The Good Life (14 page)

“Well, I’ll keep you and your husband in my prayers,” said Father David. “In the meantime, if there’s anything St. Paul’s can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

“That’s very kind,” said Eileen.

Ann looped her free arm through her mother’s and steered her out the doors and into the crowded narthex. “You forgot to mention your high school graduation and wedding day,” said Ann as she urged Eileen forward.

“Ministers are interested in their congregations,” said Eileen, slowing to put on her black leather gloves.

“I’m sure they are,” said Ann, squeezing her mother’s arm with hers as she cut a path through the forest of people. “But you aren’t a member of the congregation, are you?”

“Oh look,” said Eileen, stopping at a table near the front door. “Here are those green cards he was talking about. Shall we fill one out?”

“Put it in your purse and you can write your life history on it at the Omelet House,” snapped Ann. “If I don’t get out of here this very second, I’m going to explode.”

 

Ann’s spicy Bloody Mary, which she ordered as soon as they walked into the restaurant, was exquisite. The Tabasco sauce bit her taste buds while the vodka warmed her blood, instantly relaxing her. Eileen, who told Ann she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a drink at lunchtime, asked for a glass of white wine when they were seated at their table. By the time it arrived, Ann was done with her drink and ordered a second. “It couldn’t have been that bad,” said Eileen, after their waitress left.

“What?”

“Church,” said Eileen. “Was it so bad that you need two drinks?”

“I don’t need a reason to have two drinks other than desire,” said Ann. “And yes, church was that bad.”

“What was so bad about it?”

“The congregation is full of hypocrites, and the minister lectures rather than preaches,” said Ann, biting her celery stalk.

“Hypocrites?” asked Eileen.

Ann told her mother about the two women who had sat behind them. Eileen said she hadn’t heard a thing and wondered aloud if Ann could have imagined it. “A guilty conscience can do that,” she said, looking into her wineglass.

“I don’t have a guilty conscience,” said Ann. “And I don’t need to go to church on Sundays to know I’m a good person.”

Eileen looked at her daughter. “What makes you a good person?”

Ann halted the ice chip she was pushing around her mouth with her tongue. “What kind of remark is that?”

“It’s a question, Ann,” said her mother, straightening the flatware in front of her. “It’s meant as nothing but a question.”

“Why would you ask a question like that?” asked Ann. “What that question tells me is you don’t think I’m a good person and you’d like me to prove differently.” Ann’s second drink arrived. She drank a third of it as the waitress read the daily specials, all full of fat. Eileen ordered eggs Benedict. Ann ordered a poached egg on dry whole-wheat toast with ripe cantaloupe and strawberries on the side. Eileen unfolded her napkin and put it in her lap. “Do you still need me to prove my goodness?” asked Ann as soon as they were alone again.

“Of course not,” said Eileen, reaching for her wineglass. “You just seem different to me.”

“Different from the last time we were together, or different from my childhood?”

“Well, I haven’t spent much time with you in recent years,” said Eileen, pushing a gray curl from her forehead, “so I guess it must be from your childhood.”

“It’s called growing up, Mother,” said Ann, finishing her drink. “How sad would it be if I were still that innocent little hayseed whose idea of a good time was a strawberry milkshake after fishing with Dad?”

Before Eileen could stop them, tears welled up in her eyes.

Ann’s outermost layer melted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

“No, it’s nothing,” said Eileen, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. “It’s the wine.”

Ann looked out the window. Moments later, their food arrived. Eileen said a quick blessing, and then they ate the first few bites in silence. “I’m sorry, too, if I said something to upset you,” said Eileen. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am to be here. I know your dad is thankful, too.”

Ann waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal,” said Eileen, leaning in toward her daughter. “You have no idea what taking care of your father has become.”

“I have some idea,” said Ann.

“It’s a tragedy,” said Eileen, the words catching in her throat on the way out of her mouth. “It’s not fair. He was such a good man.”

“Let’s not do this,” said Ann, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Let’s not talk about this now.”

“When do you want to talk about it?” asked Eileen.

“I don’t,” said Ann. “I just don’t.”

“So you like having your head in the sand,” said Eileen, straightening her spine.

“It’s not that, Mother,” said Ann. “It’s just hard.”

“Talking about hard things can be good.”

“It can also be painful,” said Ann. “Please. Let’s just eat our food and talk pleasantly. I hear it’s supposed to snow tomorrow.”

Eileen nodded her head and then lowered her gaze and concentrated on her eggs.

 

They both were quiet on the car ride home. As soon as Ann pulled the car into the garage, Eileen got out, repeated her thank-you for brunch, and headed directly for the brick pathway that wound around the garage and led to the guesthouse. She was anxious to see Sam, especially since she hadn’t been allowed to discuss him. Ann walked into the house, through the kitchen, where she washed her hands, and into Mike’s study. He was focused on his computer screen, a yellow legal pad under his right forearm and a mechanical pencil in his hand. “Well, hello,” he said as soon as she appeared beside him. “How was your morning?”

“Church was ridiculous,” said Ann. “And my mother is driving me crazy.”

Mike hit the
SAVE
button on the computer, then wheeled halfway around to face his wife. “So what else is new?” he asked with a smile on his face.

“I know you find it hilarious,” said Ann, “but you have no idea what it’s like. You don’t spend time with her like I do.”

“Honey,” said Mike, yawning, “you’ve got to learn to relax with her. She’s an old woman and she’s your mother.”

“And she pushes my buttons every time she gets a chance.”

“Everybody pushes your buttons, Ann,” said Mike. “Maybe you’ve got too many buttons.”

Ann folded her arms across her chest. “I need to get away,” she said. “We haven’t done anything since their arrival. As soon as we’re done with Christmas, we’re out of here.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mike, turning back to his computer. “You work out the details and I’ll pack. Just a weekend, though; I’m really busy at work right now.”

“So what else is new?” asked Ann, walking out of the room.

C
HAPTER
7

A
t this point, Ann’s Christmas party happened almost by itself. She had called her favorite caterer just after Labor Day with menu ideas, which were finalized before Halloween. She had chosen a design for the invitation, which the printer had made 100 copies of and she had proofread the weekend before her parents arrived. She had gone over the guest list, making the additions and subtractions that suited her, before driving the invitations to the calligrapher at Heavenly Hand, who had mailed them the day before Thanksgiving. Ann’s party planner, Stephanie, had called that very morning to give Ann the latest count: 168; eight more than the year before. On Monday evening, December 23rd, the Baronses’ house would be filled with the most powerful and interesting people in town.

It was almost lunchtime on Saturday, but Ann was not hungry. She had spent an hour on the Precor machine, done three hundred sit-ups and twenty five push-ups, showered, dressed, and was enjoying a double latte and
Architectural Digest
at her kitchen island when Lauren walked into the room. “Hi, honey,” said Ann warmly.

Dressed in flannel pajamas bottoms and a Nike T-shirt, Lauren yawned and lifted her hand in greeting. She walked directly to the fridge, grabbed a can of Diet Coke, and sat down at the sunny end of the kitchen table. Lauren popped open the can, angled her face toward the morning sun shining through the glass, and closed her eyes. “How was the party?” asked Ann.

“Okay,” said Lauren.

“Who was there?”

“Lots of people.”

“Name one.”

“Judd Acker.”

“Ah,” said Ann, looking up from her magazine, “and how is Mr. Acker?”

“Gorgeous, as usual.”

“And did you talk to him?”

“For about three seconds,” said Lauren, opening her eyes and taking another sip of soda. “Then his annoying insect of a girlfriend showed up and pulled him away for a dance.”

“Girlfriends always seem to get in the way,” said Ann, turning a page.

“Tell me about it.”

“Did you dance with anyone?”

“No,” said Lauren, “unless you count Emily, Nicole, and Hannah.”

“No boys?” asked Ann.

“No,” said Lauren, “unless you count Josh.”

Ann smiled because she did count him. Nate’s friend Josh was tall, over six feet, trim, and had thick, curly hair the color of Kraft caramels. And he was polite, unlike most of Nate’s friends, who treated Ann’s house like a cheap summer rental. Those boys ordered food that Ann suspected she paid for and then left a trail of chips, pizza grease, and spilled soda behind them. And if Ann, by chance, walked into the kitchen as they unabashedly sat on her custom-made cushions in their dirty jeans and walked on her floor in their soiled sneakers, they stopped talking. Ann didn’t speak to them either, never asking their names, never encouraging Nate to invite them back. Equally uncomfortable with these accidental encounters, the boys often asked Nate if his mother was going to be home before agreeing to go to his house. Since Nate didn’t much like being around his mother either, he was mostly elsewhere, which suited both of them. “Did Josh ask you to dance, or vice versa?”

“Of course he asked me, Mom,” said Lauren. “How else would I dance with him?”

“I think he likes you,” she said.

“I’m his best friend’s sister,” said Lauren, flipping through the
TV Guide
. “He has no choice.”

“Oh yes, he does,” said Ann, walking to the table and sitting down next to her daughter. “He talks to you and dances with you because he likes you.”

Lauren blushed. “I don’t think so,” she said, not looking up from her magazine.

Ann took another sip of her latte, then set her cup down. “What do you say to a little shopping today?” Ann didn’t offer up a mother-daughter shopping trip often. She preferred shopping alone or with her friends, mostly because Lauren, as a teenager, was understandably enthralled with adolescent clothing. And Ann was simply uninterested in traipsing through teenybopper stores in pursuit of the perfect tank top, hip-hugging jeans, and chunky, clunky shoes. Teenagers, Ann told her friends, always thought they looked special when in fact they looked just like everyone else their age. In time, Ann hoped to cultivate in her daughter an interest in designer fashion.

What Ann didn’t admit to herself was the fact that Lauren, like her mother, preferred shopping with her friends. While Lauren did like her mother’s American Express Gold card and definitely got a kick out of the oversolicitous behavior of the store clerks as soon as they saw A
NN
B
ARONS
embossed along its bottom edge, she didn’t like being manipulated. Her mother arched her eyebrows at almost everything Lauren thought was cute, and tried to steer her into the old lady section, toward houndstooth pants, coordinating blazers, and hot pink tops for that “pop of color.” Lauren looked at her mother; was it worth it? “Sure,” she said. “I could use a couple of sweaters.”

“Me too,” said Ann, reaching out to move a strand of Lauren’s hair away from her eye. “Let’s try that new store downtown.”

Lauren backed away. “Isn’t that a ladies’ boutique?”

“Yes,” said Ann, finishing her latte. “I hear she has some really cute things.”

Houndstooth heaven,
thought Lauren as she got up from the table.

 

Three hours later, Lauren was reminded of other reasons why she couldn’t stand shopping with her mother. One, she moved randomly from rack to rack with the speed, intensity, and unpredictability of a tornado. And two, she was demanding and bossy with the saleswomen—actually snapping her fingers once for attention from a trainee—which was embarrassing to witness. Carrying her bags containing clothing more appropriate for her mother than herself, Lauren walked from the garage into the kitchen. Nate was sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal. “How many bags? One, two, three—score!” he said as Lauren set them down and took off her coat.

“Shut up, Nate.”

Ann walked in from the garage also carrying four shopping bags, two in each hand. Nate stood and slowly clapped his hands several times. “Here’s a woman, folks, who knows how to use her AmEx,” said Nate, extending a fisted hand toward his mother as if he were holding a microphone. “What do you say, Ann? A few words of advice for the beginner shoppers in our audience?”

“Are you just getting up?” asked Ann, hanging her black leather car coat on a peg.

“I might be,” said Nate, returning to his cereal at the table. “Then again, maybe I’ve been up for hours doing my homework for Monday.”

“Does that mean,” said Lauren, looking in the refrigerator, “you’ll do a bit better than a C-minus on your next math test?”

“Maybe,” said Nate, shoving another spoonful of Wheaties into his mouth. “Then again, I could just kiss my teachers’ asses like you do for good grades. God knows it’s not intelligence.”

“That’s enough, Nate,” said Ann, washing her hands.

“Enough? I’m barely getting started.”

“Mom,” said Lauren, “why is there always nothing to eat in this house?”

“There are lots of things,” said Ann, drying her hands on a fresh tea towel from the drawer next to the sink.

“Sure,” said Lauren, “if you like low fat, low sodium, and no taste.”

“Order something,” said Ann, making herself a latte.

“I’m hungry now,” said Lauren. “I don’t want to wait forty-five minutes for some random pizza guy to find our house.”

“Everyone knows where we live,” said Ann, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Because we’re really important,” said Nate, pouring more cereal into his bowl.

Ann scooted past Lauren and grabbed the half gallon of skim milk for a latte. “Now that I’ve got you here together,” she said, turning around to face her son and her daughter. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Too late,” said Nate. “We already know about the birds and the bees.”

“It’s about our party Monday night,” said Ann. “I was wondering if you might want to help serve.” In reality, Ann was hesitant to have Nate and Lauren at her party. Teenagers were such wild cards. But when they dressed properly, they were very attractive kids. Plus, a suggestion of family unity at Christmastime was corporate smart. Everyone would see that the CEO and his wife spent time with their children, just like everyone else.

“Do you mean, would you like another salmon puff, Mrs. Fatso?” asked Nate. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I thought it might be fun,” said Ann, trying to sound convincing.

“What might be fun?” asked Eileen, coming through the back door.

“Come on in,” said Ann pointedly. “It’s open.”

“Passing hors d’oeuvres at Mom’s party,” said Lauren, examining the expiration date on a package of cheddar cheese, the fridge door still open. “She thinks that would be fun.”

“So do I,” said Eileen, pulling her arm out of her coat. “You get to see a bunch of fancy, dressed-up people and eat great food in the kitchen.”

“Nobody said a word about eating the food,” said Lauren, looking at her mother.

“The food,” said Ann, “is for my guests. Close that door, Lauren.”

“Oh, we already know that,” said Nate. “If it were a party for us, there would be no food.”

Eileen smiled at her grandson. “Come down to our house Monday night, and I’ll make anything you’d like.”

“Like what?” asked Nate, interested.

“Well, how does roast beef, mashed potatoes, buttered lima beans, and homemade cherry pie with vanilla ice cream sound?”

“Wow,” said Lauren, who had abandoned the cheese, closed the door, and was now looking in the “snack cupboard” for something other than her mother’s 100-calorie packs. “That sounds great.”

“Nate?”

“I must admit, that does sound pretty good,” he said.

“It’s done, then,” said Eileen. “Selma’s going to take a couple of days off, so it will be just the four of us. Dinner is at seven. But come early and we’ll have a few hors d’oeuvres of our own.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the party?” Ann, sipping her drink, asked her mother.

“Your father doesn’t do well at parties,” said Eileen. “We’ll meet your friends another time.” Ann nodded her head. It was the perfect arrangement. She could now tell her guests that the kids were having dinner with their grandparents.

“I may have plans, Gran,” said Nate tentatively.

“You do have plans,” said Eileen, “to be at my house at six thirty.” Temporarily resigned, Nate poured himself another bowl of cereal and turned his attention to the sports section of the local newspaper. He had two days to think of an excuse.

 

Nate turned down his music when his phone vibrated. It was Josh, reporting back about the lack of social activities that evening. “You can’t tell me there’s nothing going on,” said Nate.

“There’s a lot going on,” said Josh. “For one, your parents are having a huge party and Tim, Brad, and Kevin are stuck home babysitting their younger brothers and sisters because of it. Tom’s still grounded. Kyle has some family thing happening, and Ed’s already gone for Christmas vacation. There’s no action anywhere tonight.”

“Shit,” said Nate. “What are you doing?”

“A pile of relatives are coming for dinner,” said Josh. “The highlight of the evening will be when my uncle George slaps me on the back after a couple of scotches and asks me for the thousandth time what college I’ll be attending.”

“I hate that,” said Nate.

“Tell me about it,” said Josh. “What’s Jenny up to?”

“Big Christmas dinner at her aunt’s house,” said Nate.

“Why don’t you tag along?”

“I wasn’t exactly invited,” said Nate. “According to Jenny, only husbands and fiancés get to join the party.”

“I hope that wasn’t some kind of hint, man,” said Josh.

“If it was, I missed it,” said Nate, even though he had already wondered what it would be like to one day ask Jenny to spend the rest of her life with him.

“So what are you going to do?” asked Josh.

“Unless I come down with some funky disease in the next thirty minutes, I guess I’m going to eat dinner with my grandparents.”

“That’s a drag,” said Josh. “Is Lauren wrapped up in that, too?”

“Oh yeah,” said Nate. “I wouldn’t even think about going if she didn’t have to go. My old man actually feels kind of bad about it. He gave me fifty bucks.”

“That’s cool,” said Josh.

Nate hung up the phone and turned up the volume of his music. He lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and hoped for a miracle.

 

In her bedroom, Lauren was in the middle of a dream about Judd Acker. They were alone together in the school gym, only it didn’t look like the gym at Dilloway High. He had lost his car keys and asked Lauren to help him look for them. He thought they might be under the bleachers. Taking Lauren’s hand, Judd led her under the gigantic metal structure and into the darkness. Just when Lauren was wondering how they would be able to look for keys in the pitch-black darkness, Judd flipped a light switch, illuminating an underground city. “We should stay together,” he said. “Let’s look over here first.” Lauren followed him, all the while looking at the ground for his keys. He said her name and she looked up at him; only he was no longer Judd. He had somehow turned into Josh.

Lauren awoke with a start and looked at the clock next to her bed. She had fifteen minutes to get to the guesthouse. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. A few strands had made their way into her mouth and were sticking to her lips. She picked them out as she slowly made her way across her floor—through dirty clothing, schoolbooks, and the cut-up magazines and markers for her poster about war in Third World countries that was due the day after Christmas break (she thought that was so unfair), and several empty plates, except the one with the bagel half-covered with strawberry cream cheese that she had forgotten to eat the other night—and into the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her hair. She pulled the sweater she had been sleeping in over her head and dropped it on the floor. After she reapplied deodorant, she walked back into her room, fished another sweater out of her bottom bureau drawer, and put it on. She walked out of her room, closing the door behind her. Down the hall, she knocked on Nate’s door, but got no response. She knocked harder, then walked in. “Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” asked Nate, removing the headphones from his ears.