately, I glanced around and saw that my Sonny Leone—the one who looked just like a mob lawyer—was now outside putting suitcases into the trunk of a limousine. He was the chauffeur. I couldn’t help blushing. Not for the first time, I wondered if I watched too many movies.

  Sonny stepped forward and shook Cotton’s hand vigorously before kissing my mother on the cheek. He was wearing the kind of plaid jacket guys with Ivy League educations thought were relaxing. Meanwhile, Becky said, “Which one of you is Noah?”

  I gave a little wave and was quickly enveloped in a field of polyester daffodils. I gently pushed her off only to have Sonny also pull me into an embrace. Awkward. So awkward.

  Louis and Aunt Katie were introduced but not hugged. Lucky them. Reba didn’t hug anyone. She just hovered at the edge of our little group struggling to smile.

  “I’m so excited,” Becky said to me. “I’ve always wanted a brother. Did you always want a sister?”

  “Not since I was six,” I said, honestly. The look on her face suggested that honesty might not be the best policy.

  Still, she forged on, whispering, “And a gay brother is even better! You know, I know absolutely no gay people.”

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  Louis was chatting with Sonny, Cotton and my mother. I heard him say, “My car only seats five.”

  “That’s fine, we’ve got a limo and driver,” Sonny said. “Plenty of room for Dad and Angie.”

  I really wanted to be part of that conversation—it seemed much more important—but Becky went on. “No, it is true. You’d think I’d know loads of gays living in Schaumburg. I mean, we’re practically in the center of Chicago. Well, we go there now and then. But nope, I don’t know even one gay person.”

  “You do, you just don’t know you do.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “You mean, they’re not telling me? Why wouldn’t they tell me? They can tell me, you know. I’m really good at secrets.”

  Just then my mother spoke up, “Cotton, why don’t you ride with your children and I’ll go with mine.”

  As an only child, I found her massive over-simplification annoying. She easily could have said, “I’ll go with Noah.” Or “I’ll go with Noah and his friends.” The fact that she hadn’t bothered me more than it should have.

  While I was splitting hairs that would have embarrassed me if I’d said any of it out loud, Cotton asked, “Are you sure, Angie?”

  “It’s not a very long ride, is it?”

  “Ten minutes,” Louis said. The discussion about who’d sit where threatened to be as long as the ride.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Cotton. You’ll be fine without me,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  Aunt Katie leaned in and said, “Sonny, thank you so much for arranging the rooms. They’re wonderful.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just one of the perks of working for your father’s law firm,” he replied, oddly proud of the nepotism.

  Just then, the baggage carousel creaked and began moving. Polite conversations broke out. How was the charter flight? Reba didn’t like small planes—they frightened her. What was the weather like in Chicago? Only a few degrees different from Michigan. But it was raining there, and it wasn’t in Grand Rapids. There were oohs and aahs as though it was remarkable that two cities three hundred miles apart could have different weather.

  “Oh, there’s my bag,” my mother said, abruptly. She pointed at a medium sized gray tweed suitcase with gray leather edging and straps.

  Though I tried to step forward, Cotton beat me, picking the bag up and setting it onto the floor. He raised a hand to stop me, saying, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” As he turned to take another identical bag off the carousel, I realized something I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Oh my God, you all have the same bag.” And that was true. Their bags looked just like two of the ones the driver had put into the trunk of the limo, identical to the ones Cotton had just taken off the baggage carousel.

  “Daddy got a great deal at Price Club,” Becky said. “He sent them to the whole family right before we left.”

  Since my mother had one too, it was obvious the whole family meant everyone but me. That made me want to pout, but really I was being too sensitive, and I knew it. I couldn’t have things both ways. I didn’t exactly want to be included in their family. And… I didn’t exactly want not to be.

  To distract myself, I asked my mother, “How do you know which bag is yours?”

  “I memorized my claim check number.” Reaching down to the bag she continued, “See, it’s five-nine-two, three-eight-four.” Turning over the tag attached to the handle she saw that it was different. “Oh, I meant eight-six.”

  “Are you sure that isn’t Cotton’s?” I asked.

  “Oh, um, maybe.”

  “No, this is definitely my bag,” Cotton said. “See, it’s got some wear to it. I bought this one first, before I got the others.”

  I thought all the bags looked the same, but knew better than to say so. We left the baggage claim area. I was expecting an attendant to check claim tickets, but there was no one there. We just walked out of the terminal to the waiting limo. Then, as the driver—who I’d been sure was my mobbed-up future brother-in-law—loaded the trunk, my mother kissed Cotton goodbye again and he climbed into the limo with his children. My mother, Louis, Aunt Katie and I crossed the street to the parking structure.

  In the crosswalk, I began coughing. Dust or smog. When we reached the far side, my mother stopped and opened her purse—square, straw, with leather handles—and pulled out a bag of cough drops.

  “You’ve been very sick, haven’t you? And don’t lie to your mother.”

  “I had the flu. It’s not a—” I started coughing again, so I took a cough drop from the bag and popped it into my mouth. Cherry.

  “Don’t worry, Angie,” Louis said. “We took good care of him. Filled him full of hot toddies.”

  And they had. Several times.

  “Thank you, Louis,” my mother said.

  “It’s too bad you don’t have a girlfriend to take care of you,” Aunt Katie said.

  “A what?” I choked out, somewhat aghast.

  Aunt Katie flushed. “Oh God, I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

  She’d missed several things, including Becky gushing about having a gay brother just a few minutes before. I pointed at myself and croaked, “Gay. Very gay.”

  “I’m so sorry. It did occur to me at breakfast but… well.”

  “It’s fine.”

  As we walked on, I glanced at my mother. She whispered, “I’m sure I told her. Maybe.” When we reached the Infiniti, she said, “Let me ride in the back with Noah.” I could tell that Aunt Katie was a tiny bit put out. She was practically wearing my mother like an accessory. Luckily, she didn’t complain.

  As soon as we were all in the car, Louis began asking Aunt Katie questions about Scottsdale—basically the reverse of the questions she’d asked earlier about Los Angeles. As they chatted about life i
n the desert, my mother leaned over and said, “Thank you for coming, dear, and thank you for bringing your wonderful friends.”

  “Actually, they kind of brought me.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. They wouldn’t have come without you.”

  I took the opportunity to ask, “Um, did you tell me how you met Cotton? I can’t remember?”

  “Oh, you know, we were all friendly when we were young.” That sort of explained some of Aunt Katie’s odd comments. At some point, they both must have known Cotton.

  “So, you ran into him and started being friendly again?”

  “In a way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Frowning, she lowered her voice. “I was afraid this would come up. Do you really have to know? It’s embarrassing.”

  “Did you find him in the personals?”

  “Oh God, no. Not that embarrassing.”

  “So—”

  “Fine. I suppose you should know. Do you remember my former friend, Carolyn Harvey?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, she said a lot of things. Mean things. Much worse than what I’ve told you. So I stopped seeing her. Then I happened to run into her at Meijer, oh God, it must have been in September. They had all their back-to-school things out. She saw me and came over. She didn’t even say hello, she just opened her purse, took out a brochure, and pushed it onto me saying, ‘I’ve been carrying this around for you, well, actually for your pervert son.’ And then she stomped off.”

  When I realized she’d stopped, I asked, “What did the brochure say?”

  “Oh, it was all about how evil you are and how you could change if you just believed in Christ. I got so angry I left the store and when I got out into the parking lot, well, there was her car.”

  I had a sinking feeling about this. “What did you do?”

  “Well, I may have accidentally, deliberately, backed into her car. Several times.”