Cooking Lessons
Edna‘s POV
Helen waves at me from baggage claim. “Mother!”
I’m kissed and hugged but I’m tired and ready to go. “Let’s get my luggage and go, Helen.”
“What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything. I love Miami and I hate Miami. I love Larry and I hate Larry.
Helen grabs my suitcase and we walk out to the car. Frank’s there, with a RangeMan, and he has a smirk on his face.
He knows.
“Hey, Jailbird. How’s freedom?”
I glare at him and Helen looks at me. “Jailbird? Mother? What does Frank mean?”
Thanks, Frank. You and your big mouth. “Nothing, Helen.”
“Nothing? Jailbird doesn’t sound like nothing—”
“I flew the coop of my New Jersey jail and I’m a free bird down in Florida, Helen. Leave it alone.”
Helen looks at me and Frank. Frank has his ‘impassive’ face on. Only good thing about having an Italian son-in-law: he knows how to keep his mouth shut. When he keeps his mouth shut.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out anyway.”
You are your father’s daughter. You are my mother’s daughter. God, I shouldn’t have allowed her to warp you the way she did. I roll my eyes and look at the man next to Frank, who is helping Helen into the backseat of the SUV. He closes the door and turns to me. His lips quirk. “Mrs. Mazur.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Good. He’s doing a better job than Frank. “My return flight is Sunday.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll pick you up at 10 a.m.”
“Which one are you?”
“Vince.”
I hand him my suitcase, wishing I had enough strength to toss it at Frank. “Let’s go home.”
—oOo—
I just remembered why I was so happy to leave New Jersey. When did it get so cold? I miss the beach and the warm weather. I miss bingo and dancing until dawn.
I miss Larry.
Maybe I should call him? Maybe not. He did call me a ‘crazy old coot’.
Frank hauls my suitcase up to my old room, which Helen has turned into a sewing room. She has fabric and patterns everywhere and a half-sewn shirt pinned to a dummy. She’s putting my things away and yakking about the gossip she told me yesterday while reminding me of everything she thought I needed to pack, like I really need to be told how many pairs of socks to pack.
Have I become so feeble I can’t put my own clothes away?
I choke back the words and examine the shirt. It’s cute. I find the pattern next to the sewing machine. Oh. It’s going to be a dress. Very cute. I can’t see MA wearing this. This must be for Angie. I hope it is.
“What’s this?”
“What?” She looks. “Oh. Well, the girls need some new clothes and I’ve seen some of those expensive baby layettes. You know? Like the stuff Prince George was given and I started thinking, there’s no reason I can’t sew up a few of those for the new baby. So I—”
“OW!”
I hop off the bed and look for the pin. I hold it up to Helen, who blushes. “Sorry, Mother. I thought I picked up all of them.”
“You missed one.” I find a large magnet and start running it over the bed carefully. It doesn’t pick up any pins, so I check the floor next to the bed. Six pins.
I’m not walking around barefoot.
She finishes putting everything away and I decide to make a trip to the bathroom. I see Frank coming up the stairs, newspaper in hand, so I duck into the bathroom ahead of him.
THUD THUD THUD
“Edna!”
“I gotta go!”
I hear him muttering and pacing around outside.
“Helen, tell me again why she couldn’t stay at Pumpkin’s apartment?”
“Because Stephanie’s staying there right now.”
What! Why? Did she decide against Ranger? Time to talk to my baby granddaughter.
“She has the RangeMan apartment.”
“Frank, I don’t know. You ask her.” I hear her go downstairs and a long exhale. Frank’s waiting.
Good. Let him wait. I’m old and I’m not getting any younger.
I use the bathroom quickly (or as quickly as I can) and walk out. Frank is leaning against the opposite wall, frowning, and the moment I walk out, he dashes in, nearly toppling me down the stairs.
“Be careful!”
If Helen doesn’t know, let’s keep it that way.
—oOo—
Helen‘s POV
I pour a tumbler of Wild Turkey and knock it back really fast. I stare at the empty glass, the aroma just now reaching my nose.
I have to stop this. Bourbon is meant to be sipped, not knocked back like a cheap vodka shot.
I forgot how peaceful it was not to have Mother in the house. Without her and Frank fighting, our house is quiet and calm. I sew, Frank reads, and we spend time together. We’ve been thinking about a trip to Florida to visit Mother and see how she’s doing and where she’s living.
I’m concerned, OK? She’s my mother. I have a right to know where she’s living, just in case something happens.
Frank and I decided to go to Philadelphia again last weekend and it was wonderfully romantic. I felt 18 again. Frank was gallant and sophisticated, the way he was when we were dating, and I remembered how giddy he always made me feel. We held hands and walked around the mall and went looking in shops where we can’t afford anything, but who cared! We’re young (at heart) and in love and our children (and my mother) are out of our house. We were giddy at realizing we could do these things!
He ordered, in Italian, for both of us at this little Italian place we used to go to all the time. I was surprised to see it was still there but it has survived because the food was still excellent. We walked around downtown and I clung to Frank’s arm. He patted my hands and smiled.
“It seems . . . dangerous out here,” I said, looking around. The sun was going down and it was getting colder. Frank took his coat off and draped it on my shoulders. I felt like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.
“You’ll be fine. No one will hurt us.”
These young men standing around in groups might try. They’re drinking ‘Monster’ and talking about pipes! You never know. They might wait until we’re caught off guard. “What if they try to rob us?”
“I hope they like lead.”
I stared at Frank and he pulled up the hem of his sweater to reveal the butt of a gun. “I’ve been working with Ramsay at RangeMan. He’s a sniper. He’s giving me a course on gun safety and Caesar is working with me on knife skills.”
Ramsay is still a sore subject with me. I still can’t believe he sat at my table and insulted my entire family. The nerve! But I am grateful he’s teaching Frank to defend us. I felt a bit safer, knowing my husband was prepared to defend us if someone tried to attack us.
We made it back to the car without any problems and Frank and I agreed to start doing things like that more often. As long as we’re back to pick up the girls on schooldays, there’s no reason why we can’t take little day trips on occasion.
I finally understand why Mother didn’t care whether or not she was available to babysit for us when the girls were small. Being out alone with Frank is wonderful. If we hadn’t promised Valerie, I’m not sure we’d make the promise now.
Frank and I have been talking about getting out and doing things together more often. With Valerie doing so well at work (most successful saleslady in the area!) and Stephanie running RangeMan, our daughters are finally successful businesswomen with their own successful lives. Valerie is happily married and doing everything she can to help Albert and Albert is becoming known for his mediation skills.
Frank was right; it’s the perfect job for him and he doesn’t have to go to court often. It doesn’t make as much as a lawyer would, but he has a steady income. Valerie says that Albert’s plan is to make his name in mediation, then see if he can get hired on by one of the big firms to be in or even head their mediation department. That would mean a very steady income and name recognition for Albert.
I’m no longer worrying and praying daily that Stephanie isn’t shot. Every time the phone rings I’m no longer concerned that the person on the other end is going to tell me she’s dead. I know that it’s probably going to be good news when she calls. I wish she understood that I really am proud of her. She has a job where the chances of her dying are much less, she makes much more, and she’s safe and sound. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I’ve never wanted her to die just to collect $100.
And she and Joseph Morelli are over. Angie Morelli and I merely nod at each other in the stores now. I think she’s as relieved as I am. Honestly, I don’t want to be related to Bella either. I’ve been tempted, over the years, to beat her with a salami to get her to shut up. As quickly as I’m running through rosaries, praying that my daughter is safe and sound, she’s casting curses and seeing my daughter die horrific deaths. I’ve been tempted to ask her how she’d feel if someone was cursing Joseph, but (a) an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind; and (b) he’s a Morelli boy. I was grateful he seemed to have outgrown his family tendencies, especially if my daughter was involved with him.
I hope her relationship with Ranger works out. I want to see her in a happy relationship with someone who loves her, just like I’ve been with her father all these years. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Ranger seems to love her. He’s always been there for her, as Frank pointed out months ago. And children. I’d like to see her have some children.
Small miracles. That’s all I ask.
I put the bourbon back and tie on my apron. Thanksgiving is in two days and I’m nearly ready. Valerie is cooking at night and she’s bringing all the sides except mashed potatoes. Frank loves my mashed potatoes and I always get them right. I have the cakes, pies, and the turkey. Stephanie agreed to bring beer, wine, and sodas for the girls. We’re going to have a nice Thanksgiving this year.
No dramas.
No shootings.
No one will die.
“Helen!” My mother comes downstairs. “I want to go to RangeMan.”
“Let’s go,” Frank says, grabbing his keys. Mother stares at him. “I need to speak to Ramsay.”
They leave and I lean against the counter.
Peace in my home.
—oOo—
Edna‘s POV
“Hello!”
The RangeMan at the desk nods. Frank nods at him.
“Calvin.”
He nods.
“You’re the one that doesn’t talk, aren’t you?” I ask. Frank snorts.
No response at first, then a quick nod.
“You sure about that?”
He nods.
Fine. I’ll make him talk before I leave. “Is Stephie in?”
He nods.
“Can I see her?”
He turns to Frank. “Ramsay?” He shakes his head. “Caesar?”
He turns to his computer and types something. Moments later, the computer beeps. He reads the message and nods. He looks up at Frank and nods. He looks at me, smiles, and motions to the elevator, which arrives and dings at that moment.
I smile. “Thank you!”
We step on the elevator, which stops at the third floor. A Hispanic man is standing there and he nods at Frank, a small smile on his face. Frank steps off then turns back to me.
“You’re going to 5.”
“Fine.”
“Ask Control to page me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Fine.”
The doors close and I continue to five. I get off and it’s silent. I see a few smiles and heads pop up to verify the new person. A few nod at me.
A RangeMan welcome, so I’ve learned.
Stephie is waiting at the elevator. “Grandma!”
“Stephie!”
“Grandma!” “Grandma!”
I look around Stephie to see Angie and MA running toward me. “Hey, girls!” I hug them both and listen to them tell me about their work at RangeMan. MA leaves to continue her ‘Pony Express’ run and Angie takes the stairs back to the third floor with a small box.
I follow Stephie into her office and kick off my shoes to curl up on her couch. She stares at them for a moment before laughing. “Mystery solved.”
“Sorry.” I grab them and place them next to her door.
“No, it’s OK. I was recently reminded not to leave my shoes in the middle of the floor.”
I smile. “My mother. She’d leave her shoes everywhere. That’s how you knew she was there.” I look around. “This is a nice office, Stephie. They gave you the primo location, huh?”
“This is Ranger’s office.”
“Really?” I pick up the scented candle. “Ranger doesn’t seem like the Mandarin Vanilla candle sort of man.”
She laughs and digs a scent tester out of her purse. I sniff. “Oranges and something funky.”
“Ranger’s cologne.”
“The man wears oranges?” I raise a brow and Stephie stares at me.
“OK, they’re right. It is funny,” she mutters, smiling. “His cologne is a combination of oranges and herbs. It smells better on Ranger.”
“Stephie, that man would smell good covered in poop and garbage.” I smile.
“I just looked like Pigpen and I never smelled good.”
We stare at each other for a moment before laughing. “Why aren’t you staying here?”
She sighs. “I can’t. When I’m surrounded by RangeMan 24-7, I go crazy.”
I stare at her. “You mean, when you’re surrounded by RangeMan 24-7 without your man you go crazy, right?”
“I dunno. I might give it a try when he comes home.” She shrugs. “Maybe having him here with me will make the difference.”
I nod. “But you aren’t leaving him, right?”
“Nope. I just needed some space. I needed to feel independent again.”
“OK. I understand that.” I relax. “I got nervous when I heard you moved out. Thought you might’ve given up on him without a fight.”
“No.” Stephie hands me a bottle of water and joins me on the couch. “How’s Florida?”
I stare at her before sighing. “What did you hear?”
She smiles. “Well, Thomas faxed over the warrant and your mug shot.” I close my eyes in embarrassment. “Your hair looked great.”
“That’s important?”
“Diego said most … elderly skips have frightening hair. Einstein doubles. You looked fresh from the beauty parlor.”
“Thanks. I was.”
“Dad and I agreed not to tell Mom.”
“He nearly gave it away at the airport.”
“How?”
“He called me ‘jailbird’!”
“We agreed not to tell her. He never agreed not to laugh about it.”
“It’s not a laughing matter.”
“I agree.” She sighs. “You can’t stay in the RangeMan apartment for long, Grandma. I can’t authorize that. You’re going to have to move out. How’s Larry?”
“Furious.” I sigh. “I mean, what did he expect? He tells me this guy had a massive carbuncle on his face and I wanna see it. I mean, come on! Pip’s was huge! Closed casket? That’s just an insult. It’s not like that carbuncle was a secret!”
“Grandma!” Stephie moans. “This was Larry’s friend, not one of yours. You didn’t know anyone there. You made him look bad.” She shudders. “And Uncle Pip’s carbuncle was disgusting.”
Not another person to lecture me! I get it, dammit! Move on. “I know, I know! I get it.” I exhale and roll my eyes. “If I wanted to be told I was wrong, I would’ve stayed and listened to Larry’s bitchin’ and moaning,” I mutter.
Stephie stares at me before closing her eyes and shaking her head. “Did he kick you out or did you leave?”
“Well, I’m not staying in a house with a man who spends his time telling me how embarrassed he is! OK, so it was the wrong thing to do. I said I was sorry. They needed to quit making it a big deal.”
She tries to raise an eyebrow. “The widow had a panic attack. That’s kinda why they had you arrested.”
“Those seniors in Florida are wimps,” I mutter.
I’m still embarrassed. I was arrested! Arrested! Disorderly conduct! I’ve never been arrested! It’s not as bad as they make out, though. The RangeMen wrote my bond fast and Stephie assured it. I was out in hours.
I look at her. “What’s gonna happen?”
She sighs. “I’m looking into a lawyer. It’s best if you plead. You’re a first timer, no record. You might get off light. Worse they’ll do is give you a fine. The limit is $1,000.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Florida thinks differently. The guys tell me that because of that church, the one that likes to threaten to picket military funerals?” I nod. “Yeah, they’re coming down hard on interruptions at funerals. They keep writing bills to make it a crime.”
I sigh, aggravated. This entire situation is just aggravating. “What’s the worst they could do?”
“A year in jail, fines, maybe some sort of counseling.” I see Stephie bite her lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m hoping they don’t call the PD up here. They’ll throw the book at you if they do.”
I groan. “They’re punishing curiosity now?”
“They’re punishing funeral disruptions that lead to elderly women having panic attacks when their husbands just happen to flop on the casket pillow.”
I gotta stop attending Jewish funerals. Too much weird stuff happens.
—oOo—
Thanksgiving
Helen‘s POV
The house smells wonderful. The turkey is almost ready to come out of the oven, the sides are warming, and I’m finishing off dessert.
Frank’s extended the table and MA and Angie are busy polishing the silver. We’re a Norman Rockwell picture, the way I always wanted. A loving family that will sit down and enjoy a delicious turkey dinner together.
Sometimes I wish we had a photographer to take pictures of this. It’s picture perfect.
“I’m thinking of starting my own dessert place.” I quarter this fourth apple and set it aside. I can’t wait to start this dessert!
Mother stares at me, her hands in the sink of dirty dishes. “A restaurant? Why?”
I sigh. Mother never really supported my choices in life. ‘Don’t you want more than the ‘Burg?’ she asked when I told her I thought Frank was going to propose.
No. I wasn’t interested in going to college and majoring in politics or women’s lib, which she was all excited about at the time. She was marching for the ERA and watching Maude.
Mother was a one woman effort to get women in the Burg to sign the petition to support the amendment. I think she got six signatures.
At least Grandma and Dad supported me. Dad thought I was making the right decision and he loved Frank. He thought Frank would be a wonderful husband to me, loving and supportive, and he thought I was trying to raise my girls well. Nézd meg az anyját, vedd el a lányát (Watch her mother before you marry a girl), he said, and I’ve kept that in mind all my life. I didn’t want to be the kind of mother that my girls would be embarrassed of. I’m not embarrassed of Mother, but some of her antics . . . I’m glad Mother didn’t run Frank off. If he chose me based on Mother, I’m sure he would have run.
Grandma told me to ignore Mother. Átesett a ló túlsó oldalára, she would say, pinching my cheeks and watching Mother in distaste. She fell on the other side of the horse, which, to this day, still doesn’t quite make sense to me.
In any case, I had their support of my goals. I wanted a husband and children. I thought that’s what feminism was supposed to be about. Supporting women’s choices, even if it was the traditional ‘home and hearth’ choice, but Mother never supported me. She would have been thrilled if I’d been a radical feminist, working with Tish Sommers and Gloria Steinem to liberate women everywhere.
That sounded lonely, boring, and fruitless. Besides, I don’t see anyone sniffing at Martha Stewart’s obsession with everything domestic. That’s ‘a good thing’.
“Helen?”
“I love cooking and baking. The whole cupcake thing was surprising. I thought of that years ago and now it’s a major thing. I thought about starting a pie shop—”
“They had a show about that once,” she muses. “Pushing Daises. I remember that because it was about a guy who could touch dead stuff and make it live again, but if he didn’t touch the dead person again within one minute, someone else would die.” She shudders. “I’d never buy a pie there. I mean, he bought bad fruit and made it good again. Yuck!”
And we’re off. Mother will continue on this tangent for hours because it’s about dead people. She has a dead people fetish, I think.
“Mother! We were talking about my pie shop.”
“Oh. Right. Why not just work for the Tasty Pastry?”
There’s a thought. Let me work at the place famous for being the place where my daughter ‘sold her cannoli’. I can imagine the snickers now.
“The Tasty Pastry sells a lot of different sweets. I’m sticking to pies and maybe cupcakes.”
“They sell cupcakes,” she says, rinsing my stock pot.
Why did I choose to discuss this with Mother? “Nevermind.”
“You talk it over with Frank?”
I nod. “He’s prepared to back me. I thought about starting from the house first, maybe selling to the Tasty Pastry and if they sell well I’d break out on my own.”
“So why ask me?”
“I wanted your opinion.” It matters to me, Mother. You’re a wonderful cook and you hate to cook. I aspire to your skills someday. I’d like to know you support me.
“Well…” Mother purses her lips. “You are a good cook and you need something to do.” Thanks, Mother. “If Frank’s fine with it, go for it.” She wrings the sponge and dries her hands.
“If Frank’s fine with it? Mother, you usually don’t care if Frank’s fine with it or not!”
Mother rolls her eyes. “And personally, I still don’t. If you want to start a restaurant or a bakery, go for it, but I know you. He’s your husband. He’s your partner and the bicycle to your fish.”
What? I smile. “Thank you, Mother.”
“So what are you doing with those apples?”
I glance down. “Well, I thought I’d try something new. Tarte Tatin—”
“You’re trying something new at Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving is about trotting out the tried and true recipes, not experimenting with new stuff.”
I’ve trotted out all the old recipes. I’m adding something new. “A tarte Tatin is a French apple pie. You caramelize the apples, top it with a pie crust, bake and serve with ice cream.” I sigh happily. “Frank and I had it at this little bistro in Philadelphia a few weeks ago. Sublime, Mother. It was sublime.”
“And you’re going to try that now? Today? Of all days?”
I nod. “I made a cake just in case this doesn’t work out.”
Mother shakes her head. “Well, go for it.”
Valerie arrives just as I’m pressing all the apples in the pan, trying to ensure all the apples caramelize. “Grandma!” She kisses Mother. “How are you? How’s Florida? How’s Larry?”
“Fine, fine, fine.”
“Great.”
“I thought you and Larry were fighting, Grandma Edna,” MA says. We all turn to stare at her. I never noticed the girls coming in the kitchen, but Angie replaces the silver polish and stands next to her sister, nodding.
Mother blushes. “Why would you think that?”
Angie shrugs. “Well, MA overheard the RangeMen talking about the fact that Aunt Stephie guaranteed your bond and that you’re living at RangeMan Miami, but they shut up the moment they saw us.”
I stare at Mother, my jaw on the floor. “Mother!”
“Girls, out,” Valerie says, shooing the girls from the room. The moment the door closes, Valerie and I turn and stare at Mother.
“Mother? What’s the meaning of this?”
“None of your business,” she says, her cheeks reddening. “I’m the mother here and I’m not discussing this.”
Hey, Jailbird. How‘s freedom?
“FRANK!“
He appears moments later. “What! What happened?”
“Hey, Jailbird?” I stare at him. “What do you know about this?”
Frank stares at all of us. Mother is glaring at him.
“I know that those are your mother’s charges and you should ask her.”
“Traitor!” Mother yells as Frank leaves the kitchen.
I whirl around. “Charges?! What does he mean, charges?”
“You catch the mine part? My charges. I’ll deal with it.”
“Why me? Why my mother?” I moan. I head to the pantry and grab the Wild Turkey. Valerie disappears into the fridge and emerges with the turkey gravy.
“Heat that, don’t eat that,” I order.
I drink alcohol, Valerie drinks gravy. Stephanie eats cake, Mother goes to funerals. Everyone has their coping mechanism for life.
Valerie grumbles but she puts most of it in the pot to slowly reheat. She puts a small amount in a tea cup and places that in the microwave. I can’t find my tablespoon, so I splash approximately two tablespoons of Wild Turkey on the apples. OK, so the dessert will be slightly boozy. Everyone will live. I grab a tumbler, pour two fingers and sip.
“Mother, what happened?”
Mother sets her mouth in that stubborn line that I hate. Why me? Why did I get the difficult mother?
“Fine, Grandma. What happened with Larry?”
She rolls her eyes. My God, it’s like talking to Stephanie! I could never get her to talk unless I already knew all the details. I glance at the phone and wish someone would call and give me the details so we could actually talk about this.
MA pops her head in. “Grandma? Can I have something to drink?”
“Of course.”
She walks in and grabs a glass from the cabinets before pouring a glass of milk.
“Mother, this is absurd. What happened? Why—”
The scream cuts off my sentence. I look over.
Oh. My. God!
—oOo—
Steph‘s POV
I’m trying to make sure I have everything. Laptop, guns, keys, something’s missing.
Damn Carlos!
He woke me up and threw my day off. I enjoyed it (still feeling the earthquakes between my thighs) but now I’m running behind. Dinner starts at 12:30 and Mom will never forgive me if I’m late. I check the time. 11:30. I have time but not a lot.
Carlos walks out of the shower naked and I’m distracted. He flashes a grin and runs his hands over his abs. I’m completely distracted by what’s below his abs until he makes his pecs dance. Playful Carlos. Yum . . .
“Carlos!”
Bounce, bounce, bounce-bounce-bounce. “Me? Or pumpkin pie?”
“You.” I wipe my mouth.
He didn’t compare himself to cake. That would have been a close call. And I’m not entirely sure he would have won.
RINGGGG.
“Yeah?” I drag my eyes away from Naked Playful Carlos long enough to check the phone. Albert. The mental image of my pudgy brother-in-law is a definite mood-killer.
“Hey, it’s Albert. Can you join us at the hospital?”
I freeze. “What happened?” Naked Carlos stops stroking himself and looks at me.
“Your mother . . .”
“Albert, what happened?” I’m just throwing stuff together now. Carlos throws on a pair of cargos, tosses me my wallet and keys and I run out of the apartment and hit the stairs. I nearly fall on my knees and tumble, but quickly right myself and keep running.
He sighs. “Your mother set a pan on fire.”
I calm slightly then tense. “Mom? Mom never sets things on fire. Not unless it’s crème brûlée. Did she lose control of the torch?”
“No. She’s fine. MA was burned.”
“Burned?!”
“First degree. It’s not serious but . . .”
I peel out of the parking garage and hit the road to St. Francis. It will take me ten minutes. I notice a RangeMan SUV following me close behind. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Click.
I speed down the road, pulling into St. Francis in ten minutes and park outside the Emergency Room. My phone rings. “Hello?”
“Leave the gun,” Junior says. Click.
I get back inside the car and remove the Glock from my back. I hop out and run inside.
“Hey, Lady! You can’t park your car there,” the security guard yells.
“It’ll be moved!” I yell back, stopping in front of the reception desk. “I’m looking for Mary Alice Wilcox?”
The orderly checks her sheet. “Bed six, but you can’t—”
I’m already through the door and looking. I spot the entire family standing around the bed, looking solemn.
“Hey, MA,” I call softly. MA looks up and smiles a pained smile.
“Hi, Aunt Steph,” she says. She’s sitting on the bed in a tank top, with a large red … welt, I guess, on her arm. Like a huge sunburn. Val is weeping into Albert’s shoulder while he stares at his fingers. Mom and Dad are solemn. Mom appears to be in shock. I sit on the end of the bed and smile.
“It’s too cold to sunbathe, MA.”
“This isn’t funny, Steph!” Val hisses.
I grab her arm and pull her outside. “Really? I hadn’t figured that one out.” I roll my eyes. “However, since I’ve been on that bed more than anyone else, what I do know is this: the last thing MA wants is a bunch of people around her crying. Make jokes. Laugh. Smile. Make this situation better. Watching all of you cry isn’t going to make her feel better.”
I walk back in, Val close behind, and smile.
“So, what’re we looking at?”
“First degree burn,” Dad says calmly. “Tylenol and she’s good to go.”
“Tylenol? That’s it?” I roll my eyes exaggeratedly and MA giggles. “God! For an ER visit I expect casts, stitches, something! Where’s the gauze? I’ll wrap her up like a mummy!”
MA is finally laughing. She puts her arms out in front of her. “Zombie. I eat brains. Brrrraaaaaiiiinnnnssssss. Num num num.”
I laugh. “Zombies? Zombies are the cool thing now?”
“Yeah. You’re behind again, Aunt Steph.” She sighs dramatically. “Angie and I will have to get you caught up.”
“Sooooo … you’re not a horse right now?”
She shakes her head violently. “You know what they do to horses that get hurt?”
“No, what?”
She has a very serious look on her face. “They get put out to pasture,” she whispers dramatically.
Ah. I try not to smile. Yes, Zombie does beat horse right now.
“Well,” I hop on her bed and lean back on my forearms, “catch me up on what happened here. I expected to spend my morning avoiding a kitchen only to wind up in a hospital. By the way, it’s my job to end up here. Don’t need you to do my job.”
MA laughs and Val and Albert smile a little. So does Dad. Mom looks weepy. My phone beeps again. Car parked in lot.
Thanks, Junior.
“Well, we were all in the kitchen and Grandma was cooking and she and Mom and Grandma Edna were all talking and the pan was half off the burner and the apples looked like they were about to fall in the burner, so I tried to nudge it back on and I nudged too hard and the stuff in the pan sloshed over the side and went WHOOSH!”
“WHOOSH?”
“Yeah.” MA bites her lip and frowns. “It was flames all the way up to the ceiling and they caught onto my shirt sleeve.””
I nod. I don’t like how this story is going.
“I panicked, Aunt Steph.” Her eyes fill with tears and her lip is trembling. “Instead of doing ‘Stop, Drop and Roll’, I panicked and my sleeve just burned more. Mommy had to throw water on me to stop the burning. That’s when I remembered to ‘Stop, Drop and Roll” but I did it right in front of the stove while Grandma was trying to put the fire out.” She takes a deep breath. “The whole stove caught on fire.”
I let out a deep breath and stare at the ceiling. “It’s OK, MA. So what happened next?”
“Well, Grandma Edna tried to help and tripped over her shoes.”
“Were they in the middle of the floor?”
“No. They were under the cabinets in front of the sink.”
I close my eyes and try not to laugh. I don’t think Ranger will ever have to remind me to put my shoes away after this. I look over at Mom.
“I still don’t understand how the fire started, though.”
“There was a small amount of bourbon on the apples,” Mom says quietly. “To flavor them and help the caramelization.”
“Oh.” I turn back to MA. “Too many monkeys.”
She laughs. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Well, how do you feel right now?”
“Numb.”
I nod. Numb is good. Numb means they gave her the good stuff.
“Well, you want me to check and see how long it will be before they allow you to break out?”
She grins. “Yeah! I want turkey!”
I nod and leave the room. I run into the emergency room doc and blush. He tries to keep me in bed. I try to leave. We have a weird relationship.
“We meet again and, again, you aren’t in my bed.”
I smile. “Is this a come on?”
“I’m a doctor. My bedside skills are limited and my lines are pathetic. On the plus side, my knowledge of anatomy means I’m fun,” he says, grinning.
“I won’t tell my boyfriend.”
He snaps his fingers. “Crap. Which one?”
I’m frozen. “What?”
He’s still smiling. “Which one? The cop or the RangeMan? I might be able to take the cop, but the RangeMan?” He shakes his head. “I remember Bobby Brown. I know I wouldn’t stand a chance if the RangeMan was half as ripped as he was.”
I’m mute. Yeah, Babe, that’s what your relationship with him looks like for everyone else.
“Uh, hello? Sorry. I was trying to make a joke.” He sobers. “I told you my bedside skills were limited.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Anyway, this time I wish I were the one in the bed.” He quirks his head to the side. “Bed six is my niece.”
“Ah. The burn case.” He strides over to the door, grabs the clipboard and reads quickly. “Tylenol. She’ll be fine. Treat it like a sunburn. Really didn’t need to bring her in at all for such a minor burn.”
He heads inside to talk to Val and Albert and I lean against the wall.
Fuckup of cosmic proportions. On so many levels.
“Stephanie?”
I turn. “Hi, Marvin.”
Marvin Cowen smiles at me. “How are you? What are you doing here?”
I give him the quick rundown and his smile fades. “I’m sorry. Damn. I’ve been waiting on the turkey fryers. Never knew I needed to keep an eye out for the flambé treatment.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “Well? Didn’t want to experience the Italian-American Thanksgiving with Connie?”
He laughs. “I’ve heard that marriage proposals are expected if the family meets you.”
“She’s an Italian daughter. It’s probably safer for you if you show some sort of permanent commitment.”
“Same reason I’ve assumed that taking her to any Hanukkah celebration is the last step before the wedding.”
I smile. “Nice.”
“I’m a good Jewish boy with a mother who needs more to do.”
I laugh. “Good to see you, Marvin.”
“You too, Stephanie.”
I head back inside and MA is being helped off the bed by Val. The doctor is reciting the standard warnings and handing over a prescription, which I take.
“I’ll get it filled. Hospital pharmacy open?” I ask Doc.
“Yes, but don’t stress. It’s Tylenol with codeine. Only when the pain is unbearable, which it shouldn’t be.”
I wave at MA. “See you soon. I’m going to go grab the drinks and get this filled, OK?”
“OK.”
I leave and head to the hospital pharmacy. They fill the prescription and I head back to RangeMan. I hit seven and stare at Ranger, who is sitting on the couch.
“Did you follow me?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t be seen, remember? I called the bridge, told them to follow you.” He snorts. “Unnecessary. Junior had already taken off after you.”
I nod and sit on the couch next to him.
“What happened?”
It all comes tumbling out, Grandma’s arrest, her and Larry fighting, MA catching on fire. I decide not to mention the ER doc’s comments. At the end, Ranger’s silent.
“Babe.”
“I already told her she can’t stay.”
“Seriously. Not even a joke. I like your grandma, but she’s a menace to the men’s backsides. The Miami men aren’t stupid. One of them will make a HR complaint eventually. It won’t end well.”
“I know. I know that, Ranger. Thomas told her that the first time she touched any RangeMan in the building, he’d personally put her on a plane up here. She was furious, but he says she’s keeping her hands to herself.”
Ranger snorts. “I’ll make sure he gets an extra bonus for that.”
I look at him. “You thought me setting my grandma on them earlier was hilarious.”
“As an example of their sexist attitudes toward women, she’s perfect as a behavior modification therapy. As the example of a difficult client, she’s brilliant. As a resident?” He raises an brow. “I could argue the second one in court. The first requires them to acknowledge their sexism, which they won’t do, and the last I can’t argue.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “Help me pack my car?”
“Drinks are in the stairwell already, waiting for you to return.” I kiss him. “It kept me busy.”
“Thanks.”
We hit the garage and transfer the drinks into my car. Ranger shuts the trunk and leans against it, staring at me. “Babe?”
“Yes?”
“This is gonna sound weird, but I want you to think about it without panicking, OK?”
“OK.”
He takes a deep breath. “I wouldn’t place any child I love around your mother until she stops drinking.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Your mother drinks to cope with the stress of life. She failed to pay attention to her pan and, by the way, tarte Tatin does not call for alcohol. It’s apple pie with one crust, that’s all. No alcohol.”
“Ranger, my mother is not an alcoholic.”
He raises a brow. “Babe, she tried to give it up at one point. You tried to give up sugar. You both acknowledged you had a problem, even if you crapped out breaking your habits.” He pulls me close. “Your mother drinks to cope with life. She drinks to cope with the stress she feels. You, your grandmother and your sister?” He smirks. “I work out to cope with the stress you bring me.”
“Thanks a lot, Ranger.”
“Back at you.” He drops the smile. “She’s your mother and if you want to see her that’s fine, but I’m concerned that what happened to MA, which was an accident, might happen to our children. Your mother started stressing. She drank and poured way too much liquor into a dessert that doesn’t require it. That dessert caught on fire. Yes, it was an accident and a completely crappy thing to happen, but take the alcohol out of that equation and I doubt MA would’ve required a trip to the hospital.”
I bite my lip and nod. Ranger kisses my forehead and opens my door. “Have fun, Babe.”
—oOo—
Except for the scorch marks in the kitchen, you’d never know there was an accident here earlier.
The turkey is on the table, perfectly golden brown and glistening. All the sides are in their usual places, the tableware is set, and everyone’s taking their seats.
“Stephanie.” Mom stands. “Frank, Albert, grab the drinks from Stephanie’s car, please.”
I hand Dad the keys and take the two bottles of wine in my hands to the kitchen. “How … how did …”
“Mother and Angie were still here. They got everything on the table once we told them we were headed home.” Mom sighs. “We’re late, but at least we’re eating. Nothing was ruined. Not even the turkey.”
Albert and Dad haul in all the drinks and we all sit down to eat. Dinner is excellent, as usual, and we sit back in our chairs, sleepy and quiet. Eventually, Angie helps MA upstairs and I grab Lisa, who went to sleep with a piece of turkey in her hand, reminding me of Hector Manuel at Point Pleasant.
The memory was nice instead of scary.
I clean Lisa up and place her in the play pen. MA is lying on my childhood bed, coloring in her coloring book. “MA?”
“Yes?”
“Want a pain pill?”
She shrugs. “OK.”
I head downstairs and tell Val that I’m giving MA a pain pill. She pulls out a notebook and makes a note while I hand MA the pill and a glass of water. Angie sits on the other bed and watches.
“Aunt Steph?”
“Yeah?”
“Does this mean we won’t go to New York?”
I look over at her. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“MA is burned. I assumed we’d have to stay home.”
I snort. “Angie, I’ve been burned. I know how to care for a burn. The trip is still on, as long as your Mom is OK with it.”
The girls turn hopeful looks on Val. Val still looks weepy but she finally nods. “If you think it’ll be OK, Steph.” She exhales. “I forgot you know how to care for a burn.”
“Ready to lecture me?”
“With the doctor’s orders, line by line.”
We both smile at each other. Val turns to the girls. “OK, nap.” She makes a motion with her hands. “Nope. No whining. You’ll be asleep in minutes, trust me.”
We leave the room and head back downstairs. Mom and Grandma are arguing.
“It’s none of your business, Helen!”
“Mother! You were arrested for disorderly conduct! Someone finally threatened to put you in jail for your ridiculous antics at funerals.” Mom throws her hands up. “We told you this was going to happen! I told you people would get sick of having their funerals disrupted. You just had to look in the casket, huh? Well, now you’re looking at jail time, fines, and your boyfriend dumped you! Where are you going to live? What are you going to do?” Mom plops back into her seat. “We’ll have to move you home. You’ll move back in with us. We’ll come to Florida and help you move.”
“No, you won’t,” Grandma says fiercely. “I’m staying in Florida.” She walks off and heads upstairs. I sit at the table and cut another slice of cake.
I glace at the stove. The abandoned dessert is still there. “Does tarte Tatin need bourbon?”
Mother looks at me. “What?”
I swallow my mouthful of cake. “Does tarte Tatin need bourbon?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Really?”
“The man at Bistro Patrick’s in Philadelphia adds bourbon to his.” Mom’s eyes go soft. “Remember, Frank? It was delicious.” Dad grunts in reply and heads off to the living room. I pull my phone and start searching while finishing my slice of cake.
“How much bourbon?”
“What?”
“How much bourbon?”
“I’m not sure,” Mom asks, flustered. “Why?”
“I’m looking at recipes. None call for alcohol.”
“Well, he used it in place of vanilla.”
What does Ranger not know? “How much?”
“I don’t know. What do the recipes say?”
“Haven’t found one that called for vanilla yet.” I look up. “How much do you put in your normal apple pie?”
“Half a tablespoon.” She smiles. “It’s that little hint that everyone can tell but they’re not quite sure about.”
“How much bourbon did you put in the tarte Tatin?”
Mom is quiet. “About two tablespoons.”
I put my phone down. I don’t have anything else to say.
Val does. “Mom, you have to give up drinking.”
Mother stiffens. “What are you saying?”
“You need to stop drinking.” Val motions to me. “Steph looked for actual recipes and didn’t find any that called for bourbon. You drank a double just because grandma stressed you out—”
“Oh? You were ready to tip the gravy boat in your mouth.”
Val cringes. “Yeah, well, if I get fat, that’s my health. Your drinking?” Her lip tremble. “My daughter was burned. My daughter, Mommy! Your granddaughter!”
“I know that and I’m sorry—”
“You don’t sound sorry, Mommy!”
Val and Mom fighting? I cut another piece of cake and stare in shock. Val’s really letting Mom have it and Mom’s fighting back just as hard. Someone needs to learn the I vs. You rules for fighting. That thought makes me grin.
I get up and walk over to Dad, who’s trying to ignore the commotion. Maybe if we get Dad involved, Mom will go to AA.
“Daddy?”
He shakes his head. “You, Edna, Sunshine, you all stress her out, blame her for all your problems in life and generally treat her like she’s always wrong and instead of throwing all of you out, she feeds you, supports you, and tries to help.” He stares at me. “The perfect mother does not exist.” He raises the paper and turns the page.
I shut up and return to the dining room.
—oOo—
“I’m moving back to Larry’s,” Grandma announces, coming back downstairs.
“Good,” Dad mutters, but Grandma ignores him. I text Ranger. His response? Good.
“So he stopped being angry?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She pours a glass of red wine and cuts a piece of cake. Mom has a tumbler. Val’s spread turkey on top of more gravy. I cut myself another piece of cake. “I’m going to plead to the misdemeanor and pay the fine. He’s set up a dinner with the widow for me to apologize to her in person. We talked. We’re fine.”
Grandma’s attacking the cake. Something’s not right. “Grandma—”
“I’m done, Stephie. Where’s the paper?” She turns to Mom. “Who’s died lately?”
Mom and Grandma start discussing the most recent funerals. Val attacks her gravy with turkey. I work through the cake.
If you didn’t know us, we look like a close loving family, three generations talking at the dinner table.
Grandma refuses to discuss Larry, Mom refuses to discuss her drinking, Val can’t stop talking about MA’s burn and I’m keeping my mouth shut.
“I’m moving to Florida.”
Three heads swivel in my direction. Dad puts the paper down and looks around.
“What?” Mom says. “Why? Permanently? I mean, is this RangeMan related again?”
Hmm . . . I could say I’m going for therapy, but that’s like admitting I’m crazy. “Yes. Miami is the official headquarters. I’m going to run the company from there for a while.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that earlier? I’m staying with you!” Grandma beams and I can just imagine Ranger’s face. No way your Grandmother moves in our house, Babe!
“I’m only staying for two months, Grandma,” I reply hastily, crossing my fingers under the table. “And I’ll be in and out to Charlotte, Atlanta, and back here.”
“Then why move?” Mom asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” Grandma says. “Now I can tell Larry to stuff it.”
“I’m moving because there’s a lot of admin stuff I’m doing that’s easier from Miami. Now that I’m not in training, it’s easier for me to get stuff done there.” I look at Grandma. “You can’t stay at RangeMan. Our apartments are safe houses and you can’t move in.”
“You let me stay before!”
“Special circumstance and you were only there for two weeks before you moved to Larry’s. Now, what’s really going on?”
Grandma scowls. “He called me a crazy old coot! I’ll be damned if he insults me just because he’s upset. I’m not taking it.”
Are you fucking crazy, Steph! Shit, can‘t you just handcuff the man? Do you have to blow up the whole fucking house to do it?!
Well, can’t say I don’t understand where Grandma’s coming from there. What a way to start the holiday season.
“You want to get your own apartment?”
“I looked. I can’t afford anything in Florida.”
“Not even with Daddy’s pension?” Mom asks.
“Nope.” She gulps the wine. “Florida’s great to retire to if you have money. Otherwise, you’re looking at assisted living, tiny apartments, or roommates and I’m not into living like the Golden Girls.”
“What about the casino money?” I ask. “What are you doing with that?”
“What casino money?” Mom asks. She turns to Grandma. “What casino money?”
Grandma is glaring at me. “Thanks.”
“What? I mean, you’ve got a little bit of money. That’s enough to get an apartment.”
“And furnish it? Eat? Gamble? That money won’t last and I still have to pay taxes on it.”
“You didn’t have the casino take the taxes out?”
We look over. I’d almost forgotten about Albert, who is warming a plate of stuffing. “What?”
“The casino would have withheld taxes from your winnings. It’s 25% of the winnings.” He pops the plate in the microwave.
“Eight thousand!” Grandma yells. “They woulda kept $8,000?”
I can see the moment Mom and Val figure it out. They both gasp. Dad turns the recliner completely around and stares. “You won $32,000, Edna?”
“And you said bingo doesn’t pay,” she replies smugly.
Mom stares at me. I shrug. “The guys took her to a casino. The casinos pay well.”
“Well, that’s enough money for you to find your own place,” Dad says. “It’s just you. You don’t need a massive apartment. Pumpkin, see if you can find your grandmother an apartment while you’re in Florida. Use Social Security to pay for it—”
“My husband’s dead, Frank,” Grandma says icily.
Dad shuts his mouth and turns around again.
“Frank has a point, Mother. Maybe Stephanie can help you find a place while she’s there.” Mom looks at me pleadingly and I nod, feeling like a total wimp. “Wonderful! Now you don’t have to depend on Larry. You’ll have your own place.”
“I like his place. His place is on the beach. I can’t afford to live anywhere except the Everglades on my own,” Grandma mutters.
“Problem?” I hear Dad mutter.
I take another slice of cake.
—oOo—
I’m staring at the roof of my car.
Normal Thanksgiving. Mom cooked way too much, Val tried to drink the gravy, I’ll have to run miles for the next few weeks to work off all the cake I ate, and Grandma polished off a bottle of wine on her own before falling asleep in the living room.
My door opens and I’m pulled out of the car. I curl up in Ranger’s embrace.
“Leftovers.”
“The men will get them.”
He takes me upstairs. I’m stripped and carried into the tub, which is already full of hot water and vanilla scented bubbles. He washes me slowly and kisses me all over.
“MA?”
“Fine. She’s asleep.” He nods. “Mom refuses to admit she’s an alcoholic. Grandma doesn’t want to live with Larry because she doesn’t want to apologize for making a scene at his friend’s funeral, but Larry called her a crazy old coot and she’s mad about that.” I feel Ranger snort. “Val drank most of the gravy.” I feel him smile.
“Frank?”
“Told me that Mom drinks because Val, Grandma and I stress her out, which is exactly what you said.”
“Reason. Not a justification.”
We’re quiet. Ranger seems to want to pamper me, so I’m not stopping him. I’m dried carefully and lotion applied. He hands me my thong, but I shake my head and retrieve the nightie I bought at Agent Provocateur months ago.
“Babe. I’m trying to be comforting here.”
I smile. “Good job. Like?”
I get an eyebrow. Naked and Aroused Carlos has come back for a visit. An hour later, the nightie is on the floor and I’m trying to catch my breath. He reaches for his phone and types a message. He laughs at the replies then winces.
“Shit.”
I look over. “What?”
“Hec’s holiday was shit.”
“Oh no. Why?”
He dials and hands me the phone. I listen as Hec tells me about his holiday. If crap holidays were a contest, I think my partner and I drew. Actually, if I’m honest, Hec won. I hang up and snuggle under Ranger again, still thinking.
“She didn’t start drinking all the time until I became a bounty hunter. I mean, did I—”
“You did not turn your mother into an alcoholic. Your mother’s coping mechanisms are crap, so she turns to the bottle.”
“Val eats gravy. I eat cake.”
“Edna?”
“I’m not sure. She polished off a bottle of red on her own.”
“You medicate with food. You show love with food, you medicate with food, you usually meet over food. Your relationship with your sister, mother and grandma is defined by food.”
I pull out my phone and send a text.
If I never thanked you for the burn care, I‘m sorry. Thank you so much, Bobby.
I’m surprised by the response. I‘d do it again, Bomber. What happened? Are you OK?
I smile and text him back. I‘m fine. Call me.
—oOo—
Frank‘s POV
I hear Edna snoring at jet plane decibels from the guest room. I sigh and climb into bed. At least she’s going back to Larry in a few days.
Helen climbs into bed and wraps her hair. I wait for her to lie back and pull the covers up before turning off the TV.
“There’s an AA meeting in Lawrenceville tomorrow at noon. Women only, for beginners.”
She sits up and turns her bedside lamp on. “Frank, I don’t need—”
“Mary Alice was burned.”
Her mouth snaps shut.
“I borrowed Pumpkin’s phone and did a search. Took forever with that touchscreen but she was right. I couldn’t find a single recipe that called for alcohol.”
I squeeze her hand extra tight as the tears start rolling down her cheeks.
“It was an accident. I believe that. I know you didn’t mean to but it happened. Our granddaughter was burned and it was just a bunch of lousy things that led up to that moment, but Mary Alice was burned in an alcohol induced fire. How many bourbons had you had?”
Her face flames. “Two.”
“Try again.”
She clenches her jaw. “Two. Doubles.”
I nod. “The girls have noticed your drinking. Anyone who eats here a few times has noticed your drinking. It’s not a secret, Helen. They’re talking about it. Otherwise, how could Ramsay know how many bourbons you’d had when Bobby was here?”
She gasps. I pat her hands and let her think about that for a few minutes.
“I got a copy of the tape Ramsay mentioned. He was right. Angie said that you drink more whenever something happens to Pumpkin and it got me thinking. You tried to quit once. You’ve already acknowledged you have a problem and tried to quit but it didn’t work because you tried to quit on your own.
I think you need a program, some help. Just like Pumpkin. She was never going to learn to defend herself without help and now she can. The RangeMen admire what she’s done and they know how hard she worked to make it because they cheered her on. You need a group too, Helen, some support in order to quit. You need people who know what you’re going through and can cheer you on.”
I’m watching my wife carefully. Her eyes are wide and her breath is coming in little spurts, but she’s listening.
“I think the restaurant is a good idea. I think you showing the world how great a cook you are is wonderful. And I think it’s time for us to live our own lives. Your mother is out of our house. If she wants to spend the rest of her life in jail because she keeps disrupting funerals, that’s her choice.”
Her mouth opens and I shake my head.
“Nope, we are not bailing her out of jail. Think of how many times you’ve been embarrassed by her antics. Think of how many wakes and funerals you’ve been embarrassed at listening to her comment on the deceased. How many times have you apologized and made promises on behalf of your mother? Thankfully, everyone knows Edna can’t be controlled, but how many times have you gone somewhere and been embarrassed to see people groan at the sight of her?”
I roll my eyes. “She told you people are talking about you, asking what kind of mother you are? Well, people go to Stiva’s and demand, not ask but demand, that she not be allowed in because she’s a nuisance. People she called friends in life don’t want anything to do with her in death.”
Her cheeks redden. “But she’s my mother, Frank.”
“She’s an adult, old enough to accept responsibility for her actions. So let her. Look what happened today. You offered to go bail her out and help her move. She immediately swallowed her pride and got on the phone with Larry. So your mother told you that having to apologize to a woman she traumatized, pleading guilty to a misdemeanor, and tucking her tail between her legs and going back to her boyfriend is preferable to living with you.”
Her jaw drops. Mine did when I overheard Edna say that. Honestly? I was insulted on Helen’s behalf.
We allowed Edna to live here for years instead of pawning her off on other family members or putting her in a home, but instead of being happy and grateful Edna saw it as a punishment and an insult. Insult? It’s insulting that Harry chose to gamble everything away instead of ensuring his wife was set for the rest of her life.
If I died tomorrow, Helen’s set for life. She won’t have to move in with Sunshine or Pumpkin. She’ll be independent and able to live here, in this house, and do as she pleases until the day she dies. I work extra hours with the cab not only to get out of the house, but to afford the little things that make Helen smile. Now that Edna’s out of the house I don’t have to but I like working. Harry retired as a steelworker and gambled his legacy away.
That’s an insult.
Harry had a mean, resentful streak in him if you didn’t toe his line. I would guess that leaving Edna penniless, except for his pension, was his way of saying, ‘Well, if you don’t need a man, you don’t need my money either, Edna. You’re gonna make it on your own!‘ Those two had a weird marriage, but what they were not was partners. Helen’s always been my partner, and I hers, our entire marriage.
I find it amusing that, now that Edna’s in her twilight years, men are important again. Years of feminist campaigning and all of a sudden, men are important again. I guess the fish does need a bicycle.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, and I nod.
“Exactly. You’ve never felt your mother supported you and in that one statement she showed that she’d rather face jail than live with you. So if that’s what she wants, let her have it.”
I pull her closer as she sobs on my shoulder.
“I’m putting my foot down now, Helen. Your mother will not move back into this house. Never. She’s always wanted to be an independent woman. OK. We’ll give her all the independence she can handle.”
My shins are getting kicked later, I just know it, but I refuse to allow anyone to beat my wife up ever again, including my well-meaning but ultimately clueless daughters.
“Now, Pumpkin and Sunshine? Our daughters are grown women. You can’t tell them what to do anymore. If Sunshine wants to give herself a heart attack with the gravy, fine. She’ll find it harder to lose that weight when she has the baby. At the moment, we’re babysitting to give them some help, but I plan to ask Sunshine if she still wants us to babysit for her.”
“You want to cut off contact with the girls?” Helen sniffs.
“No. I want you to see that everyone uses you but no one supports you. After all the yelling Sunshine did today about your drinking, she left the girls here tonight. Why? Because it’s convenient for her to use her mother for babysitting because you’ll do it for free and she never has to show she appreciates it.” I shake my head. “Did you know the RangeMen are running a babysitting service tomorrow?”
“No! Really?” She looks intrigued.
“Yes. If you have a RangeMan connection, the RangeMen are babysitting in order to allow their friends and family to holiday shop. Angie and MA begged Sunshine to allow them to spend the day there so they can meet some other kids and have fun. Sunshine refused.
After what happened today, you’d think Sunshine would have asked Pumpkin to allow the girls to go there for the day but she didn’t. Why? Because it would mean coming face to face with Ramsay for the first time in months. She can’t make Ramsay feel bad for what he said about her but she can make you feel bad for an accident for years.”
Helen’s mouth is hanging. I’ve been ticked thinking about it.
“If you go to the meeting tomorrow, the girls are going to RangeMan. Sunshine doesn’t know it, but Ramsay is in Montana for the holidays.”
Helen’s just staring at me. I think I’m getting through.
“Pumpkin? She seems to have grown up and learned to take her safety seriously.”
“No one’s shooting at her,” Helen mumbles.
“Exactly. Now, I don’t know what’s she’s hiding—”
“What do you think?”
I shrug. “Honestly? No clue, but she’s up to something. This move to Florida is weird. Anyway, it’s not our business. If she wants to tell us, fine. If she doesn’t, fine, but Helen? We’re not asking questions. We don’t need to know. If it’s company related, she can’t tell us anyway. So what does that leave us with?”
“I don’t know. What?”
I smile. “That leaves me taste testing cupcakes and pies.” She smiles. “That leaves us taking day trips and romantic vacations. It leaves us thinking about a restaurant.” My smile dims. “But it starts with you going to Lawrenceville tomorrow.”
“Frank … I can’t.” Her lip trembles. “I can’t.”
“You have to. You had two doubles today just because of your mother. Running a restaurant? Running a gourmet cupcake service? That’s going to be more pressure, more responsibility, more everything. That’s your mother getting arrested, Pumpkin getting shot, and Sunshine screaming at Albert every day for a week. That’s the level of pressure it’s going to be.”
Helen shudders. “I’m changing my mind.”
“Don’t. I want to see you do this. I want to see you show the world you’re a fantastic baker. I want you to show the world that Martha Stewart is an amateur. But I want you to be able to handle the pressure.” I kiss her gently. “I know you don’t believe it. I know you think that today was just an accident and it’ll never happen again, but I’m here Helen, telling you that I believe that you are. You are an alcoholic.”
“I’m not.” Her face is stubborn. “I’m not and I won’t allow you to tell me I am.”
“You are and you can’t stop me from saying it. All you can do is refuse to believe me, but Helen? When have I lied to you?”
Her entire face collapses and she sobs on my shoulder again. I hold her and pat her back, whispering soothing words to her, reminding her that I love her.
“Say it to me now, even if you don’t believe it. Just say the words.”
She shakes her head and wipes her face, her mouth setting in that mulish expression that she rarely gets but that I know means she intends to dig in her heels.
“Fine. But if you lie back and think ‘I need a drink’, then say the words. If you can imagine yourself reaching for the bottle when the phone starts ringing tomorrow because your mother’s made a spectacle of herself at another funeral, then say the words. If you can imagine yourself reaching for the bottle when the phone starts ringing tomorrow because Pumpkin’s been shot, say the words. If you can imagine yourself reaching for the bottle when Sunshine comes over and starts whining about how much she hates work, say the words. “
I lie back and turn my light off. Helen is quiet, but she finally turns her light off and punches her pillow, trying to get comfortable.
My shins are kicked. I’m nearly asleep, dreaming of my bathroom being free permanently when I hear a tiny whisper.
“My name is Helen Plum and I’m … I’m … an alcoholic.”
“In this ongoing struggle between daughters and mothers, each sees the other’s power and overlooks her own. The daughter reacts strongly to any hint of disapproval—or, for that matter, of approval—because her mother looms like a giant. The fact that her mother’s opinion matters so much gives her enormous power. But a mother often persists in her efforts to influence her daughter precisely because she no longer has the authority she had when her children were small and she could quickly address any threats to their well-being. Once her children are grown, she can’t eliminate risks on her own; she has to get them to do it. Her constant repetition results from her feeling helpless to address these risks any other way. Where the daughter sees power, the mother feels powerless.”
~Deborah Tannen, You’re Wearing THAT? Understanding Mothers and Daughters in Conversation
