Love, Life and Linguine

by Melissa Jacobs

  “And anyway,” Allison continues, “you and Jeremy need to stop this childish behavior. Maybe if you get to know Sid, you’ll like him.”

  “Fine, Ally. I’ll be there.”

  Jeez. I didn’t know being a good daughter would be so difficult.

  Promenade

  The afternoon before the family dinner, Aaron asks me to help him buy a birthday present for his sister. He picks me up at the restaurant and we drive to the Promenade, a shopping center that the Scheins didn’t build. We browse the ladies of Lily Pulitzer, J. Jill, and Ann Taylor. Finally Aaron buys the newest Coach handbag.

  “There’s a Sur la Table if you want to look at cookware,” Aaron says. We go into the store and I get a contact high from the Le Creuset pots and pans.

  “There’s a kitchen back there,” Aaron says, and we walk to the back of the store.

  “I guess they do cooking demonstrations here,” I say.

  “Look,” Aaron says. “Here’s the poster announcing the next one.”

  Smiling from the poster, looking tall and trim in his chef whites, is Nick.

  “For the love of Emeril,” I mutter.

  The ghost of boyfriend past makes me cranky. When Aaron suggests lunch, I say, “I have to go to work.”

  “But you work at a restaurant,” he says. “So that works out well.”

  Inside Café Louis, I lead Aaron to an empty booth. Christopher instantly materializes. “Lovely to see you, Mr. Schein.” He nods at me. “Mrs. Schein.”

  Aaron laughs, but I don’t. “Chrissie? Menus? Please?”

  We order—Aaron the chicken salad sandwich and a side of fries, me a bowl of gazpacho—then Aaron says, “What’s bothering you?”

  To avoid telling him about my ex-boyfriend, I tell Aaron about my mother’s current boyfriend. “Tonight my sister-in-law is having a dinner to introduce Sid to the family.”

  “What do you know about him?” Aaron asks.

  “As little as possible,” I say.

  “Don’t you think you should look out for your mother?” Aaron says.

  “I am looking out for her,” I say.

  “A lot of scam artists use the Internet to get money from little old ladies.”

  “Bobbi Louis is not a little old lady,” I say.

  “Still,” Aaron says. “If my father died and my mom started dating, I’d find out everything I could about her boyfriend. I would feel like it was my responsibility to protect her. Don’t you think your father would want you to protect your mother?”

  Our food arrives and Aaron eats with his usual gusto. I’ve lost my appetite.

  Interrogation

  “Sid will be here to pick us up in fifteen minutes.” It’s the night of the family dinner, and I have made up my mind to find out more about Sid. By asking Mom.

  As I finish putting on makeup, I think of all the times Mom and Dad interrogated me about new boyfriends. Who would have thought that the tables would turn?

  I know I’m not the only thirty-year-old who has a newly widowed mother diving into the dating pool. I know this because I’ve read articles about it. Swinging Seniors. Bada Bing Boomers. But what about us kids? How are we to deal with our parents’ love lives?

  “Mom?” I sit on her bed. “Tell me about Sid.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Where to start? “He was married?”

  “Of course,” Mom says. “For thirty years.”

  “Where is his wife?”

  “Beth Israel Cemetery,” Mom says.

  So Sid is a widower. The death of a spouse. That’s something they share. Common ground. Common burial ground. “What did she die of?”

  “Cancer,” Mom says.

  Was it a long death or a short one? I don’t need to know that. Moving on. “Does Sid have children?”

  “A son.” Mom turns to me. “He’s single. I could fix you up with him.”

  “Right. That wouldn’t be weird.”

  Mom laughs.

  “What kind of doctor is Sid?”

  “A dentist. He retired a few years ago.”

  There goes the free whitening. “So Sid is financially stable?”

  “Yes,” Mom says. “I don’t know the specifics, but he’s certainly comfortable.”

  “Good.”

  Mom says, “Any more questions, Detective?”

  “I think that’s all for now,” I say. “You’re free to go. But don’t leave the country.”

  Mom laughs. “Actually, we’ve been talking about leaving the country. To travel. But Sid and his wife traveled around Europe, and he’s not keen on going back to places he’s already been.”

  “You’ve never been to Europe,” I say. “Doesn’t he want to go with you?”

  Mom shrugs. “He’s more interested in going to the Caribbean. He wants to relax. Sit in the sun. Play golf.”

  I can’t imagine my mother sitting still for more than a meal. But I don’t want to rain on her Caribbean parade, so I refrain from commenting.

  “You look pretty, Mimi.” Mom runs her hand through my hair, which has grown past my shoulders. The doorbell rings.

  Sidisms

  Mom volunteers to drive to Allison’s. “Oh, but I need gas,” she says as if this is an insurmountable problem.

  Why is Mom acting helpless? As I open my mouth to admonish her, Sid leaps to the rescue. “I’ll get you gas.”

  Mom smiles gratefully. “Thank you, honey.”

  Sid as he opens the passenger door for her. “Anything for you, Bobbi.”

  Over Sid’s shoulder, Mom winks at me.

  She just played him. Played him? No. Mom made Sid feel important. Needed. Valued. She is not helpless. She is certainly capable of getting gas for her car. Why should she if Sid will happily do it for her?

  Did Mom do that with Dad? Not that I remember.

  Have I ever done that with my boyfriends? Made them feel needed? I don’t know. I’m always busy proving how independent I am. Isn’t that what Nick told me? I don’t need anyone for anything?

  Interesting.

  Sid drives us to the highway and pulls into the first gas station we see. Mom never, ever pulls into the first gas station. She shops for gas. Not until she’s passed at least five gas stations will she select one, even if there is a mere penny’s difference in the price. But now she nods and smiles at Sid as he parks in front of the gas pump. She offers her credit card, and Sid says, “My treat.”

  “Sid is treating? Damn. We should’ve taken my car,” I say somewhat seriously.

  “Oh, Mimi.” Mom laughs as if I’ve just said something terribly witty. Sid laughs with Mom, then turns off the car. He gets out of the car and stands near the pump. New Jersey is one of the last states to resist self-serve gas pumps. Attendants abound. There’s no need to get out of the car. “What’s he doing?” I ask Mom.

  “Supervising,” Mom answers. “It’s an older man thing.”

  Really? Dad never did that.

  Everything in life should be full service, Dad said.

  A gas attendant puts the nozzle into the gas tank, and Sid watches the numbers turn as the tank fills. Then he hands the attendant money and the two men nod at each other as if they have concluded a business deal. This strikes me as insane.

  Back in the car, Sid says to Mom, “You’re all taken care of, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, honey.”

  This is getting a little too sweet for me.

  “How about a little music?” Mom suggests as Sid pulls out of the gas station.

  “Your mother has a beautiful voice,” Sid tells me.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Mom says. “Yours is wonderful, too. We make beautiful music together.” With that, Mom pushes buttons on her CD player and music comes out of the speakers. Sid clears his throat and Mom waves her hands to the music. And then…

  They sing. They harmonize.

  I know this car has air bags. Does it have barf bags?

  Meet the Children

  Sarah i
s waiting for us on the brick steps of her home. She looks up at Sid. “What am I supposed to call you?” she asks. “I have a Grandpa and a Zadie.”

  “Do you have a Sid?” he asks.

  Although she accepts Sid’s initial effort, Sarah remains aloof toward him. I watch Sarah watch Sid, and part of me—the really immature part of me—is grateful that she’s on my side. The rest of the Louis family is being exceedingly polite to Sid. Even Jeremy. He must have gotten a talking-to from his wife.

  As for Allison, she is in rare form. I volunteer to help her finish dinner.

  “I can do it,” she insists.

  “I know you can do it, Ally. But let me help. I’ll be your sous chef.”

  “My what?” She looks at me with crazed eyes.

  “Your assistant. Tell me what to do. You’re the boss.”

  “Fine. Good. Thanks. Can you handle the macaroni and cheese? And the mashed potatoes?”

  “That’s what we’re having for dinner?” I ask. “Not that I’m judging.”

  Allison tosses her salad and explains. “The twins want chicken fingers and mashed potatoes. It’s easier to give them what they want then have them throw a fit in front of company. But Sarah has decided that she’s not eating brown food. So, I’m making her a hot dog and the macaroni and cheese. The grown-up food is brisket, rice pilaf, creamed spinach, and corn soufflé. Oh, crap. I forgot about the soufflé.”

  Allison dives into the oven and removes the soufflé. From where I’m standing, I can see that the soufflé is burnt. Allison watches the soufflé cave in on itself. “Oh, no,” Allison says. “Now what am I going to do?”

  “Here, gimme.” I take the casserole dish from her. With a serving spoon, I take off the burnt crust and scoop the rest of the soufflé into another bowl. “See? All better.”

  “Thanks, Mimi.”

  “Why the crazy?” I ask, hoping there’s no earth-shattering reason. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Allison exhales. “Next week, my mother is coming to visit.”

  Phoebe Greene travels from Boca Raton to Jersey twice a year, during Chanukah and August. Since her husband died seven years ago, Phoebe has traveled quite a lot more than she did when Hal Greene’s work schedule kept them in Florida. Hal was a real estate developer who left his widow a comfortable fortune, which Phoebe spends freely. Almost as freely as she dispenses advice on how Allison should cook, eat, dress, and parent.

  I adore Phoebe. But I have the advantage of not being her daughter.

  “You have all week to worry about your mother,” I tell Allison. “Tonight, let’s worry about mine.”

  Other than the corn soufflé, dinner goes perfectly. The twins tell Sid about their preschool teachers, and he tells them about his grandsons. “You would like them,” Mom tells the boys. “They are the same age as you and very nice.”

  Mom’s met Sid’s family? That’s news. Jeremy looks at me with raised eyebrows. I see his eyebrows and raise him a shrug.

  As Mom, Sid, and I say our goodbyes, Sarah gives me a big hug, then looks at me with her big brown eyes. Quietly she says, “Are you thinking about Zadie?”

  I blink a few times, then say, “Yes.”

  Sarah nods. “Me, too,” she says.

  On the drive back to The Garden, Mom tells me that she is—shock of shocks—spending the night at Sid’s. That’s when I remember that I forgot to talk to Mom about spending time with Allison. It’s not right to tell her now, in front of Sid. Plus Allison will be busy with her own mother.

  My mother walks me to the front door of the condo. “Mimi? Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  Mom smiles. “Making Sid feel welcome.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Collingswood

  Farmer Joe calls to ask me for a date. With him working days at the farm and me working nights at Café Louis, the only time we can find is Saturday morning-ish. Joe says that he will be manning a booth at a street fair in Collingswood, and I agree to meet him there. Collingswood is between Cherry Hill and Philadelphia. It’s a ten-minute drive from either place. I drive Sally to Haddon Avenue, the town’s main drag. I have never been to Collingswood, and I’m surprised at the quaint calm of the town.

  White tents canopy the street, their peaks looking like egg whites progressing down Haddon Avenue as far as I can see. Lampposts are decorated with flowers; baskets of purple and gold impatiens hang around the lampposts’ midsections, just below royal blue banners that read “Welcome to Historic Collingswood” in white letters. “Established 1883.” Red brick buildings line the street, giving Haddon Avenue the feel of a real American Main Street. Not that I would know what that looks like. I am a child of the mall generation. But I’d like to think that life was once like this, with independent, family-owned shops doing a brisk business among neighbors. It’s very Huck Finnish. I like it.

  “Collingswood T-shirts,” calls a young man standing in front of a display.

  Crafty art is for sale under the tents, as are decorative masks, beaded jewelry, dried flower arrangements, ceramic and glass garden ornaments, and handpainted T-shirts.

  “Collingswood T-shirts. Atkins friendly,” the man calls.

  Warm dough smell drifts from Joe’s Pizza Parlor. Farther down the street, a big man stirs a pot of Kettle Corn while his colleague passes out sample handfuls. Crepes are cooked under a hot griddle, and the sizzle reaches my ears. Area bakeries do a brisk business selling cookies, individually sized pies and breads. Flower merchants wrap purple lilies and pink tulips in yellow paper. Folksy rock comes from a live band on the tented grandstand.

  “Collingswood T-shirts. Perfect gift for Christmas, birthdays, and Bar Mitzvahs.”

  Friends greet each other warmly with hugs and handshakes. Even the teenagers have left their melancholy at home. In front of the jewelry tents, men in khaki shorts and golfing shirts wait for wives wearing cotton capri pants and scoop-necked shirts. White-haired men and women shuffle slowly along the sidewalk. A stroller brigade winds its way through the crowd.

  In the middle of Haddon Avenue, I spot Joe under a sign with the state slogan: “Jersey Fresh.” Got that right. Joe greets me with a tongue kiss that tastes peppery, like arugula. Sure enough, I spot a bag of baby lettuce under the table. “Tico, you okay here for a while?” Joe asks the man wearing a Hunter Farm T-shirt.

  Joe and I walk hand in hand down Haddon Avenue. “This is a nice town,” I say.

  “I come here a lot,” Joe says. He points to a sign that says “Dr. Cohen.” “There’s my dentist’s office,” he says. I wave.

  Joe nods and steers me down a street, away from the noise of the fair. We walk a few blocks and come to Cooper River. “Pull up a bench,” Joe says, and sits on one overlooking the river. “What’s new?”

  “Well, we had a family dinner for my mom’s boyfriend.”

  “Your mom is dating?” Joe seems shocked.

  I give the details, then ask, “How would you feel if your mother was dating?”

  Joe laughs. “My mother is in no condition to date. Sometimes she thinks my father is still alive.”

  “Her memory is going?”

  “The doctors say it’s early onset Alzheimer’s. She’s only sixty-three.” Joe looks out at the river. “It’s too soon.”

  “You take good care of your mom,” I say.

  “I try,” Joe says. “There are a lot of people around during the day. Everyone who works on the farm checks in on her. At some point, I’ll have to find a facility for her. I keep putting it off. I’m not ready to let her go.”

  I put my hand in Joe’s. He squeezes.

  “You’re lucky that your mom is healthy,” Joe says.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Joe says, “I think it’s the slowness of the deterioration that bothers me most. I want to die like my father died. He keeled over in the fields. That’s what he would’ve wanted. No hospitals. Just—boom. Done. Nature taking its course.” Joe puts his hand over mine. “
What about your father?”

  “There was nothing natural about his death,” I say. “He was hooked up to tubes and machines. The doctors were feeding him intravenously, and you know what Dad said? ‘Needs a little salt.’”

  Joe laughs. He puts his arm around me. I move closer to his body. Looking at Cooper River, Joe says, “I’m sorry that I didn’t get to meet your dad.”

  Tears spring into my eyes. What is this with Joe? He says these sentimental things that make me all emotional. Blinking, I say, “You’d have liked my dad. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet your father.”

  “Oh, he would have loved you.” Joe leans his head against mine.

  We sit quietly.

  Eventually, I speak. “Fun date, huh?”

  “It’s not so bad. I like talking about my dad.”

  “Me, too. It’s good to have you to talk to, Joe.”

  “Yeah? Well, I think we’ve had enough talking.” Joe moves my head backward and puts his mouth on mine. We sit in the sun, kissing.

  Mango Men

  “Joe is such a good kisser.” Madeline has come to Café Louis for dinner, and I’m updating her on the Joe-Aaron situation. “Aaron’s good, too.”

  Madeline is eating French fries for dinner. Even chefs eat junk food. Madeline points a fry at me. “Did you give them the mango test?”

  “What’s the mango test?” Christopher asks as he sashays down the counter.

  “Is this a sex thing?” Fly Girl appears from nowhere. “Tell me.”

  Madeline smiles. “If a man will eat a mango, he’ll eat you.”

  “I’m going to vomit,” Christopher says.

  Fly Girl frowns. “I thought that test was about sushi.”

  I say, “That equates women with raw fish. That’s not right.”

  “Plus, sushi comes with rice,” Madeline explains. “And soy sauce. Or a man could say that he eats sushi, but all he really eats is a California roll. Which doesn’t even have raw fish. Nope, mangoes are the way to go. Mimi and I have given this much thought.”