Sharon looked up. “Oh, what do you two have to complain about? I was named for a woman who stuck her hand up Lamb Chop’s ass to make a living.”
Chastened, Sharri’s sister and brother looked at one another and nodded. “She’s got a point,” Sig admitted.
“Let me see,” Bruce ruminated. He waved the file. “If we pick our mark, how do we get Mom to meet him?” Bruce asked.
“Let’s figure out what events he’s planning to be at. These people all have public lives. They attend openings, theater, they go to dinners. Especially the charitable ones,” Sig said. “I know all the events my firm helps underwrite and I think I can get access to seating arrangements. We have our target and we get next to it. Then we get a ticket for Mom to go, and make sure she meets him and he likes her.”
“Yeah. How do we manage that last part?” Bruce asked. “You can bring a horse to water, but—”
“Obviously, one of us has to take her to the event, be sure we’ve got her near the mark, and make it happen.”
“Not me,” Bruce said. “It will be bad enough getting humiliated in a department store, let alone some—”
“Oh, I’d like to go to a party,” Sharon volunteered.
“Not you,” Bruce added. “Sig, you go with Phillip Norman.”
Sig nearly blushed. She didn’t have the strength to admit she’d been dissed by Phillip. “I don’t think so,” she said as casually as she could. “Look, this is going to be an expensive proposition,” Sig told them. “The clothes, the tickets, a limo. Bruce, I think you and I should both go and make sure that we at least get Mom in front of the target.” Sig turned to Sharon. “Sharon, we need you as the secret weapon. This was great work so far. But now you have to research the next phase.”
“What’s the next phase? I can’t do anything else.”
“Yes you can. Just find out the next big charity events in New York. I’ll see which one my firm helps to sponsor and if any of these three clowns is going to attend. Then you dig out everything extra you can on our first target.”
She handed the three folders back to Sharon. “Needless to say, Mr. Phelps, if anything goes wrong with this mission we will disavow all knowledge of—”
Bruce interrupted her. “You’re right. This is Mission Impossible.”
Sig put down the folder she held. “Well, one thing I know for sure: you can’t catch fish without bait. Sharon’s done her job and I’m doing mine. We’ll see what you can do with Mom when she gets here.”
at La Guardia airport all three Sibs waited nervously. A group of people was coming out of the jetway entrance like nothing so much as cattle moving down the slaughter chute. Then, behind them, strode Phyllis. “It’s amazing,” Bruce said sotto voce. “She’s like Keyser Söze in Usual Suspects. She limps among them without revealing her lethal talents.”
“Shut up,” Sig warned. “Here she comes. She’ll hear you.”
“Try to look happy to see her,” Sharon said, but neither Sig nor Bruce were listening. “Hi, Mom,” Sharon sang out in a falsely cheerful voice.
Phyllis walked up to the three of them. “How did you know I was coming?”
“Mrs. Katz called.”
“Figures. She can’t keep anything to herself.” Phyllis nodded. “So? No flowers?” she asked. Then she looked directly at Sharon and said, “You must have gained another twenty pounds, Sharri.” She looked her daughter over while Sharon shrank from her gaze. “I always gained weight when I was sexually frustrated. Has Barney become completely impotent?” she asked. Then she kissed her fat daughter, who recoiled.
“Let the games begin!” Bruce declared.
Phyllis turned to her son. “So, how’s the gay greeting card business? Have you gone mahula yet?” She pecked Bruce on the cheek. Then she waved her hand in the air. “My God! You’re wearing more perfume than I am!”
“At least it’s good perfume.”
Lastly Phyllis turned appraisingly to Sig. “A lot of people think red and black go together, Susan.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask me why.”
“Maybe because they’re a classic.” Sig smiled.
“Or maybe because they’re a cliché?” Phyllis responded and shrugged again. “But hey, if you want to look like a drum majorette … burr-rump-a-bum-bum.” Phyllis winked at Sig, then glanced around at the cosmopolitan bustle of the airport. Here the Christmas chazerei looked good: tinsel, wreaths, red ribbons, and white snow—well, gray snow—out the window. “Let’s get over to baggage claim before some jerk walks away with my luggage.”
Numbly, the three shell-shocked Sibs began to walk beside her. She smiled expansively. “It’s great to be in New York again! Talking to Floridians was like chewing on avocado: everyone down there is soft. Up here people are like bagels: when you chew on them your jaw gets some exercise. I had a lovely conversation on the plane.”
“Can you imagine being stuck next to Mom?”
“Oh my God,” Sharon breathed. “I’m getting claustrophobic just thinking of it. Where’s my inhaler?”
“He asked for my phone number,” Phyllis added in a self-satisfied tone.
“What was he selling?” Bruce asked, puffing on his Marlboro despite the No Smoking signs.
“What difference does it make? She doesn’t have any money,” Sig reminded him.
“Be like that,” Phyllis sniffed. “He was very nice.”
Bruce sighed deeply. “It’s started,” he said in a singsong. “Sharri is fat / Mom is no fun / Sig is unmarried / And I’m a bad son.”
Phyllis turned and looked at him and his cigarette disapprovingly. She waved her liver-spotted hand in front of his face. “You know, you’re killing both of us with that smoke.”
“Not fast enough,” Bruce muttered.
Phyllis pretended not to hear and speeded up, heading toward baggage claim, looking ready to chew out everyone. Her three stunned children followed.
“Unbelievable. No matter how often I’m with her, in between sightings I forget what it’s like,” said Bruce.
“That’s what they say about UFOs,” Sig reminded him. “Yet doubters still persist.”
“No wonder I’m fat,” Sharon mumbled resentfully.
“No wonder I’m unmarried,” Sig added.
“No wonder I’m gay.”
“Bruce, you’re gay?” Sig asked, pretending shock. Bruce looked at her murderously.
“Forget Operation Geezer Quest. Let’s just kill her,” Sharon suggested, blood in her eye. “And I didn’t gain twenty pounds. Fifteen, tops.”
“Twenty,” their mother called back from way ahead of them.
“God, she still has her faculties,” Bruce commented.
“Not for long,” Sig threatened. “Come on. Let’s get her to your place and brief her.”
“My place? Why my place?” Bruce almost squeaked. “We’re closer to your neighborhood,” he told Sig.
“Yeah, but there’s no room for her to stay over at your apartment. Plus there’s Todd. He’ll move her right along.”
Despite the crowds, Phyllis had spotted her bags right away and dived for them. She was still fast, for an old woman. In minutes they were standing in the cold outside of baggage claim, waiting for Todd to pick them up in his van. Even in her winter coat, Phyllis shivered. Sig tapped her foot, irritated and impatient. They had to indoctrinate their mother ASAP, get her to cooperate, and get her into the Pierre Hotel suite Sig had already reserved. But it wouldn’t be an easy sell.
“Can’t we do something else?” Bruce asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I say so, that’s why,” Sig told Bruce.
Phyllis laughed. “You sound just like me,” she said to her daughter.
“I do not,” Sig retorted.
“Do too.” Bruce and Sharon confirmed with a nod. Just then, thank God, Todd drove up with his van. It took them almost fifteen precious minutes to load all the assorted crap into the battered vehicle that Bruce used for card del
iveries.
“Do we need anything else?” Todd asked cheerfully when they were all settled in at last.
“Just Valium and a baseball bat,” Sig said through her teeth.
Forget it. I’m not even considering it,” Phyllis told her children. They were sitting in Bruce’s apartment, crowded into the front room of his tiny brownstone flat. Boxes of greeting cards towered above them, threatening to collapse, just as Bruce’s business was. Phyllis paid no attention to either the disorder or her children’s arguments.
“Mom, you don’t understand. It’s not that we don’t want you here or staying with us,” Sig lied, “it’s just that you don’t understand the realities in New York anymore. It’s not as safe as it used to be. And it’s not as cheap.”
“Since when is a hotel cheap?” Phyllis asked.
“Not cheap, but safe. New York has changed,” Bruce said. He was desperate to have her out of his already crowded space.
“Don’t worry about me,” Phyllis said. “I can take care of myself. I always have. I don’t plan to be a burden on any of you.” She paused. It was hard for her to admit her mistakes to anyone, much less her children. “Listen,” she said, “I haven’t come for a visit. And I haven’t come for myself. I’ve come for you. I know that your father and I were so busy with the business that I didn’t give you all the attention that you needed. If I had …” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, things might be different.”
“Mom, you—”
Phyllis held up her hand. “I couldn’t stand those women at the PTA. I wasn’t a Brownie leader or a den mother. I didn’t help you with your homework. And I’d like to make up for that now. I’m here for the duration,” she said as bravely as she knew how.
“The duration of what?” Sig asked. Her mother had been in Manhattan for only two hours and it already felt like a month to Sig.
Sharon let out a whimper, while Sig thought she heard her brother groan. “You mean you’re serious about living up here permanently?” Sig asked.
“Well, at least until you straighten out your lives. I’m your mother. I’m here to help. And I’m not staying at some expensive hotel.” She patted her purse. “You don’t have to worry about anything. I have a little put away, and my Social Security check. And I still get some of Ira’s pension money. I’ll be fine.”
Sig smacked her forehead. Despite how often she’d begged her mother, she’d never gotten into TFIs or any other bonds. “Your Social Security check is six hundred and sixty-three dollars monthly,” Sig said. “Daddy’s pension is … what? Three hundred? Four hundred more?”
“Three eighty, but it’s all tax-free.”
Bruce covered his eyes with his hands. Sharon looked away. It was only Sig, as always, who had to continue relentlessly. “Great. So you have less than a thousand a month to live on here in Manhattan, the most expensive city in the world.”
“No, Sig, I think Hong Kong and Tokyo now rank as slightly more expensive,” Sharon corrected.
“Yes, Sharon, but Mom isn’t thinking of living in Hong Kong or Tokyo,” Sig said through gritted teeth.
“In my dreams,” Bruce said under his breath.
“I heard that, Bruce,” his mother snapped. “Susan, a thousand dollars is still a lot of money. And I do have a little something put aside,” she repeated.
Sig shook her head bitterly. If her mother had only let her put some money into Paine Webber’s Select Ten Portfolio, her yield could be twice as high. But no. “Mom, you just don’t get it. Do you know what the rental on a small studio apartment is here? A very small studio apartment?”
“I’m not so out of touch, Susan. I’m willing to pay four fifty or five hundred if I have to.”
Bruce laughed out loud. “A parking spot for a car in midtown is four hundred dollars, Mom,” he laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother snapped and put down her teacup. Todd had served them and then discreetly disappeared into the tiny bedroom. “I may be old, but I’m not an idiot.” She shook her head. “Four hundred dollars for a parking space? You think I just got off the boat?”
“No, you came from the Planet of the Senior Citizens. You believe in early bird specials and movie discounts. But now you have to live here in a really strange place—among humans on planet Earth.”
“Worse than that: among New Yorkers in Manhattan,” Sig said, and handed a folded newspaper to her mother. “In Manhattan we don’t have early bird specials at dinnertime or discounts for senior citizens. Except during the day at the movies, when you only have to pay four fifty.”
“Four fifty?” Phyllis cried. “In Florida we pay three dollars. What do regular people have to pay?”
“Eight fifty.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that tokens are a buck,” Phyllis laughed.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “A subway ride will cost you a buck and a half, Mom. And that’s if you don’t get robbed.”
“Meanwhile, we don’t have senior housing. Read it and weep,” Sig directed, pointing to the newspaper. “I’ve circled a few of the cheaper apartment ads for you.”
For a few moments silence reigned while Phyllis perused the paper. Then she looked up at her children. “So I’ll live in Queens,” she said. “Manhattan was only my first choice. Queens is nice, and it’s just a subway ride away.” She paused.
Sig, prepared, handed Phyllis another newspaper with another group of circled ads. “Queens,” she said smugly.
Phyllis realized again that it had never been easy to love her daughter. She scanned the listings, one after another, then threw the paper down. “All right. So I’ll get a little job. A part-time job.”
Wordlessly, Sig handed Phyllis yet another newspaper section, this one the classifieds. But nothing was circled here. “Ivy League college graduates are making minimum wage at fast-food joints, Mom,” Sig explained. “Kids with MBAs will work for Reeboks. What, exactly, did you have in mind?”
Shaken, though too valiant to admit it, Phyllis stood up, brushed off her skirt, and tried to look nonchalant. “Look, I’ll work it out. Just help me get my things over to the Chelsea Hotel and then I’ll see. A career will develop.”
“Photos develop, Mom. Careers are built.”
“Anyway, Mom, you can’t stay at the Chelsea,” Bruce said. “Number one, you can’t afford it and b, it’s not safe for an old lady.”
“I’m not an old lady,” Phyllis barked. “I may be an old dame, or an old babe, or an old woman, but I’m certainly not an old lady, and don’t you friggin’ forget it.”
“Slip of the tongue,” Bruce apologized, reaching for a cigarette.
Now it was Sharon’s turn to take a deep breath and pick up a butter cookie. “Do you think the éclairs are any good?” she asked. No one else had eaten anything with their coffee, despite the array of cookies and pastries that Todd had brought out. Everyone ignored her. They always ignored her, she thought resentfully.
“You don’t need anything extra on your hips anyway.” Phyllis took a sip of her coffee and settled back into her chair. She shook her head. “You know, I believe in this ecological movement. I have a theory: couples should only reproduce themselves. If they have three children they get to kill one.” She paused. “So what’s all of this really about anyway? I smell a rat. Which one of you is getting ready to set me up?”
Sharon gasped, from surprise or asthma or both. “Mom, it’s nothing like—”
“Oh, I get it. You’re just trying to get me back on that airplane to Florida, aren’t you?”
“No, Mother,” Sig said as reassuringly as she possibly could. “Actually, we’re trying to get you into the Pierre.”
The lobby of the Pierre was always attractive and elegant, but at Christmas it had a special, discreet holiday decor that added extra glisten to the gilded wood and sparkling ormolu. There were no white Dynel Christmas trees here, Phyllis noted. Still, it wasn’t until Phyllis got upstairs to suite 1604 that she looked around and let out an ear-piercing whistle. �
��This is where you think I should stay?” Phyllis asked. “Marie Antoinette would be uncomfortable here. It’s too big. Too fancy-schmancy.”
“Sometimes life can use some embellishment,” Sig said wickedly.
“Yeah. Well, if I’d brought my tiara, I’d feel right at home,” Phyllis told her, looking at the grand living room with a fireplace, the damask drapes framing a view of Central Park, the ebony baby grand piano and the plush carpet. Some kind of vase—it looked Chinese to Phyllis—had been placed on a side table and it was filled with lilies, more lilies than Phyllis had seen at the last three funerals she’d been to. She opened one of the doors and found a bedroom, complete with canopy bed. Another door led to a smaller room with the sofa and shelves of books.
“You think I need all this to get a date?” Phyllis asked. “How much does this all cost?”
“I got the corporate rate,” Sig lied. “Anyway, I look at it as a loss leader. Like when they have a special at the supermarket and sell something below its normal cost, so they get you to buy other things.”
“What are you talking about?” Phyllis asked. “Have you turned into the Mayflower Madam here?” So far all of the pickup and conversation couldn’t have gone worse, Sig thought. If we were an Israeli SWAT team, all the hostages would be dead. Sig had begun to pitch the idea of remarriage to what could be charitably described as a total lack of enthusiasm on Phyllis’s part.
“Screw that,” Phyllis said. She was as enthusiastic as a cow at a barbecue. “I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” she said.
“I never did understand what that meant,” Bruce commented.
“You’re not a woman,” Sig muttered bitterly, and thought of Phillip Norman.
Phyllis hadn’t quite agreed on the idea of dating yet, but she was trying to listen to her children. That had been one of the problems when they were growing up. She hadn’t listened.
“I thought you already agreed to try this,” Sig said, exasperated.
Phyllis sighed. “Look, a woman needs a man for sex or money…. I’ve had the first and I still have the second: ergo I don’t need a man,” Phyllis said.
Marrying Mom Page 5