Marrying Mom

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Monty, his bald head shining but his side hair awry, opened his own eyes and sat up. His chest was as hairy as his arm. His breasts sagged onto his belly. Sig almost closed her own eyes. Somehow she hadn’t imagined this. “Oh my God!” was all she could say, a hollow echo of her sister.

  “What are you doing to my mother?” Bruce demanded.

  “I think it’s known as ‘the traditional.’ Or do you in the States call it ‘the missionary’?” Monty asked.

  Phyllis opened her eyes. “Well, that’s what you started with …” she began.

  Sharon threw both her hands up as if to ward off a blow. “More information than we require,” she cried out and shuddered.

  “So who asked you to ask?” Phyllis wanted to know. She started to sit up until it became clear that she, too, was naked. Sig couldn’t help but notice the pile of frothy silk thrown on the floor beside the bed.

  Bruce averted his eyes and made a strangled noise. “God! Who would think Mom was … was … like Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box!” Sig snatched up a terry robe from the bedside chair and threw it at Monty while her mother fumbled to pull the sheet up under her armpits. Sig actually felt sick, but she had to persevere. She walked across the Axminster rug to the nightstand. She picked up the engagement ring that was lying there and held it up to her eye. It sparkled, without doubt, but now, looking closely she could easily see the colors were wrong—instead of the white brilliance of a perfect stone, the marquis cut reflected all the colors of the room. “Cubic zirconium,” she yelled and flung the ring as hard as she could toward the window. “You fake,” she cried. “You total fake!”

  “Susan, get control of yourself,” Phyllis rapped out. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Sigourney asked. “You just met this guy. You don’t even know him, and you’re in bed with him?”

  “I’m engaged to him, Susan. And you wanted me engaged to him.” Phyllis shrugged. “Me, I figure marriage, schmarriage. But Monty is old-fashioned.” She looked up at him with a look on her face that Sig had never seen there before. It confused and upset her. It made her feel excluded, and even … resentful. She looked at Monty.

  He was not just old-fashioned but old. Sig couldn’t help but stare at the mound of aged flesh that confronted her, his mottled skin and the hair thrusting itself out of his ears, matched by the horrible web of wrinkles across the top of her mother’s sagging chest. It was bad enough, Sig thought, that she’d had to suck in her stomach whenever she’d slept with Phillip Norman. At least she was toned, while Phillip’s flesh was firm and smooth and tanned. He’d known how it pleased her in bed, and he was athletic in showing it. Why, then, did she have the feeling that Monty gave her mother something else, something more? She put the thought from her mind. “Get out!” she told him. “Leave my mother alone.”

  Monty raised his bushy brow, then shook his head. “You forget. We’re betrothed.”

  Sig could barely contain her rage. Her hands were shaking and she felt the trembling go up her arms and into her body. Everything had gone wrong. There wasn’t going to be any rescue, not for her, not for her mother. Her ring—her real one—was gone now and forever, and so was her mother’s. This fake, this charlatan, had ruined everything. She’d lose her co-op, she’d give up on her job, and she’d wind up in Forest Hills, or Park Slope, or Riverdale, in some crummy rental apartment with her mother in the guest room—if there was a guest room. They’d split the rent, using some of Phyllis’s Social Security check to make ends meet. It was she, Sig, the unmarried daughter, who would wind up taking care of their mother until her own breasts were down to her waist. “Get out!” she yelled again, but this time her voice was very close to tears.

  “Excuse me?” Phyllis said. “Exactly who do you think you are?” She looked from Sig to Bruce and Sharon. “What are the three of you doing here, anyway? This is my life and you have no right to interfere like this.”

  Sig rolled her eyes. If she’d had a gun …

  “Mom,” Bruce began to explain, “the man is a liar. He’s a con artist. He’s … he’s like Eli Kotch in Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round. Except not as good-looking as James Coburn. The guy is broke.”

  “Hey,” Phyllis yelled, “I wasn’t going to marry him for his money. Monty’s seventy-four years old and he can still get a boner. Plus, he knows what to do with it!”

  “And this from a woman who swore off genitalia,” Monty said proudly, reaching with one arm to embrace her and with the other for the cigar at the side of the bed.

  “Mom, get out of that bed,” Sig snarled. Phyllis shrugged and obeyed, naked though she was. All three of her children screamed simultaneously and turned away in horror. Sig managed to pick up the lacy silk gown from off the floor and throw it at her mother, who calmly started to put it on.

  “What’s the problem here?” Phyllis asked as she smoothed the crumpled gossamer around her thickened waist. “He had money. Now he doesn’t have money. Maybe he’ll have some money again. Anyway, in the meantime, I promise you he’s not stealing your inheritance.” She paused and smiled wickedly. “And he wasn’t stealing my virtue, either.” Phyllis looked over at Sig. “If we’re in the truth-telling mode, you don’t have anything to be so proud about, Susan. If you think he was trying to con you, you were trying to con him with all of this.” She gestured at the room, the new clothes, the fresh flowers.

  Sigourney stared at Monty. “She has no money. Do you understand? She doesn’t have a dime, except her pension check. There is no portfolio. The jewelry was costume. She has no prospects of getting any more money, either, unless you consider the pathetic cost-of-living adjustment to her Social Security payments. There is no house in Palm Beach. I’m paying for this suite. And I’ve run out of money. You’re bankrupt, and I’m about to go under, too.”

  There, she’d said it. Now they’d finally understand—know all about the foreclosure, her failure, everything. But she’d still protect her mother. “You picked the wrong horse,” she told Monty. “Get up and go away and leave my mother alone. You were in it for the money and there is none.”

  “It’s time to beat it,” Bruce said angrily.

  “That,” Monty said, “has become abundantly clear.” And he calmly got out of bed, slipped his trousers on, and did so.

  You’re not seeing him. Forget about it.”

  “What does that mean? What does that mean, ‘forget about it’?” Phyllis asked.

  “It means what I said,” Sig repeated. “He doesn’t like you. He wanted your money. Which, I might remind you, you have none of. Mom, he married an heiress before and squandered all her money. He just thought he was doing it again.” It was black Monday, and what with the Monty fiasco and work about to begin, Sig was morose.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I be an heiress?” Phyllis asked her daughter, who was tearing into her clothes.

  “The portfolio. First-class flying. The clothes,” Bruce explained. Sig had asked him over to keep all eyes on their mother while she was at work.

  “The guy is a con man,” Sig repeated. “Probably a thief. Didn’t you ever hear of Sunny von Bulow? No way you’re going to see him again.”

  They had stayed at the Pierre yesterday only long enough to morosely pack up Phyllis’s belongings and for Sig to hyperventilate and sign the American Express bill. Now they’d adjourned, along with the adhesive Mrs. Katz, to Sig’s apartment.

  “I can’t believe the tuition check bounced,” Sharon whined. Sig had called her in to also guard their mom. “I’m so embarrassed. How can I show my face at Jessie’s school?”

  “Nothing stopped you before,” Bruce spat. “Barney’s checks used to bounce like a spaldeen.” He paused. “What about me, Sharon? I just put in an emergency reprinting order that I can’t pay for. I could have had a deal with Bernard, but Monty offered me an interest-free loan. I can’t believe I was so stupid. This is the most important season of the year in my business. I was operating
on paper, but at least I was on good paper. Now I’ve sent bad checks to my suppliers. How am I going to explain that? I was hanging on by a thread, but Monty’s ruined it all. I’d like to strangle the Scottish son of a bitch.”

  “A nice way to talk in front of your mother,” Phyllis said, crossing her arms. She paused, thinking it over. “He did like me. I know he did. And I don’t care if he doesn’t have any money.”

  There was a flutter at the other side of the room. Sig couldn’t help but notice Mrs. Katz, sitting prim and proper on the edge of the chair clutching her purse with both hands. What is it with her, Sig thought? Mrs. Katz shook her head, as if she had palsy, or wanted attention. Probably both, Sig decided. She took a deep breath. It was either out of annoyance or to calm herself. “That’s not the point, Mom. He’s clearly a sociopath. I know. I’ve dated a dozen of them. No normal man throws checks around like that. Not when he knows they’re going to bounce like rubber. Forget about Monty,” Sig told her, exasperated. “No more Montague nonsense.”

  “Who are you? Mrs. Fucking Capulet?” Phyllis asked.

  Sig took a deep breath. “Mom, we need you to marry a rich man. If you don’t, the two of you will be living in the Bronx on food stamps faster than I can say ‘cost of living cut,’” Sig warned. “Anyway, Monty thinks you’re rich. He got out of your bed and walked away. Once he found out you weren’t, he left you. You wouldn’t have had enough money left over each month to buy a subway token to visit us with.”

  Phyllis shook her head. “You know what’s wrong with you, Susan? You’re too responsible. What’s all this to you? So I’ll live in the Bronx. That’s where I came from. You’re not my mother.”

  “Mom, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you were hustled.”

  “Hustled? Me! Monty couldn’t even beat me at canasta!”

  “Or he didn’t want to,” Sig told her. “That’s the way a hustle works.”

  “Well, I’m not even going to touch just any old geezer,” Phyllis told her. “Florida was full of them. That’s why I got out.”

  Phyllis sat very still for a moment. Sig wondered if she saw her mother’s lips tremble. Sig lowered her voice and put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mom. You deserve better. You really do.”

  Phyllis looked up at Sig. “So do you, Susan.” She shook her head and lowered herself into a chair. “So. What next?” she asked.

  Sig sat down next to Sharon on the sofa, distracted again by Mrs. Katz, who was holding her purse by the strap and methodically spinning it 180 degrees. Sig snapped herself out of the trance. “Well, next is bankruptcy for me. And I guess I leave Wall Street. And I suppose I have to find another job—which is really easy for a woman my age at my level,” Sig snorted. “I’m completely tapped out.”

  “Oh, come on, Sig,” Bruce shrugged. “You’re always poor-mouthing. You did that last routine to unload Monty, right? I’m the one about to lose my business, and I’ve got nothing else. What’s the portfolio really like? It ain’t as light as Mom’s,” Bruce said.

  Sig stared at him. It was always easy, she thought bitterly, for her family to think she could do anything, that she could pay for anything, and that she had everything under control. “I’m sorry to disillusion you, Bruce, but I’m not talking poor. I’m not even acting poor. I’m broke. There is no portfolio anymore. I’ve been selling off stock for the last two years. And taking a loss. Have you ever heard of downsizing, Mr. Entrepreneur? Mr. Economic Miracle?” She shot a look at Sharon. “Even Barney has heard of downsizing.”

  “We’re going to have to take the kids out of private school,” Sharon mourned. “They told us they couldn’t come back after the Christmas break if we didn’t pay up.”

  “Swell. So we’re all sunk,” Sig said. “I’m a senior broker who isn’t delivering. All my corporate lawyer and marketing and real estate clients have dried up. They’ve been downsized. I have no commissions coming in. How much longer do you think they’ll allow me that big corner office? I’ve been warned twice, so it’s not much longer. And I’m not going back to the bull pen.” She shook her head. “I’d rather wait tables.”

  “You mean it, Sig?” Sharon asked with disbelief. “Fired? Like Barney? You really mean it?”

  Sig, tears of humiliation choking her throat, merely waved her hand and nodded. Her sister’s empathy touched her.

  “Oh my God,” Sharon said and began to cry. “You’re going to lose the apartment? This will be so hard for Jessie and Travis.”

  “Yeah. And it might be a little tough for Sig herself,” Bruce added. “Same old Sharon.” He went over to Sig and took her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “What good would it have done?” she asked. “You couldn’t help me.”

  Bruce squeezed her hand, looked down at it for a long time, and then nodded. “So I guess a small no-interest loan is out of the question right now?” he asked.

  “Always with the jokes,” Phyllis said. She stood up. “Sig, I have a little money put aside. You think it would be enough … ?”

  Sig just shook her head. “Mom, my mortgage payment is thirty-eight hundred dollars a month. My maintenance is twenty-two hundred and I haven’t made a payment on either for almost nine months.” She paused, letting the numbers sink in. “This place is now owned by the bank. They’ll probably foreclose in the next month or so.”

  “You’re really going to lose the apartment?” Bruce asked.

  “Unless someone buys it fast and I get out some equity,” Sig sighed. “I waited too long. I’ve put an ad in the Times and I’ve gotten a few calls and I’ve also sent around the particulars to residential real estate agents, but I’ve only had a nibble or two and neither of them were serious.” Now tears rose in Sig’s own eyes. “An agent is coming this afternoon with the first prospect. Maybe something will happen. Other than that, I’m lost.”

  She sat down, exhausted. “And even if I get a quick sale, once I pay the mortgage, the second mortgage, back maintenance, the commission to the broker, and all the rest of it, I may have just enough money for a studio apartment in Bensonhurst.” Sig was heartbroken to have to give up her home. What had she worked so hard for all her life? What else did she have? Now what would she have to show for it? “Something went wrong with this country,” Sig said. “Nobody has any money.”

  “I do,” said Sylvia Katz. “I have plenty. You want some?”

  The three siblings looked at her with impatience, while Phyllis took the time to move next to her friend and pat her on the arm. “Thank you, Sylvia. But we’re not talking about small change. Sig needs close to a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I got that,” Mrs. Katz said calmly. “I got a lot more than that.” Phyllis rolled her eyes and patted Sylvia’s shoulder again, though she felt like she wanted to strangle her instead. Her daughter’s life had completely fallen apart—no husband, no children, no money, no job, and no home. Meanwhile, her best friend had finally gone meshuga.

  “Sha. Sha, Sylvia,” Phyllis said dismissively.

  “I have it right here in my purse,” Mrs. Katz said, and finally opened the huge black patent leather monstrosity on her lap.

  Phyllis, standing beside her seated friend, couldn’t help but see that the large purse was indeed stuffed with neatly stacked and freshly strapped parcels of money. Each bundle—and there seemed to be scores of them—said $10,000. “Oh my God,” was all she could say.

  Bruce also looked down at the purse. He made a noise like the one old Jews made at the synagogue before they began to pray—a sort of half sigh, half groan. “Where did you get all that?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  “Is it real?” Sharon breathed, looking over his shoulder.

  “I got it when my husband left me. He had to pay a lot. A lot. My lawyer, Diana LaGravennes, was very good. She made Sid pay. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I kept it. I didn’t like to spend it.”

  Bruce whistled. “What has four legs and runs after
cats?” he said. No one responded. “Mrs. Katz and her lawyer,” he said, but no one laughed.

  “You’ve carried that around with you all this time?” Phyllis asked, utterly astonished. It didn’t matter if she lived another seventy years, she realized, she would never know the boundaries of human peculiarities or the interior of human hearts.

  “Well, I didn’t know what else to do with it,” Sylvia admitted. “Sid took care of the banks and other things. Before he left me he’d always paid the utility and phone bills. I never even had a checking account. Anyway, what should I do with so much money? I never even wrote a check. I’m always reading about old women getting swindled by banks and brokers.” She looked up at Sig. “Nothing personal, darling. Present company excluded.” She shrugged. “So I just kept it. It seemed safest.”

  “It seemed safest?” Phyllis asked, her voice rising. “You walked The Broadwalk with a hundred thousand dollars in your purse?”

  “No,” Sylvia explained. “It’s two million two hundred thousand.”

  “Two million two hundred thousand dollars?!” Sharon and Bruce echoed at once.

  “Well, plus my change purse. I keep my change and my Social Security money in this.” She pulled out a silver mesh bag.

  Phyllis began to laugh. Once she began she couldn’t stop until tears rose in her eyes. “You wouldn’t spring for a motel when you flew up here! You had over two million dollars in your purse and you sat up all night at La Guardia? For six years in Florida you had to get up at four A.M. so you could breakfast by five so you could eat lunch by ten so you could eat dinner at three-thirty and save four dollars on early bird specials. You took home the extra rolls. You stole the Sweet’n Low packets from every diner we ever went to. You slept on my sofa here in New York. And the whole time you had more than two million dollars in your purse? In your purse! In your purse? Are you crazy? Did you ever hear of purse snatchers?”

  “I hold on very tight,” Sylvia said.

  Phyllis laughed again until it hurt and then just shook her head. “You betcha,” she said. Then the fatigue swept over her and she had to sit down. What now? For the first time in her life she was speechless.