“Gerald thought I was crazy, but it helps me relax while we’re flying, and I promise you, nobody complains when they get one of my oatmeal raisin cookies. That’s what it’s all about, for me. Those little moments of perfection.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
The article featured spreads from the Bates’ dining room with a large silver vase full of pink hydrangeas from Neely’s own garden.
“Life, to me, is be about enjoying the gifts that life gives us. Just those simple things, elevated to the perfect art they are. I mean, when you notice the artistry in a simple peonie, it’s almost heartbreaking. Every living thing belongs in the Louvre. But it’s all out here, free to see everywhere you look, if we just stop our busy rushing rushing rushing and open our eyes. Right over our back fence every night is a jaw- dropping spectacular show. It’s called the sunset, and it’s breathtaking. Have you ever really watched the sunset? Or the sparkle of diamonds on a spiderweb, wet with the morning dew?”
“Oh, gag,” I said to Stump. She grunted and rolled over a bit so I could rub her belly. “It’s those simple things in life, I can see from the window of my mansion and private plane, right?” I leaned over and kissed Stump’s soft wrinkled neck. She grunted and batted at my head with her paw. She wanted my attention, but wasn’t crazy about me getting all up in her face.
I took the hint and rose back up, thumbing through the photographs from the magazine, enlarging pictures as I went. One of Neely and Gerald Sr., laughing at some private joke, also showed a framed photograph of the entire family grinning from a ski slope somewhere, all brilliant white snow and white teeth. Another showed a backyard party with a few men who looked like they were straight from the Land’s End catalog, standing around a large stone fire pit, with a line of Japanese lanterns strung in the background. A kid in a chunky white sweater and an all-American grin held a wire with a toasty marshmallow over the embers. The caption under the picture said, “No over-the-top screaming pizza parlor birthday parties for my family, thank you very much. We’re backyard all the way. Birthdays should be about celebrating the existence of that person, not about how much you can spend or how many presents you get.”
“Says the woman who probably has everything she’s ever wanted,” I mumbled to Stump. “She’s probably one of those people who say, ‘I’m hard to buy gifts for, because if I need something, I just go buy it myself. Hee hee hee.’”
Stump raised an eyebrow at my mocking tone.
I enlarged the picture and noted the picnic table in the background, with its festive red and turquoise tablecloth and coordinating bunting strung behind it. It was kind of blurry because the focus in the picture was on the kid and his freckled cheeks hot from the fire in the foreground, but I could see the red and turquoise theme carried over to labels on the water bottles and pinwheels stuck artfully into a tall vase at the other end of the table.
“Simple backyard party” to me meant an open bag of Fritos and a can of bean dip, but we all had our interpretations, I supposed.
I thought I might be getting an idea of what a “lifestyle expert” did, though. They found ways to trick out normal stuff until it became fancy and more expensive than it needed to be.
I shrank that picture and returned to the one on the ski slope to get another look at this family my mother was marrying into. I hadn’t known, at first, what she meant when she said “good family. But I realized that I, like everyone else, knew it when we saw it. Here was a family who gathered together for birthdays and went on vacations together. They volunteered at soup kitchens and sat on charity committees, they paid their bills early and overtipped the waitress, their kids said “yes ma’am” and “no thank you.” Their kids excelled in school and sports and donated their birthday presents to children’s hospitals.
Good families lived in good houses and kept the lawn green and tidy and the kitchen floors spotless (with the help of the housekeeper, who they insisted was like family). Good families went to church together. Good mothers taught Sunday School, and good fathers led the Thanksgiving prayer.
I kept searching through the pictures, looking for something, then stopped when I realized what, exactly, I was looking for: some clue, somehow, as to how my mom had ended up here.
I tried to picture her fitting with the ski trip or laughing gaily around the backyard fire pit, and I could not. My mother was full-out raucous laughter, shouted four-letter words and flipping middle fingers. She was unpaid bills with never-ending excuses, empty promises, and idle threats. Mom was all of our belongings going into trash bags in the middle of the night, moving out before the landlord could catch us and yell about the overdue rent.
Frank came in and dropped into the recliner. Frank lived in the trailer next to me in Trailertopia. Hispanic with shaggy brown hair, he seemed to have no life outside of work, home (mostly mine) and the occasional visit to his family. He babysat Stump for me when I couldn’t take her with me, and I repaid him with free dinners. We’d long ago stopped keeping track of the tally sheet. I assumed he would be there every night, and he assumed I would ask at any time for him to stay in the recliner with Stump so I didn’t have to worry about her getting anxious and destroying things, as she was wont to do if I left her alone. Stump had major separation anxiety issues.
“Dinner will be ready in a bit,” I told Frank.
He grunted, already concentrating on the wrestling match he’d turned on.
I set the phone aside and groaned, running a hand through my hair. I got up and stirred the stir fry, less enthusiastic for it than I’d been just a few minutes before. I was aware of an uncomfortable feeling growing inside me. I didn’t like it.
“It’s not jealousy,” I told Stump.
She didn’t move, just looked at me with her big brown eyes, one brow raised.
“It’s not. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not jealousy.”
It was surprise, I decided. That was all. I mean, Mom had been with a lot of guys, and a few of them were really decent. A couple of them had even been, if I was honest, too good for her — meaning they were dependable and would be faithful, if not exactly stellar providers or even good conversationalists. None of them would be considered anyone’s most eligible bachelor, though.
I dished up the stir fry and filled two bowls, one for me and one for Frank, and set a bottle of soy sauce on the coffee table between us. The recipe had insisted on only one teaspoon for the entire dish, and that seemed suspiciously low to me.
Your ankles will thank you! The recipe had said.
I took a tentative bite. It was okay, but kind of bland. I looked at the soy sauce. I thought of my dream last night. I thought of my next Fat Fighters weigh-in. I sighed and took another bite.
Frank took one bite, then upended the bottle over his bowl and stirred. Frank had to wear a belt to keep his jeans up. The rat.
As soon as he was done, Frank announced that he had some things he needed to take care of and thanked me for dinner. I knew he didn’t have anything else to do. The wrestling match was over and he was afraid I was going to offer him seconds. It was okay. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I didn’t need a dogsitter.
I turned off the TV and picked my phone back up. It was so shiny. I went back to the Amarillo Hearth and Home site and scrolled back through the pictures, trying to imagine my mom in any of them.
It still made no sense.
But it was surprise and not jealousy, I thought. Jealousy would be stupid. Besides, I had a man, and although his family hadn’t been featured in any magazines, they certainly could be. Tony himself was certainly hot enough to be on a few magazine covers, and successful enough to be considered a great catch. What’s more, we’d remained married for over ten years despite all the odds. The fact that we’d only seen each other a total of about one year out of the ten held no real relevance.
I called Tony. I would say “Hey, honey, how’s your day?” All breezy-like, as if it was no big deal. As if we had the kind of relationship where
we called each other honey all the time.
“Hey,” I said. The “honey” just kind of died in my throat.
“Hi, Salem. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. I just wanted to say hi. So…hi.”
He laughed. “Hi.”
“How are the new employees?” Tony owned a cleaning service business, and his clients were all other businesses and office buildings. He was a good boss, but there was still a fair amount of turnover, so new employee supervision was a common occurrence.
“They’re catching on,” he said.
Then silence, while he waited patiently for me to get to whatever I’d called for.
I stifled a sigh. “So, we’re still on for Thursday, then?” As we already discussed not two hours ago.
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it.”
He wouldn’t, either. Tony was dependable. If he said he would do something, he would do it, if for no other reason than because he was a man of his word.
That wasn’t nothing. Coming from a family where people threw words around like they were free, I knew the value of someone who kept his word.
“Excellent,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.” For now, it would have to be enough that one of us viewed the appointment as something not akin to jury duty.
I hung up and called Les.
“Okay, tell me,” I said, as soon as he’d said hello. “Is it lame, or super-lame, or just plain sad that I might possibly be jealous of my own mother’s new-found happiness?”
“Might possibly?”
Les is my AA sponsor. He had seen me at my worst, heard almost all my horror stories, and somehow still took my calls. I’d been suffering through a three-day binge hangover in the county jail when I met Les. He had come to the jail and prayed for me, and my life had never been the same. He could take credit for basically every good thing that had happened in my life from that point on. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know.” I stood and began to pace my narrow living room. Stump stayed on the sofa, smart enough to know there wasn’t room enough for one of us to get in a decent pace, much less two. “I don’t know how I feel, but it’s not good. Not happy for her.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think this marriage might not be a good idea? Is the guy not a good candidate for marriage?”
“I have no idea. I don’t really know anything about him because all she’s told me is about his family. They have money. I mean, they’re not bazillionaires, but they have enough that the dad flies his private plane to all the Aggie football games. Mom went on and on about their beautiful house on the golf course, their standing in the community, their fabulous friends. The guy could be a complete toad for all I know.”
“Well, that’s probably it, then. You’re feeling uneasy because she could be getting in over her head, into a situation that isn’t what it seems to her. That would make me uneasy.”
He made it sound almost Gothic, like Mom was being conned into marrying into this family only to find out they kept their crazy aunt locked in the attic and the family plot was filled with the tombstones of Gerry’s former wives.
I did a gut-check. “No, that’s not it.”
“I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”
“Okay.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“That she’s going to get everything she ever wanted.” I froze. “Good grief. That’s awful. I’m a dreg. I’m an actual dreg of humanity.”
“You’re a child of God.”
“Maybe, but that is awful, you have to admit.”
“It’s honest. Why would it be so bad if she got everything she ever wanted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Salem, you are on a good track, getting to the good stuff. Think of it like a splinter, festering under your skin. Let’s dig it out and get it healed.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Why would it be so bad if she had everything she ever wanted?”
“She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was so — ” One particularly painful memory sprang to mind, and I pushed it away. There was plenty else to deal with, we didn’t need to go there. “She was so unhappy with me. With having me. With having to take care of me and all the inconveniences and hardships that came with being a single mom. And she made me feel like — like everything was my fault. Every time we had to move because the rent wasn’t paid, she’d bring up how much it cost to feed me and clothe me. Every time she broke up with a boyfriend, she’d somehow work into the conversation that it was impossible to find a guy who was willing to take on a ready-made family.”
“So, she wasn’t happy being your mom, and it’s hurtful to you that she finds happiness now that you’re grown?”
I let that sit for a moment. “I don’t know. That feels close.”
Would I be happier for Mom, if she’d been happier with me? That felt closer to the truth than the fear that she was in danger of being the next late Mrs. What’s-his-name. Bates. But not quite…
Again, the thought popped into my head that I could tell Les about the really bad stuff, instead of just the bad stuff. Then he would be able to understand where I was coming from, and I wouldn’t have to explain myself.
But I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that level of heart-to-heart, not at the moment. Besides, Les knew enough of the dysfunction of my childhood, all Mom’s boyfriends and husbands. He had probably figured out the rest.
“She did so much to make sure I wasn’t happy,” I finally settled on. “I mean, I’m still dealing with all the crud she left me with. I’m probably always going to be dealing with the hangups and neuroses. It just…it seems unfair that she basically gives me a big pile of neurotic crud to work through and then goes on her merry way.”
I did another gut check. It didn’t feel good, but it felt like the truth.
“Do you think you’d be happier for her if your own life was more under control? You had all your own crud, as you say, worked out?”
I sighed. “Hopefully. I hold out faint hope that when I eventually get my act together, I’ll be a nicer person. So yeah. Maybe.”
Les laughed. “Well, there’s that possibility. You know, of course, that most of us don’t ever get all our crud worked out, right?”
“But we still try.”
“We still try. The question now, Salem, is what are you going to do with this new-found realization? When is this wedding?”
“Two months, she said. They want to have it around Thanksgiving. Because she’s so thankful. Gag. And because he has a suite at Cowboy Stadium and they can go to the game and then to Aruba for their honeymoon. Also gag.”
“So that gives you two months to work through your crud and be happy for her.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Then you’re going to have to decide how you’re going to handle it. Want to go over your options?”
“Is staying drunk for the whole thing one of the options?” I was mostly joking. “Or maybe just slightly buzzed?”
“Of course, as long as you consider the entire picture associated with that choice. Losing all the progress you’ve made in your recovery so far. Another rock bottom. Another round of relationships down the toilet. Another season of not being able to look at yourself in the mirror. Self-loathing, disappointment.”
“You make it very enticing.”
“Still just being honest. What’s another option?”
“I suck it up and paste a smile on my face until it’s over.”
“That’s a possibility. Hang on a second.”
I heard a muffled sound, as if he’d put his hand over the phone, and I heard him talking to someone, probably his wife, Bonnie. I sat back on the sofa and Stump slid over and put her chin on my leg. I scratched her ears and felt a moment of gratitude that no matter how screwed up I was, I was doing a fairl
y decent job with Stump. She seemed to be doing okay, and my neuroses weren’t rubbing off on her.
“Okay,” he said when he came back on. “There’s another option you haven’t mentioned.”
“What’s that?”
“You could talk to your mom. Clear the air.”
“Also not gonna happen.”
“You should at least consider it. Chances are, Salem, she wants to have a good relationship with you, and would welcome the chance to have an honest conversation.”
“You don’t know my mom.”
“I don’t. But I know mothers. Most of them want to do the right thing. Most people want to do the right thing. They just need someone to tell them what that thing is.”
“Believe me, I tried having conversations about these very things, the entire time I was growing up.”
“How’d that go?”
“You know. We fought.” This was far from the first time Les had heard my grievances over my childhood. “Every time I brought up how I would like for things to be different, she got offended and acted like I was criticizing her and never satisfied with any of her hard work. It was all about how difficult her life was, and she didn’t have any sympathy left over for how our life was affecting me.”
“Well, time has passed for her, too. She’s older now, probably a bit wiser. And now, if she’s in a good relationship and happy with her life, she’ll feel less pressure and be more open to hearing what you have to say.”
“Maybe,” I said, to appease him.
“Don’t agree just to appease me. Really think about it. You have two months. You could invite her to stay with you and maybe you two could reestablish a relationship. I’ll bet she would welcome the chance for that.”
“Maybe,” I said again, every bit as doubtful as before.
“Why don’t you ask her to just come for a few days. Visit you, and you just love on her. Put everything else on the back burner and just love her. Don’t worry about having any big heart-to-heart breakthroughs or anything. Be around her. Get comfortable around each other again.”
Mom and I had never spent more than two hours together without getting into a fight about something. But he was right — she was older now, and happy. I was somewhat calmer. Plus, I would be neither drunk nor hungover, so I should find it easier to control my own mouth.
Caught in the Crotchfire Page 5