by Leanna Ellis
“Mother! Have you been watching too much Dr. Phil?”
“A woman is known by the friends she keeps.”
“And you think Josie smokes weed?”
“I’ve heard things that would make the devil faint of heart.”
“I doubt that.”
“You still don’t have better taste in friends, I see.”
“Mother, please.” How can walking into my childhood home turn back the years so easily, erasing the wrinkles and experience and transforming me into an adolescent again? As much as I wouldn’t mind getting rid of the fine lines that have started to appear on my face, I’m not comfortable in the role of teen. I’m closer to menopause and those wacky hormonal surges than that of puberty.
“It’s true,” she says. “You never could see to the heart of those around you.”
I grab the pancake mix off the shelf and scan the directions, the ingredients. Eggs. Water. Oil. “Maybe I see better than you think,” I say.
“What do you mean by that?”
Plunking the package of pancake mix on the counter with a dull thud, I meet Mother’s gaze. “No one is as perfect as you pretend.”
“That’s pretty obvious, I would think.” She walks toward me and jabs me with a pointed finger in the middle of my chest. It feels like she’s left an indentation.
The first time she did that to me was the night Drew and I were caught at Makeout Flats. I swore I would never do that to a child of mine. Anger boils up inside me.
“You just better stay away from Drew Waring. He may be the sheriff now, but he’s still bad news. You can cover up a skunk’s stripe, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still a skunk. And if you know what’s good for your marriage—”
Laughter, caustic and spewing sarcasm, erupts out of me. “Mother, please don’t lecture me on marriage when …” I locate my self-control and slam on the emergency brakes like a driver’s ed teacher hoping to avoid a collision. Honor is harder to come by than I ever imagined.
“For your information, Miss Smarty Pants, what happened in my marriage is not my fault. It is your father’s. If he’d heeded my warnings … but no, he thought he knew it all. Just like you. And—”
“Mother,” I consider plugging my ears, but reverting back to a teenager is still better than going all the way back to elementary school, “I don’t want to know—”
“Why our marriage lasted as long as it did is because of me. Or, believe me, it would have ended long before you were born.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The line of her lips tightens. She jerks open the refrigerator and grabs the eggs and milk. “Does Mike like bacon?”
I watch my mother for a moment but know the “discussion” (as she would call it) is closed. Holding a cold, brown egg in my hand, I smack it against the side of the bowl.
7
He’s here.” I can see the bounce of headlights as the rental car pulls into the driveway. I flick water on the griddle, and the beads sizzle and pop.
“Perfect timing. Bacon’s ready,” Mother says.
I ladle pancake batter in lopsided circles onto the griddle. It’s an old-fashioned cast-iron griddle that belonged to my grandmother. Someday it will be mine. Although I have my own electric one.
“I’ll go greet him,” Mother says and starts toward the front of the house.
But I step in front of her and hand her the spatula. “Watch these for me. Okay, Mother?”
“Of course, dear.”
I ignore the smirk on her face. I walk through the dining area to the front door. Just as I turn the knob, the phone jangles. The sun is barely squinting over the horizon, and already it’s a surreal day. Usually my mother’s house is quiet, but today at 5:30 it’s more like Grand Central Station than a farmhouse in the country.
Mike walks straight up the steps, his gaze steady, intense. He steps over the threshold and into my arms. He’s warm and solid and smells of stale air and a hint of Armani.
I wrap my arms around his chilled, air-conditioned neck and kiss him. He tastes of coffee and spearmint gum. Smudges of gray darken his eyes. I pull him close again, my cheek against his shoulder. “Exhausted?”
“Not too bad. I dozed on the plane.” But he holds on, doesn’t let go. His arms are hard like bands of iron. I want to stay like this for as long as possible. Maybe then everything wrong will right itself. “We got lost, ended up passing the turnoff and had to turn around.” He takes a slow, deep breath, his chest swelling and pressing against mine. He pulls away enough to look at me. “So, how are you?”
I hold onto him as my only real answer then say, “Welcome to the Twilight Zone.”
He tilts my chin upward so I meet his gaze. But before he can ask any more questions, I hear the crunch of gravel behind Mike. His words sink into my awareness. We. Peeking around his shoulder, I feel a catch in my chest. Oliver, looking much worse for wear, his shoulders sagging, his LA Lakers cap pulled low, trudges up the steps behind Mike, mumbles something, then heads for the living room and collapses on the couch.
“Oliver?”
“Now, he’s tired,” Mike says with a rumbling chuckle, his embrace loosening. “He had some giggly teenage girl flirting with him all the way here.”
Oliver doesn’t acknowledge the comment. I notice how long limbed he looks sprawled on the couch, his feet hanging off one end and, on the other end, his head propped on the arm rest.
“I didn’t know you were bringing Oliver.” I modulate my voice to keep my rising panic suppressed.
“That okay?”
“Well, I just would have thought he might be happier at a friend’s. You know, with Tyler or Jason or …”
“This is family. Family is important.” It’s Mike’s usual stance where family is concerned. Even with my wacky family.
I nod, give an uncertain smile, then reassure myself that we’ll all be back on a plane Monday morning. The funeral, I hope, canceled. “Of course.”
With another kiss on Mike’s roughened cheek, I walk over to the couch, pull off my son’s cap, slip my fingers through those short curls that never would be controlled and plant a kiss on his forehead. “Shoes off the couch. Before your grandmother—”
Mother enters, carrying a spatula like a scepter. No idle threat. Oliver immediately slides his long legs to the left and dangles his big, overgrown Nikes off the edge of her upholstered couch.
“The weary traveler. Travelers!” She emphasizes the plural and looks from father to son. “Here at last.” Mother’s apron is smooth, her lipstick bright. It’s then I realize how bedraggled I must look. I never went to bed, never checked my makeup after my own flight, or even had a chance to change clothes after climbing out of a ditch with Josie. But Mother, she’s dressed and ready for the day before it’s even begun.
Mike steps forward. “Hello, Betty.”
She hugs him like a trophy, air kisses his cheek, and pats him on his broad shoulder like she’s polishing him. Mother has always adored and pampered him. From the moment I brought him home for a college weekend, she always said I had made a fine catch, as if I’d been out fishing for bass one afternoon and caught a whopper. Maybe we should have had him stuffed and mounted on the wall, the label ‘Attorney at Law’ engraved beneath his wide mouth.
I know what it’s like when she goes to the hairdresser’s. “My son-in-law won another case.” Mike has given her plenty of bragging rights. “Did I tell you about the house he had built? Right on the ocean. On a cliff, actually, overlooking the Pacific. Breathtaking. Do you know the price for prime real estate like that in California? Out of this world.” Let the ‘Joneses’ try to keep up with us. Which is how Mother prefers it.
“And Oliver! I didn’t know you were coming. This is delightful. A family reunion.” She swats the toe of my son’s tennis shoe with the spatula. “Get up, young man, and give your grandmother a hug and kiss.”
With only a slight groan, he obeys. He’s a good kid, smart, conscientious and only
a tad undisciplined.
“Good gracious! You might as well be a Texas boy!” Mother has to reach up to hug him. “I won’t even say how tall you are or how much you’ve grown. Then I’d sound old and pathetic. Why do old people always tell the younger crowd how they’ve grown, like they weren’t supposed to? What do they think? You’re going to shrink? Nonsense.” She pats his back. “I fixed pancakes. My secret recipe. And I’m warming the maple syrup.”
Oliver’s eyes widen. With the look only a starved teenage boy can manage, he heads toward the kitchen, following the scent of fried bacon.
With a satisfied smile, Mother says, “Best way to get a boy’s attention. You know, Mike, looks like Oliver is going to outgrow even you.”
“Watch out, Betty, you’re starting to sound like one of those old people you were talking about.” Mike winks. Through the open doorway, the sun catches the glint in Mike’s dark hair. He can still take my breath. Even when he’s tired and exhausted.
Mother laughs. Only for Mike. She shoos him toward the kitchen. “Oh, you. Probably because I am.” I’m more convinced than ever that Mike can talk Mother out of all this funeral nonsense. “Go on now,” she says. “Breakfast is ready.” Allowing Mike to go ahead of her into the kitchen, she holds me back with her pinching fingers at my elbow. She whispers, “That was Drew Waring on the phone.”
I stop, take a step backward. “What did he want?”
“You apparently.”
“You know, Mother, it could be about Josie. Did he want me to call him back?”
“I told him not to call here. You are a married woman.”
“Mother!” Where was she sixteen years ago? I stare into her all-knowing gaze, that motherly look that always knew when I had taken an extra cookie or hadn’t really made my bed when asked. A lurking doubt lingers in the corner of my mind. Does she know everything there is to know about Drew and me? “He knows I’m married. I know it. And he’s not—”
“He’s a man. Therefore his scruples are under suspicion.”
This time my gaze rolls right up to the ceiling. “Mother, there is nothing going on between—”
“There better not be. I will not allow it. You have a good man in there. A child you’re responsible for.” She aims her pointer finger at my chest, and I take a step back so she can’t jab me with it again. Her mouth thins into a colorless line. “This is no way to behave.”
With that, she turns on her two-and-a-half-inch heel, and I notice then she’s already wearing her pumps and hose. My mother is certifiable. Maybe Mike can get her committed while he’s here.
* * *
BETWEEN “PASS THE BUTTER” and ”Here, have another pancake,” the conversation at breakfast lags. Mike and Oliver look exhausted. I feel it. Mother, on the other hand, looks refreshed and in her element as hostess.
“We have a busy day today,” Mother says. She sips her coffee leisurely as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s ready to play cruise director on the Pearl Harbor Memorial Highway, which is not far from her home. “There will be friends and neighbors dropping by, so we must—”
“That neighbor that swats flies?” Oliver perks up at the mention of Mother’s most recent tribulation. Before this funeral episode started. She had called and complained about the neighbor across the road.
“I should think not,” she cuts her pancake in a grid. “Mr. Ned Peavy knows he is not welcome over here.”
“Who’s Ned Peavy?” Mike asks. “An exterminator?”
“A nuisance,” Mother says.
“The neighbor Grandma called the cops on for standing naked on his porch,” Oliver explains like he’s an editor for the Luckenbach Moon.
“The sheriff didn’t even come out. Made me so—”
“Maybe we could get you some binoculars.” Mike downs the rest of his coffee.
Mother’s mouth opens, but no sound escapes. Her eyes round equally.
Mike’s mouth lifts at the corner with mischief, and I know he’s toying with her. “You’ll be footloose and single soon, so maybe you’ll be in the market for a new beau.”
Mother snaps her mouth shut. “I should say not.”
“It’s good Mike’s here, Mother,” I interject, hoping to steer the conversation in the direction that will most quickly get us heading back to the airport. “He can advise you.”
“On what?”
“Any criminal indictments.”
“Breaking the law? Mr. Peavy is the one breaking the law. Indecent exposure, that’s breaking the law.”
Mike glances at me then addresses Mother in his calm mediator voice. “I think Suzanne meant you.”
“Me? What on earth do you mean? I haven’t broken any law.”
“What about declaring Archie dead?” He lifts the linen napkin and wipes his mouth, refolds it carefully before placing it back on his lap. It’s all a play to look nonchalant, non-threatening. “Have you filed any insurance claims?” Mike reaches for another pancake. “Life insurance?”
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”
“What about filing for his social security or veteran benefits?”
“Why, no.”
“I suppose Archie,” Mike says, “could file a lawsuit.”
Mother places her manicured hands on the table. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“What about perjury?” I grasp for any straw, short or long that might get us out of this.
“She’s not under oath.” Mike slices butter and places it atop his stack of pancakes. “But there is potential for a defamation suit.”
The line, I imagine, that Mother has crossed or not yet crossed is getting harder to see. Mike is exactly the one who can make her see the ramifications of her actions.
“Where is Grandpa?” Oliver asks.
A knock at the back door makes me jump. I’m not sure if it’s my nerves reacting or too much coffee.
“Why, you’d think we were JC Penney’s having an ‘everything must go’ sale.” Mother wipes her hands on her apron and opens the back door. Her smile doesn’t falter, but I recognize the displeasure that tightens the corners of her mouth. “Josie.”
“Mrs. D.” Josie breezes inside. “Suzie Q.” She casually uses the pet name Drew called me in high school. Then she turns a full-watt smile on Mike. “Well, hello! I’m Josie, one of Suzanne’s friends from high school days.”
He stands, shakes her hand. “I remember her telling me about you.”
“I was the wild one. Wouldn’t want you to get me confused with anyone else.” She winks. “Oh, sit, sit. But I do love a gentleman who stands for a lady. These old-timers around Luckenbach forget sometimes. Or maybe they’re just lazy.”
“Or,” Mother says, “the lady is—”
“Shall I set an extra plate at the table?” I interrupt.
“Women libbers,” Mother says, shifting her approach, “give our men permission to be lazy.”
“Josie,” I move between my husband and friend, feeling suddenly territorial, “how’s your—” I clear my throat while I try to think of an appropriate word, but my brain is working in slow motion. “Your backside?”
“Oh, fine.” She pats the back of her jeans. “Good as new.” Then she gives it a little wiggle.
I catch Mike’s amused smile as he runs a reassuring hand down my spine.
“Josie,” I say, “this is our son, Oliver.”
“Ain’t you a cutie.” She sits in Daddy’s empty chair right beside him. Too close. I send her a look that says my son is off limits and way, way too young. Even for her. But she doesn’t seem to notice. A tinge of red splotches Oliver’s face. “What are you? A senior?”
“Sophomore. This coming fall.”
“Well, I would have taken you for much older.” She gives him a once-over. “You’re so tall. Quite the catch. I bet you have those valley girls just oohing and aahing over you all the time.”
Oliver ducks his head and shoves a bite of pancake in his mouth.
“Now look, I’ve
gone and embarrassed him.”
“Only yourself, dear,” Mother whispers under her breath.
“Josie,” I attempt to cover Mother’s rudeness, “would you like to join us for breakfast?”
“No, thanks. Maybe just coffee. You all sure do eat early over here. I don’t think my stomach wakes up before noon. Of course, I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to Suzie Q.”
The name rankles but I ignore it. If I draw attention to the fact I don’t like her calling me Suzie Q then she’ll continue mercilessly. Mike eyes me. I give him a shrug that says I’ll explain later.
Mother places a cup of coffee in front of Josie. Her motions are clipped with irritation. “Don’t you have to be at work?”
“It’s Sunday. I do have a slave driver for a boss, but he ain’t that bad yet.”
“Oh, dear. I completely forgot the day of the week, what with all the excitement!”
“Excitement?” Josie asks.
Mother glares at her. “I meant with all the company we’ve had.” She glances up at the wall clock above the refrigerator. It’s ceramic and shaped like a sun with rays pointing outward. “We still have time though.”
“For what?” Oliver looks like he could use a long nap.
“Church.”
Dumbfounded, I stare at my mother. It’s quite an experience to watch her in action. How can she lie about her husband being dead then prance right into church? My gaze locks with Mike’s. He lifts one eyebrow in amusement. Mother never seems to bother him the way she aggravates me. Maybe it’s because her barbs are never aimed at him.
“Well, now, Mrs. D,” Josie speaks when I can’t, “I’m sure no one would say anything if you didn’t show up this once, seein’ you’ve had such a tragedy.” She gives me a sly wink.
“Where is Grandpa exactly?” Oliver’s voice is muffled by a mouth full of pancake.
Mother’s fork clatters against her china plate. There’s a moment of silence but not out of respect; it’s more out of disbelief and wonderment as to how Mother will handle this. Will she really lie to her grandson in order to maintain her façade in front of Josie? Maybe it’s good Oliver is here. Maybe he’ll force his grandmother’s hand and end this whole charade.