by Louise Hawes
Shepherd wouldn’t look at me. He focused on the menu, instead. Could he really have made such a giant slip?
“I didn’t forget,” he said at last, finally finding my face. “Hey, how often does my daughter graduate from poetry school?”
This was a present from Shepherd? A present that would cost him at least a month’s salary? I thought of those cowboy pajamas. I thought of Shepherd, who left home at fifteen. And then I thought of our talk at Shake It Baby: I’ve got your back.
“Thanks,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks a lot.”
I’m not sure why, but I held out both hands, just like Rufus. And sure enough, we did the double-handshake thing, only Shepherd didn’t let go. He just stood there, looking at my hands in his. “We’re going to do better, you and me,” he said at last. Then he smiled. Not the way he smiled at regulars. Or even at Manny. It was only for me, that smile, and I’m glad somebody dropped something really heavy in the kitchen just then. Otherwise, I would probably have turned into a soggy mess.
* * * *
I knew Shepherd’s plans for the party were going to be less than a hit with my mother. And I didn’t want to have to break the news to her by myself. Which is why, for the first time in forever, I asked Shepherd to come in when he dropped me at home after work.
Given the fact that he wasn’t any more inclined to confrontations than he was to Hallmark moments, I might have been pushing my luck. But when I asked him to help me tell Mom where Rufus’s good-bye dinner would be held, he didn’t say a word. He just sighed, turned off the ignition, and walked me right up to our front door.
So it was the two of us who sat in chairs on each side of my mother as she stared at the menu, which Shepherd laid on the coffee table beside the latest copy of Her. And it was the two of us who watched her go to that quiet, throat-clutching place she went whenever she was upset.
“It’ll be fun, Mom,” I told her, feeling half sorry for the way we’d sprung this on her. “Besides, Mamselle’s is the only place in town big enough. Shepherd’s going to set up microphones and everything.”
“We’ll be closed to the public,” Shepherd said. “And Rufus asked me to make sure there’s room for anyone you want to invite.”
I don’t know if it was me and Shepherd teaming up, or Shepherd calling our poet Rufus, but my mother was quiet for a really long time. She just sat there, all alone on the couch, looking much smaller than I’d thought possible.
“Mom?” I didn’t know what to say, so I said something dumb. “I’m sorry.”
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. She didn’t move. Aunt J. must have been out, because there was no noise from the kitchen and no TV sounds from upstairs. Nobody was going to save us with a dropped pot or a loud commercial.
“Kate,” Shepherd said at last. “I need your help with the seating. You know, which muckety-muck goes where?”
My mother, the statue, wasn’t even looking at the menu. It was as if she were staring through it at something much farther away.
“I was thinking I’d put all the kids at the head table with Rufus,” Shepherd went on. “He said he wants to do some kind of poetry thing with them.”
Silence. If my mother blinked, I didn’t see it.
“Then I was going to put the mayor with some of the newspaper people—”
“You can’t do that.” Mom’s eyes focused on the menu, then on Shepherd. “They just did an op-ed against his decision to run again.”
“See what I mean?” Shepherd grinned at me. “Next thing you know, I’d be mixing the commoners with the royalty.” He shrugged, sounded serious. “I really need you to sort things out, Kate.”
“And you’ll have to split the magazine into two tables. The board needs to be with editorial, but production has to be with art.”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy,” Shepherd said. “You know I’m no good at spit and polish.”
My father is not, as I’ve said before, a dummy. My mother was awake now, looking around the room like someone released from a spell. “I’ll need a seating chart,” she said.
“I can get you one.”
“And what about flowers?”
“Oh, jeez. Can’t we just use our regular table vases?”
“Let’s not cut corners on this, Shepherd.”
Shepherd, a.k.a. My Brilliant Father, turned to me. “What did I tell you, Sarah?” he said. “Thank goodness we got a little class going for us here.” He plucked the menu off the coffee table and handed it to Mom. “Kate, choose whatever you think works with this theme, and with the food.”
My mother straightened the magazines on the table, then studied the menu again. “It will take time,” she told him. “I mean, there are three florists in town. I’d have to see what’s in season.”
Shepherd looked at her, then at the menu. “You’re the boss,” he told her.
My mother was livelier now, calculating again. “I’m thinking orchids,” she mused. “Purple for the head table, navy for the rest.”
“Orchids!?” Shepherd shook his head. “Now, hold on, Kate. You think I’m made of money?”
My mother gave him her Katherine Wheeler look. “Are you putting a price on elegance?” She studied him pointedly, that eyebrow raised. “On good taste?”
Shepherd winced, sucked in his breath. “Listen, Kate,” he said, “you can push me just so far. I only got so much blood.”
“Orchids or nothing.” She folded her arms, waited. There was the shadow of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“What can I say?” My father bowed his head, like a gladiator conceding a match. “You’ve got me over a barrel. I need this done right.”
“It will be.” My mother stood, still holding back a smile. She was good at that. “We should probably throw some dahlias into the mix. A touch of mauve.”
Shepherd stood, too. “I’ll call you tomorrow from the restaurant,” he said, already running for daylight. “We’ll order whatever you want.”
At the door, Shepherd gave me a conspirator’s grin, then turned and said just loud enough to carry back to the living room, “Your mother’s got a knack, Sarah. A real knack.”
So do you, Dad, I told him in my head. So do you.
Linville Gorge
On the lip of joy,
I hear the rude hawks
calling, “Fall! Fall!”
above a sun-flecked stream.
I hear the rude hawks,
yearning, god-eyed
above a sun-flecked stream
coasted with pale cliffs.
Yearning, god-eyed,
I spot from my safe perch,
coasted with pale cliffs,
the distant promise of love.
I spot from my safe perch
on the lip of joy,
the distant promise of love
calling, “Fall! Fall!”
My Mother and I Go Head-to-Head, and I Kiss a Fairy Tale Good-Bye
Friday, while I’d been having tea with Wanda, Rufus had been going through the third degree at Her. Apparently, he’d not only survived his interview there, but had helped to cement Mom’s position with the magazine and fluff up her ego till it was harder than ever to have a conversation with her that didn’t involve the fascinating adventures of Katherine Wheeler, Budding Journalist and Talent to Watch. By Tuesday, she had proofs of the article, and there was no stopping the flow: “If I do say so,” she told me as soon as I got home, “this is one of the best features we’ve ever done.” I’d spent the afternoon not answering Fry’s texts and watching a remake of The Great Gatsby with Wanda and George at the Beaux Arts matinee. I’d hardly walked in the door, when she opened the magazine, magically as always, to the right page, the first of five in the huge article she’d helped plan.
So there I was, after spending two hours in Gatsby’s palatial mansion, sitting on the same couch in the same living room I’d grown up in. With the same handsome mother talk-talk-talking. But somehow the couch seemed smaller, its co
lors faded, the seams pulled nearly to bursting in places. The whole room, in fact, was a little worse for wear and designery in a desperate way I’d never noticed before.
Mom, though, saw nothing but the magazine in her hand. Finally, when she parted with it long enough to let me leaf through the pages, I realized she had every reason to be proud: It was a terrific section, with a double-page photo of the boat launching Rufus had attended when he first arrived in Whale Point, and a beautiful close-up of my poet that would make it clear to the world he was both alive and well. He held his head to one side, as if he’d thought about, given himself wholly to, whatever the photographer had asked.
And the interview? It was full of juicy Rufus quotes, things I would have liked to paste on my wall or stick behind my mirror. For a few minutes, leafing through page after page of Rufus, it was almost like being alone with him. Until it wasn’t:
“We’re going to get a big response to this,” Mom enthused. “I’m sending it absolutely everywhere, to anyone who matters.” It was amazing how young she got, how lit up, when she talked about her work. “I’m thinking we might even include copies in your college applications.”
“What?!”
“Just to show them the rare educational opportunity you’ve had.” My mother smiled, ingenuous, innocent of her own scheming.
“Mom! I was sentenced to that educational opportunity”—I couldn’t fathom how the course she’d been humiliated by was now something to boast about—“in a court of law!”
“Well, that wasn’t actually mentioned in the article, Sarah.” My mother pointed to the first page. “See where it says Rufus is working with a select group of local youngsters?” She was like a child showing off a drawing or a clay figure, totally proud of herself.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. And then, when it stopped being funny, I said I had poetry homework to do. Which was half true and gave me only a temporary reprieve from what I knew was coming.
After Aunt J. came home, and after she’d oohed and aahed over the proofs, the three of us had dinner together. We talked about the banquet, we talked about the new line of peekaboo tops at the boutique where Jocelyn worked, and my aunt even asked about the movie I’d seen with Wanda—maybe because she was interested or maybe because she’d rather talk about anything besides the brilliant doings at Her.
But after we’d cleared the table, Mom and I did the dishes together, so it was just the two of us again. She picked up right where she’d left off: “Now that your sentence is nearly served,” she told me, handing me a dish towel, “and vacation’s half over, we can get down to work.”
She sounded as if the “work” we were going to get down to was something she couldn’t wait to tackle. In fact, she’d already started. And trapped on the wrong side of the steamy window over the kitchen sink, I had to hear all about it: She’d called the guidance office at school to make sure I would fit in more AP science credits my last year of high school. She’d rounded up a list of tutors just in case any of these courses threatened to lower my GPA. And of course, she was arranging endless visits to the colleges with the best undergrad admissions to med school.
I dried the precious china pieces she wouldn’t allow in the dishwasher, and I listened. And listened. And listened.
You know what I heard? Each time Mom lifted a dish or a tray out of the sudsy water, each time she described my certain admission to med school and my glorious future as a doctor, I heard a Technicolor dream. A dream that starred me, instead of her. And for the first time, I wondered about Mom’s own dreams, the ones she’d had before her parents died. Before there was no one left to tell her, “I’m proud of you.” Or even, “I’ve got your back.”
It made me angry, this secondhand dream. But it made me sad, too. So sad and so tired, I couldn’t argue with her. I just nodded and yawned and wiped. And finally, escaped to bed.
Next morning, I waited, as usual, till Mom and Aunt J. left the house, and then I walked to Rufus’s for morning pages. Margaret and H were there, and two kids from Shore High. We did less writing than talking, though. Everyone was looking forward to our last class, and when I told them about my mother’s plans and my father’s menu, sonnets kind of lost out to side dishes. You’d think we were condemned prisoners and all we could talk about was our last meal. When I got so hungry I couldn’t stand it, and Rufus had been whisked off to be guest of honor at a Rotary luncheon, I went home to eat. Unfortunately, so did my mother.
Mom never came home for lunch. First of all, the office was too far away to leave much time to both breathe and eat; she had to choose one or the other. Second, she loved being with her friends and colleagues too much to shorten her workday on the off chance she’d spend a few minutes with her nearest and dearest: Jocelyn and me.
“What are you doing here?” It was the first thing I said. And I didn’t mean it to sound as rude as it came out.
My mother didn’t seem to mind the inquisition. “I wanted to check on the floral arrangements for tomorrow,” she told me. There was a nanosecond while she focused on the banquet, instead of the surprise of my having just walked in the door. Then it was over. She looked at me sharply. “What were you doing not here?”
She knew I was a late sleeper, a slow starter, to say the least. And no, I hadn’t told her about morning pages. Maybe you think I was silly, but every sinew in my body knew better; knew she would not take kindly to my putting in extra time with what, even though she adored Rufus, she continued to view as one more “distraction.” Poetry is no way to make a living, young lady.
But the jig was definitely up. And besides, there wouldn’t be any more morning pages after the last class. I’d been so thrilled with all our preparations that I hadn’t thought of how I’d miss those writing sessions. Now I wondered how I’d manage without my daily walk to Rufus’s house. Without writing there. Without talking there. Without Rufus.
Since there was nothing to lose, and since part of me, the little-girl-who-needs-her-mommy-to-be-proud-of-her part, wanted to share, I told her. I explained what I’d been doing, where I’d been going for weeks now. That Rufus had invited us to come and work with him, like real artists, real poets.
True to form, Mom was not pleased. She didn’t even want to hear about what I’d written in my notebook, day after day; and she certainly didn’t want to read it. “We simply can’t waste any more time, Sarah,” she told me.
She laid her briefcase on the couch, took out extra copies of the interview with Rufus. That was good. Then she found what she was looking for and laid it on top of the magazines: a snappy little tome entitled Careers in Medicine. That was bad.
“You don’t understand, Sarah.” She waved the book at me, as if it were a magic wand. As if it would make me see the light. “That man is turning you against medicine.” She sounded indignant. Almost angry. “Every time you visit him, he puts ideas in your head. Every poem you write, we lose ground.”
I looked at my pretty, clever mother. “Oh, Mom.” My mother with a hurt so old she had no one to share it with. “Lose? If I live to be a thousand, I can’t pay Rufus back for what I’ve gained.”
“According to this”—still wielding the book—“we’ve got enough AP credits, so long as you don’t drop that second math course next fall.”
“Mom.” I wanted to defend Rufus. I wanted to set the record straight. And mostly? I wanted to stop pretending. So now, like those crazy tourists who wade right past the HIGH SURF signs, I told my mother the truth: I didn’t really want to study medicine. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to study poetry. I thought maybe I’d apply to theater school, instead.
“What are you thinking?!” Mom sounded as if I’d suggested an expedition to the North Pole. Or the moon. “Do you have any idea what nonsense you’re talking?”
She started sputtering about AP credits, about application deadlines. She said I’d better wake up and come to my senses before I threw my future away. I watched her mouth move, but after a while, I didn’t hea
r a word she said. The whole time she was talking, I felt this stillness, this silence, as if I were backstage again. I was behind the curtains, waiting for them to go up. I didn’t know what lines I’d speak when they opened. I didn’t know what play I’d be in, or where the theater was. I only knew I needed the adrenaline rush, the make-believe, the magic.
It’s funny. I always figured there’d be a big blowup, a scene to end all scenes, when I finally stood up to my mom. But instead, all I felt was strong and sure. And all she had to do was take one look at my face to know she couldn’t stop me. It was like that poem Rufus showed me by T. S. Eliot, where the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
We went through the motions, though. Like those phony wrestlers who want to give the crowd their money’s worth, even though they both know who’s going to win. She told me I was ruining a chance most people would give anything for. And I told her it wasn’t my dream I was trashing, but hers. “I know what you want, Mom,” I said. “It isn’t about me being a doctor. It’s about being treated like you’re somebody. Like you’re important.”
Katherine Wheeler and Dealer got very quiet. Her hand flew to her neck like a homing pigeon. The book she’d been holding slipped off her lap and onto the floor. She didn’t even seem to notice.
“But the thing is? You’re already important,” I told her. “To me. And to Jocelyn.”
My mother’s eyes still saw the future, the dream. “We’ve worked so hard.” She said it quietly, as if she were in mourning.
I stooped down, picked up the book, and handed it to her. “Not we, Mom,” I told her, “you.” It wasn’t the two of us who had scrambled and scratched, who had made phone calls and schemed. Pored over the brochures of every premed school in the country. Compared the curricula of med schools in all fifty states (and a few overseas).