Getting Sassy (4 page)

He was right, of course, and I’d been nuts to even consider such a thing. Embarrassed by my own presumptions, not to mention foolishness, I began stuffing my papers back into my canvas satchel. “Well, thanks anyway. Maybe I can get a bank loan.”

“You don’t want to do that either.”

“What I can’t do is nothing.” A sheet of paper slipped from my pile and wafted to a graceful landing on the other side of the room, one corner curled against a black file cabinet.

“Shit,” I sighed, slumping back into the chair. It was just a piece of paper, but, at this moment, I was no more capable of retrieving it than I was of swimming the English Channel.

He was up and moving around his desk before I could stop him. I noted that he did limp, but it wasn’t—at least in those few steps— pronounced. “I got it.”

He had some trouble bending over; apparently his bad leg didn’t bend very well. But he returned the errant sheet—a copy of the letter welcoming my mother to Dryden and a listing of the monthly charges. I love irony. I stuffed it, along with my other papers, into my satchel.

“Just sit for a second,” he said, returning to his chair.

I gestured toward the door. “My mother’s out there.” In truth, I had no desire to stand, to leave, to maintain any momentum.

He glanced in that direction then shrugged. “She can wait.”

I took a few deep breaths, trying to collect myself. I had no idea what Mick was thinking until he said, “There are some pretty nice places out there. Dryden’s not the only option.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment at Willoway this afternoon. Just to check it out.” I’d gone through the public aid process
and my mother had been approved, but I hadn’t yet fully resigned myself to moving her to that bed that was opening up in a week and a half.

He waited, as though he knew I wasn’t finished.

“The thing is, she likes Dryden.” And that was all I trusted my voice to say.

He leaned back with a sigh, nodding as though he sympathized. But then he said, “I can’t help you. Sorry.”

“Okay. I understand.” Then I added, “But I am going to need to buy her two more weeks at Dryden.”

“We can do that.”

Like it was
our
money. But I just nodded and said, “Let’s do it then.”

“I’ll work the figures up here.” He seemed eager to be able to help me with something. Maybe he was just showing a nice side I hadn’t known existed before. But then he added, with a small grin, “You need some distracting.”

I looked at him, saw the spark in his eyes. “You think?”

“Cubs are playing the Cards tonight. Got tickets behind the Cubs dugout.”

Yeah, that was all I needed, I thought. Like nine innings with my accountant was going to solve my problems. “Sorry. I’ve got an interview tonight.”

His brows pulled together, and he tapped his forefinger on the mouse. “Job interview?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “Not a job. Well, kind of. It’s for an article.”

He waited.

“I’m doing an article on a new business in town. The woman’s a psychic. A medium.” I hurried on before he could snort. “I’m going to witness a séance.”

“No kidding,” he said, cocking his chin. “What’s her name?”

“Starwise. Erika Starwise.” I added a small shrug. “I doubt that’s her real name, but that’s her business.”

“Can’t you reschedule?”

“No.” I tried sounding regretful but firm. “If I were just interviewing her, that would be one thing. But this séance is supposed to connect this client with her late husband, and there’s something to the timing.”

“You’re shitting me.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s dead, right? What else has he got to do?”

I laughed. “Good point, but I’m just—”

“Miss Guthrie?” Myra had opened the door just enough to stick her head into the room. “Your mother is getting a little anxious. I wondered...” She trailed off, her eyes wide with desperation. Behind her, I could hear my mother: “Robyn? Robyn, hurry.”

“Gotta go,” I said.

“I’ll call you when I figure out the best way to do this.”

I smiled my thanks and left. I should’ve anticipated this. I doubted Myra was much in the way of company.

My mother was standing, her cane forgotten,
In Style
on the floor. Her knees buckled, and she started to go down, but I got to her first and managed to settle her back into the chair.

“I’m here, Mom. Now, let’s sit down. We’ll be going right away.”

“Why did you leave me?” Her tone was harsh, accusing.

“I didn’t, Mom.” I had to grit my teeth, biting back words.

I sat next to her and rummaged in my satchel for a stick of gum. “How does spearmint sound?”

“Get me out of here!” She was yelling.

“Okay, okay,” I said, my hands fumbling to unwrap the gum, knowing she’d have trouble walking in her agitated state. “How about we stop for a glass of wine and some nacho chips?”

I handed her the gum. Hands trembling, she folded it twice and put it into her mouth, chewing it several times before saying, “Where will we go?”

“Ernesto’s?”

As I steered her toward the exit, Mick stood in the doorway to his
office, watching us. He nodded at me, and it seemed like there was some regret in the gesture, but by the time we’d reached the elevators, I’d decided that I didn’t know Mick Hughes well enough to be interpreting his gestures.

My mother insisted on walking across the lot to my car rather than letting me pull it around for her, so it was a slow journey. It had stopped raining, but I kept my hand wrapped around her arm. To distract her, I mentioned that Mick had asked me out.

She stopped, the tip of her cane centered in a puddle, and looked up at me. “He did not.”

“Yep. Asked me to a baseball game.”

“Well,” she said, shaking her head and moving her cane forward another six inches. We followed. “You’re not going, are you?”

“No,” I answered, but was a little puzzled by her question. She usually didn’t miss the opportunity to tell me I should date more.

“People are just too familiar these days. Take that woman who came to see me this morning. Calling me Lizzie—”

“What woman came to see you?”

She stopped again, puzzled. “What was her name? I can’t remember, of course.”

“Was she in your room?”

“She was quite pleasant, you know.”

“Was she in your room?”

“She came to my room, but I entertained her in the meditation room.”

“What did she want?”

“She knew Robbie.”

“My father?” She seldom talked about my father, and when she did she usually referred to him as Robert.

“Did I say Robert? I mean Wyman.” She took another step. “Yes, she was here about Wyman.”

“How good a friend was she?” Wyman, my stepfather, did have a history.

I took her arm and she slumped against me. “Oh, my. I’m very tired. Is it far to the car?”

I found it mildly amusing that my mother wanted me to think she’d gotten the names of her husbands confused, and yet I knew if I drove past the nacho place, she’d remind me to stop.

“It’s right here.” I steered her around the silver Mercedes parked next to me.

“Oh, good.” She gave me a sweet smile. “Would you get the door for me?”

I took my mother to Ernesto’s for her wine and chips and for the interrogation I planned to give her. She must have sensed my motives, because at first she insisted she was tired and wanted to go home. But when I sweetened the pot by suggesting we get cheese on our nachos—an extravagance we frequently pined for but seldom indulged in—I knew I had her.

I waited until the waitress had set the plate of cheddar-smothered tortilla chips (jalapeno peppers on the side) on the ceramic-tiled table and my mother had filled her little plate. But before I could open my mouth, she began her own line of questioning.

“Why don’t you get a job at the
Tribune?

“What? What’s this about?”

“That’s what this appointment was about, wasn’t it? You’re having money problems.”

“I’m not having money problems.”

As if she didn’t hear me: “I’m sure the
Tribune
would pay better than that freelance work you do.”

“This isn’t exactly a good time to apply for a job at the
Tribune.”

“Of course it is. You just have to march down there and show them how good you are. You’ll never get anywhere in this world, Robyn, if you don’t put yourself out there. Why, I’d never have gotten my job at the bank if I hadn’t stood up straight, tossed my head back, walked in there and told them they needed me. And do you know what they did?”

“They hired you.”

She nodded as though she’d made her point.

When she paused for a sip of wine, I jumped in before she could swallow. “Tell me about this woman who came to see you.”

“What’s to tell?” She set her glass down, broke off a corner of one chip, dipped it in extra cheese and thrust it into her mouth. I could hear the slow crunch as she chewed.

Normally, she gave me a numbingly detailed description of the rare visitor to cross her threshold.

“Where did you say she knew Robert from?” I asked, hoping she would lapse again.

She licked a smear of cheese off the tip of her finger. “Wyman. It was Wyman she knew.” Giving me a look, she added, “Which one of us is senile?”

I nodded, smiling. “Sure. Wyman.”

“Her father knew Wyman from the old neighborhood. He lived outside Los Angeles.”

“Wyman was from Cleveland.”

“What did I say?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Hmm. I think perhaps this woman lives there now.”

“But you called it ‘the old neighborhood.’”

“I misspoke,” she snapped. “I’m an old woman.” She added that haughty glare of hers but was the first to look away.

When my mother cannot remember something, she usually gets upset, almost to the point of tears. I say “almost” because her eyes are quite dry. Which is too bad. A good sobfest can be therapeutic. I extracted a chip from the nacho pile that was large enough to feed a family of four. “What was her name?”

She shook her head, then she took a dainty sip of wine. “You know my memory.”

“What did she want?”

“She was just paying her respects.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. It’s not important.” Then she slipped into her whine mode. “I don’t know why you question me so.”

“I’m just trying to jog your memory.”

“I’ll thank you to let me jog my memory on my own, if you don’t mind.”

She bit off the point of a chip and chewed it carefully. “I believe her father knew Wyman from church.” She nodded as though she liked the fit of this story. “Yes, I believe that was it.”

I gave her a dubious look.

“He was a very devout man, Wyman was,” she said, and added a bitter little smile that suggested she didn’t forget what else he’d been.

Wyman did have fierce religious tendencies. Until I was old enough to rebel, he forced me into church every Sunday. It was some odd offshoot religion that was okay with dancing but drinking was out of the question. To this day I won’t go near a dance floor or a church, and my beverage of choice is Famous Grouse. But seeing as this is the worst my stepfather ever did to me, I haven’t got much room to complain.

When I was sixteen, he died of a heart attack, much to the dismay of Greta Evans, the church organist, who was beneath him at the time. That turned my mother off to church.

Almost thirty years later, the memory of Wyman’s funeral was still quite vivid. When Greta had the nerve to show up, my mother presented her with the funeral bill, saying that if it weren’t for Greta, Wyman would still be alive, therefore Greta had better pay up. Wyman must have had a thing for in-your-face women because Greta stepped right up to my mother and said Wyman wouldn’t have strayed if he’d been getting some at home. My mother, her face pinched tighter than a gibbon’s, told her that she and Wyman had sex three times a week. And then, caught up in the moment, she added that only a month before they’d made love in the vault of the First National Bank, celebrating Wyman’s promotion to vice president. At
that point, the funeral director and his assistant had, much to the mourners’ disappointment, intervened. We’d never know how many other local landmarks bore Lizzie and Wyman’s mark.

At the time, I was mortified. At sixteen I didn’t want to be identified as the daughter of the couple who had sullied the vault, and I was relieved when my mother moved us, presumably for financial reasons, from upscale Oak Brook to middle-class Westchester. Still, for a long time I could not even approach a drive-up bank window without putting my mother and Wyman in there, rolling in dough. It took me years to gain enough perspective to find the humor. Although my mother and I never discussed the incident, I hoped it was a memory that hadn’t been lost to her. She and Wy may never have gotten to Paris or even Montreal, but at least they had the bank vault.

The incident had made my mother bitter enough for her to shed Wyman’s last name and go back to Guthrie. I had never been legally adopted by Wyman—neither of us considered it much of a priority, I guess—and had always gone by Guthrie. I didn’t know much about my biological father, but being Scottish appealed to me.