by Dave Hill
“I can’t have anything with sugar, wheat, starch, saturated fat, unsaturated fat, trans fat, gluten, spices, preservatives, cholesterol, salt, chocolate, bleached flour, unbleached flour, dairy, caffeine, or flavor of any sort,” he said, apparently not joking.
As best I could tell, if he had anything crazier than a glass of water and a Tic Tac, I’d be performing CPR. I figured this might be my ticket out, but I was mistaken.
“No problem,” my mom assured me. “I’ll bring a bag of sandwich meats. That way, if Father can’t have anything they’re serving, I can make him a sandwich right there at the table.”
I was too beaten down to imagine how that scenario might make matters even worse, but more on that later. As the big day got closer, other frightening details came to light. For example, we wouldn’t be sitting just anywhere for the Maureen McGovern concert. Our seats would be front and center so that we might better bask in that unmistakable McGovern glow. It would be like an audience with the Pope. Of show tunes. And since my mom was in tight with the organizers of the benefit, we’d all ride to the concert in a stretch limousine—a detail my mom seemed particularly pumped about.
“There’s going to be a limousine, a stretch limousine—you know, the really long kind,” she kept telling me. “And not just anybody gets to ride in it, either—just your father, Father Aberdeen, and me. Oh, and then you and some of the other ladies. It’s a special stretch limousine just for us. The really long kind that’s only for special people.”
My mom wasn’t normally flashy, so I was starting to think the benefit was totally corrupting her.
On the day of the benefit, a promising combination of snow and rain covered all of Greater Cleveland—nothing the locals weren’t used to, but I still prayed it meant everything would be cancelled. No such luck though. Starting at 7:00 A.M., my mom called a half dozen times, going over every last detail yet again as if we were about to rob a bank.
“Be sure to leave yourself plenty of time to pick up Father Aberdeen,” my mom stressed. “There could be traffic or construction or a funeral procession or a truck flipped over in the middle of the road or honestly there’s just no telling. Don’t chance it, David.”
“Fine, Mom.” I groaned.
“I mean it; we can’t afford to have you picking him up last minute.”
Perhaps in a subconscious act of rebellion, I’d stayed out late the night before drinking as much as possible with friends, which only added to my misery. Around ten, I got in my car and headed to church to pick up Father Aberdeen. When I pulled up, he was already waiting outside under an awning. He made his way carefully through the slush and got in my car. A few gray hairs aside, he looked unchanged since my high school days.
“So, still playing guitar I assume?” he asked as we began making our way downtown. I’m a sucker for guitar talk and was relieved that Father Aberdeen chose this as the opening topic instead of something tougher, like what I was doing with my life, for example.
“Yup,” I answered. “You?”
“No,” he said. “Not since these heart attacks. They almost killed me, so I really just have to rest up and get my health back.”
As is usually the case when someone brings up almost being killed by something, you pretty much have to stop talking about everything else and focus on how they almost died instead—there’s just no getting around it. So, as we made our way down to the hotel, I pretended to listen closely as Father Aberdeen told me about each of the heart attacks and all the hospitals, tests, and tubes that went with them. Mostly, though, I was trying to remember where the nearest hospital was and how quickly I might be able to get him there if things suddenly went south.
“You feel good though, now, mostly or…?” I asked.
“Mostly I guess.”
“Great. Anything changes, you let me know. And pronto.”
About twenty minutes later, Father Aberdeen and I found ourselves exiting an elevator onto the second floor of the hotel, where about seventy people, most between the ages of sixty-five and nine hundred, mingled about, the men in various shades of gray and the women draped in either floral patterns or colors not found in nature. That unmistakable electricity that occurs when geriatric clergy members get together to make small talk with geriatric nonclergy members filled the air as the de facto Maureen McGovern tailgate party got underway.
“Hi, Father Winslow!” a woman with a short, blue perm said. “How’s my favorite pastor?”
“I’m Father Henry.”
“Hi, Father Henry! How’s my favorite pastor?”
My mom quickly spotted us in the crowd and headed over with my dad and my aunt Helen in tow.
“Hi, Davey! Hi, Father Aberdeen!” my mom said. “Davey, why don’t you get yourself and Father Aberdeen a drink?”
Now she was talking. For the first time I thought I might be able to get through this thing. All I had to do was keep a steady stream of alcohol coursing through my veins and everything would be okay. To that end, I made a beeline for the portable bar they had set up in the corner.
“Hello.” The bartender smiled as I bellied up. “Can I interest you in a virgin mimosa?”
“That sounds nice, but I think I’ll have something a little stronger.” I smiled back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wrinkling his brow in faux sympathy. “No alcohol today.”
“Die, you heartless prick,” I tried to say in response with just my eyes. He looked to be about my age, so I figured he must have had some sense of the situation I had gotten myself into and how it might be greatly improved with ten or eleven drinks. I also knew that whatever supply closet he got all that orange juice and Sprite from was probably also home to at least a few bottles of vodka. In fact, the bastard had a mini liquor store sitting right there at waist level where no one could see it. I felt like grabbing him by the nose with his ice tongs and whipping him in concentric circles across the room until he begged for mercy.
“Fine. I’ll take a virgin mimosa and a water.” I sighed in defeat.
I returned with the drinks as my mother held court, pointing out the retired nuns and priests in the room as if they were former baseball greats trotting out to the field on Old Timer’s Day.
“That’s Father Murphy—he taught at Cathedral Latin for years,” my mother said. “And that’s Sister Patricia—she was at Saint Claire’s throughout the seventies before disappearing entirely, never to be heard from again … until today.”
She knew all the stats. It was creepy.
I knocked back my virgin mimosa, hoping the orange juice in it had somehow fermented. Then we all shuffled into a nearby dining room, where our group sat down at a large round table with a half dozen seventy-somethings. I plopped down between Father Aberdeen and my dad, with whom I briefly attempted to commiserate. My dad was never one for complaining, but even so I figured he might be willing to agree with me on the overall suck factor of the current situation.
“This blows,” I whispered.
“I’m having a very nice time,” my dad countered.
“Are you kidding? I’d rather be waterboarded.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my dad said, straightening up in his chair.
I wanted to ask my dad what he had done with the money he‘d clearly been paid to lie through his teeth. But I was too flabbergasted to say another word to him for the rest of the day. Capitalizing on the lull, one of the grandmas at our table decided to chat up the fresh meat.
“So, David, I understand you play in a musical group,” she said.
“Uh, yeah.” I cringed.
“We should have you perform at next year’s benefit!”
“Oh, I really don’t think that would—”
“It’ll be great!” She beamed while struggling up from her chair. “You stay right there while I go get one of the organizers so we can set it all up right now!”
By outward appearances, I probably just seemed like a guy spending a relaxing afternoon with an amiabl
e group of senior citizens, but inside I felt like the victim of some bizarre psychological warfare. A minute later, my mom, who had gotten up from the table to work the crowd, ran over to me dragging a guy named Rick I knew from elementary school.
“Look who I found!” she screeched. “It’s Rick! It’s Rick!”
Rick and I played soccer together in the fourth grade. He was working at the event in some capacity and we chatted for a couple of minutes before he had to get back to things. As soon as he left, my mom came scrambling back over to me.
“What a nice young man.” She smiled. “We should introduce him to one of your sisters.”
None of my sisters were married at the time and my mom was determined to change all that, and fast. And although somewhere between fourth grade and the benefit, Rick had clearly embraced his gayness with open arms, my mom was somehow oblivious. I did my best to explain to her that the hunt would have to continue elsewhere.
“I dunno, Mom, I feel like he’s not ready to settle down with a good woman just yet.”
“A nice man like that? Please.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Mom. He’s really, really nice,” I agreed, “but also really, really gay.”
“David, stop it!” she scolded.
My mom was born without gaydar, so she usually misinterpreted outward signs of homosexuality as heightened exuberance and tended to think calling someone gay was an insult, the sort of taunt fifth graders use on the playground.
“I’m not trying to insult him,” I explained. “I’m just saying that while I think he and one of your daughters might become good friends, maybe even best friends, that’s as far as it’s gonna go.”
“Well, if you won’t ask for his number, I will!” she said before storming off.
Convinced I was just being an asshole, my mom returned to her seat. With her pissed off and my father suddenly a Stepford husband, I decided to check in with Father Aberdeen.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked, assuming he was having as much fun as the rest of the pack.
“I have to be honest,” he said hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”
“Huh?” I grunted, thinking maybe that third heart attack was about to kick in.
“Well, I’m often invited places by parishioners and usually I understand why,” he explained. “But I just don’t feel much of a connection to any of these people.”
I could totally relate, but I was also totally confused. My mom made it sound like Father Aberdeen lit up like a damn Christmas tree when he heard about the benefit, especially the Maureen McGovern part.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I said. “My mom told me you were dying to come here today—sorry, no pun intended—so that’s why I brought you.”
“That’s funny. She told me that you really wanted to come and that you really wanted to bring me,” Father Aberdeen replied, his brow slowly furrowing.
We had been duped, set up by my mom, who was more than your run-of-the-mill manipulative Catholic lady. She was a full-on con artist.
As our reality sunk in, Father Aberdeen and I turned our attention to my mother, who was laughing it up on the other side of the table as if she were at her own bachelorette party. I hoped she would see us trying to burn a hole right through her with our eyes, but before she had a chance, a waiter announced that it was time to hit the buffet. Distracted by the prospect of food, Father Aberdeen and I set our mounting anger aside in hopes of stuffing our faces. Unfortunately, however, virtually everything on display appeared to have been breaded, double-battered, wrapped in bacon, sautéed in butter, covered in sour cream, marinated in Crisco, and then deep-fried a couple of dozen times before being hosed down with a mixture of gravy, hot sauce, and melted cheese. It was as if someone were on a mission to give Father Aberdeen that third heart attack. Still, I needed my strength, so I piled my plate high as Father Aberdeen grabbed a couple of carrot sticks and trudged glumly back to the table.
My mother, on the other hand, seemed almost delighted with the menu as it gave her the chance to break out that bag of heart-friendly sandwich supplies she had hidden under the table this whole time.
“Can I make you a turkey sandwich, Father?” she said while spreading assorted meats across the table like a guy selling fake Rolexes on the sidewalk. “I also have roast beef, corned beef, ham—basically if it comes in cold cut form, I’ve got it!”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I can’t really eat that stuff because of that thing about my two heart attacks and how I almost died.”
“What?” another woman at our table asked, apparently alarmed.
“Nothing,” my mother assured her. “Now, Father, what’ll it be? Turkey sound good?”
“No, thank you,” he said.
“All right, ham it is!” my mom said. “Davey, here, pass this slice of ham over to Father and if he likes it I’ll make him as many sandwiches as he wants. And don’t worry, Father, my hands are perfectly clean.”
While Father Aberdeen was beyond uninterested, I was just plain mortified, my eyes slowly glazing over in a way I recognized as having preceded the few fainting spells I’d ever had in my life. I was pulled out of it, however, when my mother announced it was concert time and we were all going to get McGoverned whether we liked it or not. Since she didn’t want to make any of the other attendees jealous, my mom asked our group to play it cool as we made our way to the black stretch limousine waiting downstairs.
“If anyone asks, we’re just taking a cargo van down to the concert—nothing fancy, nothing special, nothing anyone needs to get worked up about,” she said. “Got it? Now everybody just keep moving.”
There’s something anticlimactic about piling into a limousine with a bunch of old ladies, a priest, and parents you stopped talking to an hour earlier. I had always thought these things were supposed to be filled with strippers, pulsing track lights, champagne, and maybe even Sinbad. My mom, however, seemed unfazed, her sheer delight increasing with each block as she went on and on about how nice it was to ride in a limousine to somewhere other than a cemetery for a change. “Tomato, tomahto,” I thought.
At the concert, we sat in the dark enduring Maureen McGovern belt out show tune after show tune as she took just about every number from the American songbook that I never wanted to hear again and not only extended it, but made it “her own” in a way that had me feeling under my seat to see if someone had by some off chance left a gun. There were vocal acrobatics, spoken word intervals during which the band “brought it down,” and a whole lot of cringe-worthy “selling it” in general.
“I’d like to dedicate this next one to my two little boys, Dante and Pepper,” she announced before the string section kicked off yet another number. “They’re Welsh corgis!”
I love dogs, but in that moment I wished nothing more than for Dante and Pepper to be lying dead somewhere that very moment. Even so, between that line and the rest of her stage banter, there was barely a dry seat in the house. Maureen McGovern had come to delight us all. Almost. As far as I was concerned, she represented everything that was wrong with the world. My mother, on the other hand, lapped it up, a “How does she do it?” expression plastered to her face. I thought to sneak out and call someone, anyone, who might be able to talk me through it all, but one look at Father Aberdeen and I saw he was at least as troubled as I was, and I felt too guilty to leave him behind. He must have thought celibacy was a breeze compared to this.
“How are you holding up?” I whispered to him as Maureen McGovern threatened to bring the house down once more.
“I-I’m f-fine,” he answered, a desperate “I wanna go home! I wanna go home!” look in his eye.
About nine or ten hours later, Maureen McGovern finished her sixth and final encore and we slowly filed out of the theater and into the familiar Cleveland mix of snow and rain, like inmates fresh out of the penitentiary.
“Do you two want to join us in the limousine back to the hotel so you can pick up your car?” my mom asked u
s out front, still riding that unmistakable McGovern high.
“No, thank you!” Father Aberdeen and I shot back in unison before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
As we walked the few blocks to my car we both became giddy at the prospect of freedom.
On the drive home, I tried to engage him in a little trash talking, but he refused to return any of the shots I took at those old bastards we met back at the hotel.
“What about that crazy old bat with the soiled neck brace who kept double dipping and chewing with her mouth wide open?” I asked, hoping to get him going. “Ugh, I thought I was gonna puke!”
Nothing.
I couldn’t even get him to revisit the fact that my mom had completely tricked us both. I was impressed by his self-control, but I resented him for not indulging my need for blood sport.
“Thanks for joining me,” I said as we pulled back into the church driveway a short while later. By that point, I figured I might as well just pretend we’d had a lovely day together after all.
“Thanks for taking me. I … had a nice time,” Father Aberdeen lied before stepping out of the car and into the slush.
As I headed back to my sister’s house, I tried to figure out exactly why my mother would trick her own son and a Catholic priest, the closest thing to God on earth, into the nightmare we had just endured. I came up empty. Later that night, she called to check in.
“That was fun, right, Davey?” she said.
“Fun? That was hell!” I moaned. “Why did you do that to us?”
“Do what?”
“Why did you trick Father Aberdeen and me into going to that, that thing?”
“I didn’t trick anybody,” she scoffed.
Then I broke it to her how Father Aberdeen and I had figured out exactly what she had done. The jig was up.