by Tara Brent
I meet Jimmy at our office. This “office” is in an industrial zoned warehouse complex. Our air-conditioned storage area is about four thousand square feet. Unfinished walls, big roll-up garage doors, concrete floor. We don’t really need that much storage area, most of the time, but it does come in handy as a staging area, to gather various vendor equipment and rentals in one place, ready for mass deployment.
Attached to our usually empty open warehouse is a boxy twelve by fifteen office. You can’t call it “windowless”, as there is a window in the wall that looks into the storage area; but if you are one of those picky people who thinks a window should open to a view of the outside, you’re out of luck. The office is crammed; a small couch, work table, two small desks, some phones, printer/scanner, and (when we bring them in) two laptops (mine and Jimmy’s). And that window to nowhere is the only part of the wall surfaces not covered with white boards, bulletin boards, cork boards with push pins, and a thousand business cards, price lists, C.V.s, flyers, and random notes and post-its. Needless to say, this utilitarian workspace is not appropriate for meeting with clients – especially our usual high net worth individual clients.
It’s your basic shithole, to be honest.
“I reached Norma Giess, Barr & Johnston Images, and Clyde Wallis,” Jimmy recites, naming some of the better wedding photographers. As I’m squeezing into the jam-packed office, I know what’s coming...all these shutter bugs are “Booked solid through October.”
“Figures. We’ll find someone decent, I’m not worried about that.”
“Should we hire a couple of separate bartenders now? Or do you want to wait and do it through the caterer?”
“If we ever find a caterer, you mean?”
“Jeremy told me Enzo Rosellini just walked off a big job in Del Mar.”
“What a shocker.” I shake my head. Enzo. “Always was a slippery operator, and a cheat. Besides, his food really isn’t all that good anyway.”
“And the portions are so small, bad-da-boom-rimshot,” Jimmy blurts. He can’t help it. When it comes to corny old burlesque jokes, he has Tourette’s Syndrome. He just barks them out, like a mental tic.
“Besides,” I go on, “It would be just like Enzo to tell us yes, then screw us and go back to the other job the next day. The man has no ethics.”
“I agree, I agree. I just had a duty to inform. I wouldn’t use him either.”
“Let’s book Marty Meecham to handle the hard liquor and bars, but for the wines, I need you to get Dave Fuller.”
“Really? He can be rather... peculiar, would you say?”
“I don’t care. He’s got an incredible palate. He finds the vintages everyone else will want next year.”
“If he doesn’t finish it off himself.”
“Okay. He drinks a little bit. Occupational hazard. Who cares? He never goes anywhere near the event anyway. Just drops the stock here, and heads back up to Sonoma.”
“I’ll see if I can track him down.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“She called.” I am certain ‘She’ can only mean my mother.
“What did she say?”
“She’s here.”
“Already? Jesus... Where is she?”
“Encinitas.”
“Great. Do I have to go pick her up? Christ, that’s all I need.”
“She rented a car.
“Thank God.”
“She said to tell you she’s ‘a grown woman’, and she promises to stay out of your hair.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Just as soon as you meet her at your place and let her in.”
I shake my head. Kill me now. “What time?”
“She said she was on her way there ten minutes ago.”
I’m on my feet, car keys in hand. “Book the bar, and the wine guy. And find somebody who knows which end of a camera has the lens. And then...”
“...keep looking for a caterer, I know.”
What I know is that I have to run. I can just see my mom snooping around my house. Peeking in every window, sorting through the recycling, who knows what. “Jimmy. Tell me again.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Really,” I beg him. “Please. I need to hear you say it.”
He rolls it out, speaking by rote, almost a monotone. Like reciting a monkish chant. “You are the best. We can do this. We are not going to fuck a goat.”
It’s a superstition of mine, this mantra. I make Jimmy repeat to me a hundred times on every job. It’s stupid, sure, but it works. Like saying a prayer, this repeated routine, this recitation, has a calming effect. Usually.
I get back in my Audi and head for home. And Mommy Dearest.
I really ought to give you a few pointers about Mom.
She’s been a widow for seven years. Dad was a workaholic, until an aneurism convinced him to slow down a little. He slowed down right after he hit the floor in his corner office at Qualcomm, as dead as an M.C. Hammer video. He had been a good earner, a thrifty saver, and a believer in plenty of life insurance. So Mom never has a thing to worry over.
That is about money, theoretically. But she’s a very creative person. At least when it comes to finding things to worry about; there’s global warming, flesh eating bacteria and mismatched socks.
And especially her eldest daughter, yours truly.
As for my younger sister, Pamela, Mom shows not a care in the world. Because Pam is married. Pam has two kids, one boy, one girl. Pam has a husband with a steady job and a solid career. Pam is Mom’s notion of a perfect daughter. Pam and her Pam-Fam.
I don’t hate Pam for this.
All I hate her for is the fact that her husband Jerry’s steady, solid job allowed them to move to Boston. Far, far away. Too far for my mother to “pop in” for a Pam Fam visit, but me? Not so much.
Now, I do love my mom. She’s a lot of fun, when she isn’t ragging on me to settle down and pump out grand babies. Maybe even with a husband. Although by the time I passed thirty, (and no, it wasn’t that long ago, thank you), I think she decided the dedicated live-in supportive male side of the equation was optional. She’s getting down to basics, preservation of the family gene pool.
To be honest, I think mom started whittling down her standards for acceptable male company for me all the way back in high school. I wasn’t much like Mom when I was a teen. Pam was. She always fit the very mold Mom was cast from. Pretty, pert, popular – a perfect cheerleader type.
But Mom, we understood, definitely had a few wild hairs back when she was in high school. Not that she ever admitted anything, but we could read the clues. First off, she was impossible to fool. She knew every trick a teen could pull. She could tell when one of us was thinking about ditching before we did. She could sniff out the merest whiff of a drink at twenty paces. Smoke? She could tell. She could tell if it was a filter or not. If it was menthol. If it was Panama Red. She could tell when you were going all gooey for a boy. She could tell how far you’d go with him – again, usually before we did. And she could tell when you had a broken heart; but she knew how to make you feel special again, feel loved. Yep. She knew just about everything a teen could get up to. Which is why we figured she was not just working on intuition. She had too much practical knowledge, and that only comes from experience.
The good part of having a mom like her was we were always pretty close. Especially during those years when most kids can’t stand the sight of their parents, and won’t listen to a word they say. We listened. And we heard. Plenty. Looking back, I know I learned a lot from Mom about growing up.
The ‘not so good’ part? Call me crazy, but I believe growing up should have changed that relationship. She gave us such a solid, practical footing to build on, but she has a big problem seeing the building. She doesn’t ever back off to let us chose the siding, or what color to paint it. She may have helped us grow up – but she still refuses to admit her success. She can’t give up trying to improve on her work.
What I�
�m trying to say, perhaps too kindly, is that my mom can be an intrusive, meddlesome busybody, and has no boundaries. She’s In-Your-Face. I love her, sure, but I’m not so crazy about what she does.
I see a newish mid-size compact parked in my driveway. It screams rental, so I know Mom is here, but I can’t see her. “Mom?” No answer. I move around the side of the house, looking over the fence into the back yard. Nope. However, I do see the sliding patio door open. I go through the fence gate, cross the back yard, and the patio. When I get to the open patio door, I see her standing by the microwave, waiting for a package of Trader Joe Chicken Tikka Masala to heat up.
“Hi, mom,” I say as I enter. “Make yourself at home.”
“Kira! Sweetheart!” She’s halfway across the floor when the microwave dings behind her. She stops, actually considers going back to get the food before she hugs me, but then she moves in for the clinch, folding me into her arms. She’s five foot seven. I’m six foot even, in my stocking feet. So, as always, my chin rests right on the top of her head. The microwave alarm continues to ding in frantic mechanical urgency.
“Good to see you, Mom,” I tell her. “Easy drive over?”
“Oh my God! Do you know that car can steer itself? I swear I almost screamed, the way Morty would just take his hands off the wheel. He just turns around and talks to me in the back seat! I swear to Jesus, I thought I was going to plotz.”
“Plotz? You?”
“Yes, plotz – it’s Yiddish! Me, a nice Italian girl from Philly, speaking Yiddish.”
“A regular Jackie Mason.”
“Well, just a couple expressions I picked up from Heddy. What a colorful language!”
“So, they didn’t feed you?”
“No, I asked them to drop me right at the Enterprise. I always use Enterprise. I just like them.”
“Not even a little nosh? I could Plotz.”
“Oh, stop. Teasing your poor old mother.”
“Eat your Chicken Tikka. Or, would you like to go out?”
“What, with you? Nonsense. You have work to do, I wouldn’t dare interfere with your schedule.”
“Pretty big job coming up, yeah.”
“Well, you pay no attention to me. I won’t get in your way. By the way, you’re out of curry powder.”
“I’ll make a note.”
“Why don’t I run to the store for you? Make me a list.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, Pish Posh. I’ll go through the cupboards and make my own list. Where do you keep your coupons?”
“In the trash. Why?”
“Go ahead, mock. Did I ever tell you about my friend Doris?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“Well, every time she used a coupon, she put the savings away. Fifty cents here, dollar off there. And then every month—
“She put the extra dollars into her mortgage, paying down the principal.”
“Go ahead, scoff. Twelve years. She paid it off in just twelve years, instead of thirty. You know how much she saved?”
“Yes. I do.”
“More than two hundred thousand in interest payments.”
“Mom? I rent.”
“Still? Kira, that’s terrible. You’re throwing money away.”
“When instead, I could be shopping with coupons. Oh, look. Here’s one for 25% off this three bedroom bungalow in Silverlake!”
Mom is opening and closing every cabinet drawer now, working her way down the counter.”
“It’s the drawer by the stove, Mom. Still.”
She opens the right drawer at last and takes out two forks. “Here, split this with me. It’s too much.”
We sit down at the breakfast table. I split the Chicken Tikka into two small bowls. We start to eat.
“A little bland,” is Mom’s gourmet review. “Could use some curry.”
“They say Spice is the Variety of Life.”
“Do they? That doesn’t sound right.”
“So. I haven’t had a chance to check the guest room, or the bath. I think there are clean sheets on—”
“Were they? Well, I already changed them, just in case.”
“Mom. I can do that.”
“Oh? And what am I? Visiting royalty?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Did you know you’re out of Tidy Bowl?”
“I don’t use Tidy...wait a sec. How would you know?”
“Now, honey. I understand you have a busy life, I really do, but you need to keep up hygiene standards. You can’t just let things go.”
“I had the cleaning woman in yesterday. She does the toilets.”
“Well, maybe I should have a word with her next time.”
“I’m sure you could teach her a thing or two about toilets, eh?”
“Again, with the mocking. My own flesh and blood.”
“I hope it won’t come to that,” I mutter under my breath. She doesn’t seem to hear me, fortunately.
“I’m going to put in a load of laundry later. Do you have anything to throw in? Panties? Or maybe some of those gym clothes you’re always sweating up?”
“You just got here. Why are you doing laundry? Did you bring dirty clothes with you from home?”
“Of course not, but, I have to do those sheets from the guest room anyway, so...”
“No, mom. You don’t. I told you. They were clean.”
“How about your bed? Do you want me to strip that too?”
No. I want to crawl into that fucking bed and pull those Goddamn sheets up over my head. For two weeks. Or maybe forever. “My bed’s just fine, mother.”
“That reminds me. How’s everything?”
“My bed reminds you of everything?”
No, no. I just meant... I mean, I wondered...”
Of course, I know what she is asking. All together now, let’s say it again: Are you seeing anyone special?
“No,” I say, beating her to the punch.
“No what?” How did she make that sound so genuine? Does she practice in a mirror every night?
“No, Mom, I am not seeing anyone ‘special’ at the present time.”
“Honey, I don’t want to push.”
“That’s delightful news.”
“It’s just a scientific fact. The later you... settle down and start a family, the higher your chance of difficulties.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go out drinking tonight, trolling for man meat. Any luck I’ll be pregnant before dawn.”
Mom makes a point of ignoring that. She gets up, takes the forks and bowls to the sink, and turns on the water. Feeling it for the temperature. “It always takes so long to get hot water here.”
“Just leave them.”
“Kira. Sweetie. You know I did not raise you to leave dirty dishes waiting.” She hears me sigh behind her. “After all, when you bring home some drunken stranger to shag all night, don’t you want to make a good impression on your Baby Daddy?” And that’s when she turns, with that smile of hers. With that slightly wicked twinkle in her eye. She starts to laugh. “I got you. Didn’t I?”
She sure did.
And now I’m laughing with her. My mom. She’s definitely a hoot.
Chapter 5: The Brothers
Later that afternoon, Cici Okoye called to ask me to come by. After their lunch together, she had corralled the Groom, the Bride, and her parents. Now she insists I drop everything, and dash over to Coronado to meet them. Not that it’s an unreasonable request – I do need to meet them, get their input, but I hope this won’t run too long. I really should have dinner with my own Mother Dearest tonight. So I mentioned it to Cici.
“Your mother came to visit you?”
“Totally unexpected. I mean, she always comes out here from Phoenix for a month or so in summer; but she was supposed to wait for August.”
“Oh, pish posh. You can’t blame her for an early escape from that Inferno.” There was that phrase again. Weird they both say that.
“Sure. It wou
ldn’t be a problem, normally. She’s actually pretty good about keeping herself busy while I’m working, but this wedding...”
“Yes, short notice. Sorry.”
“Oh, I know I can work it out, but I’ll have to put in all kinds of hours, around the clock. That’s why I said I would take her out for dinner. A little face time, and a whole lot of boundary drawing.”
The conspirators in charge of wrecking my life, over at Fate, Incorporated, did a real number on me. They not only got the rush hour traffic jam going an hour early on the freeway. The Fates also caused a big rig to jackknife on that big, beautiful Coronado Bridge. It was down to one lane. Took almost an hour to get across it. I was forty minutes late.
Cici was very understanding, could not have been more gracious. “That damn bridge. Happens all the time, dear. Nothing to do about it.”
“Still, I feel terrible making all of you wait.”
Dr. Conroy (James, not Annette. She was Dr. Miller-Conroy, thank you very much) stood up to shake my hand. “That’s okay. Sebastian here took us on a tour of the palace.” Then he introduced his wife Annette, and daughter Michelle.
Next, it was Sebastian shaking my hand. He was not as cute as his brother Blake (where was he, I sulked) but he could have come in a close second if he gave it a try. Which he didn’t. Between the nerdy glasses and the pocket protector, it looked like he had made a calculated decision to be just the opposite of his brother’s glamorous playboy image. I was surprised he wasn’t wearing a white lab coat.
His fiancé Michelle also wasted little to no effort to improve on her looks, but it didn’t matter with her. She was one of those beauties so perfect that she couldn’t look bad slopping hogs in the mud, wearing overalls and a battered straw hat. Knockout doesn’t even come close.
Her mom and dad were real outdoorsy specimens. James looked big enough to play tight end for the Bears. Annette had that lean kind of fitness you’d see on a woman who played tennis for two hours every day. They were both in amazing shape, and could almost pass for fifteen years younger. Except for their skin. Tan doesn’t come close. Ruddy is a start, especially if you throw in weather beaten. They reminded me of the apple doll faces you see on middle- aged surfers. They worked on ships, in tropical latitudes, living in constant exposure to the equatorial sun. I won’t call their skin leathery, but only because I don’t like being critical of a person’s looks. Curvy Girl Rule One: Live and let live.