Читать книгу Lucy Scott’s Grand Stand - Alan Sorem - Страница 8

As a rule I sleep in on my birthdays and my 85th was no exception. It was a bit of pampering Big Jim always had insisted on.

I had a muffin and a cup of decaf in bed and enjoyed a lovely long soak in the tub with extra bubble bath and aromatic candles. I was just finishing with my makeup when I heard the murmur of a man’s voice through the closed door in the hallway that leads to the kitchen.

The voice rose and fell. I recognized it as Jim Junior’s voice. Odd. He has a key, but he usually called before dropping by.

Throwing on my bathrobe, I walked out of the bedroom and listened intently behind the door to the kitchen. He was speaking to someone, but the only voice I heard was his. It was his Angry Voice. I call him Mr. Boom-Boom when he uses it on me.

Quietly I opened the door.

My son stood by the kitchen table, his back to me, speaking on his cell phone. I realized he was speaking to his sister Sophie. He had pushed aside the dozen or so birthday cards that were propped up on the table to make room for his briefcase. As he spoke, his free hand periodically drummed on the top of the fine leather briefcase that lay on the table. He obviously was irritated.

“Sis, I’m over at her place now. Stopped by after the mayor’s Business Council meeting to wish Mom a Happy Birthday. Looks like she hasn’t washed her dishes for a couple of days. We’ve got to do something. Mom needs help. She can’t live alone.” He paused.

“I know you have involvements!”

An audible sputter from the other side.

“I don’t care who you sleep with; it’s Mom who’s home alone. It’s clear we’ve got to do something. You have your life; I have mine. I can’t spend mine running over to Brooklyn to make sure she’s okay. Winter is coming and Mom’s not safe alone.”

A longer pause. I could hear irritation in Sophie’s voice but I could not make out the words.

“You’re living together now and your partner’s name is Pru? And her daughter also will be living with you! What about the woman who calls you her daughter? You ought to visit more often, Sis. She’s going downhill. Each time I visit her she’s taking more pills. I’m gonna guess her best days are through.”

I entered the conversation. “Je vais très bien, merci beaucoup!”

He turned his angry face my way and waved me silent.

“The French teacher just got up. Look, I’ve got to go.”

More sputtering on the other end.

“Sis, you’re the counselor, the one who has the tact. And you’re the one to do this. All those fancy degrees! Make ‘em useful!”

An explosion of anger on the other end of the phone. He responded in kind.

“No, no. Don’t make it my duty! My duty was Dad! I know it was fifteen years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. Don’t you remember? You were tied up with — Oh, oh, she’s watching me now. Are her hearing aids in? She’s going to parlez vous in French again!”

I was totally exasperated. “Je ne suis pas sourde! Je peux entendre!”

My son turned away.

I walked over to the kitchen sink. I needed something physical to do, so I began to wash the dishes and put them in the drying rack.

All I could think about was how it used to be when he was a youngster. Our first child. The Saturdays when Jim and I and Little Jim played in the park.

Now all he ever thinks about are fortune and fame. Money, always more money. Mr. Big Corporate Executive. The charity balls and the pictures of him and his third wife on the society pages. He commutes to Manhattan from Chappaqua and buys her a new Cadillac every Christmas. Dear God, whatever happened to simple living?

They’re very intense people, Jim Junior and his sister. But the middle one, Steve, he was like his father. He had the same hearty laugh. When problems arose his favorite saying was, “This too shall pass.”

If he had lived, I know he’d say these other two are daft.

My son’s voice escalated as he began pacing to the kitchen service door and back.

“Sophie, you’re involved in all of this with me. C’mon, Sis, how stupid can you be! WE have got to do something. Winter is coming and Mom can’t live alone!”

An angry voice erupted on the other end. He cut in.

“Well, getting totally pissed off does not get us anywhere. Just listen to me, will you?

“Here is the situation. Her days are all a tangle. She takes morning pills at night!”

He paused.

“Yes, yes, I know you got her the seven-day pill box with blue on one side for morning and red on the other for night, but she still gets them messed up! And I’m looking at her right now. One in the afternoon and she’s in her bathrobe. Not the one you gave her, either, it’s the old ratty one.”

He paused. I finished up the dishes and turned to face him.

He looked directly at me as he spoke into the phone. “Well, looks like I’m in the doghouse now. Time to do it.”

He held the cell phone away from his ear. He spoke loudly.

“Mom, can you hear me?”

I nodded. “Yes, I can hear every word.”

He lowered his voice. “Mom, Sis and I know what’s best for you. A quiet place where you won’t have to worry about a thing. Help with keeping your pills straight. Good meals, good nursing care—in a place that you can afford.”

“But this has been my home—our home—for more than fifty years. My daughter and my son! Why are you plotting against me?”

He turned away again, his voice triumphant.

“There, Sis, did you hear? A touch of paranoia, right? She’s losing her marbles; it’s worse than last year! Yes, now we’ve got to do something. Winter is coming and Mom can’t live alone.”

How could I make him and his sister listen? They had it all wrong.

“Yes, winter is coming but I am not alone! I have good friends and neighbors here! Why put me away in some strange place? Can you hear me?”

“You have to face the facts, Mom. Even your doctor says so!”

“You talked to my doctor!”

“He told me about the time you left your purse on the receptionist’s desk and she had to run all the way to the bus stop after you. He says your blood pressure is way, way too high. Yet you refuse to do anything about it.”

“My doctor told you this? Whatever happened to patient confidentiality!”

“Mom, I’m just getting started. He also said—”

“It doesn’t matter! I’m always tense when I go see him. Ever since I finally persuaded your father to go, and then came the bombshell about his cancer—”

“Mom, be reasonable!”

“I am reasonable. I just have a severe case of, what do they call it? White-coat syndrome. I walk through that office door, every part of me tenses up.”

“Listen to me, Mom. I need to go pay some attention to the company’s clients in London. Leaving tomorrow. Two weeks. Betsy is going too, for shopping and shows. So I won’t be around, and Sis is tied up. We need to find an affordable place for you where professionals will take care of you. Face it. It’s time.”

“You—you feel like you’re responsible for me. But you’re not! I’m responsible for me! If I need help, I have plenty of friends here!”

He smiled, ignored my protests, and turned his back to me once again.

“Sis, thanks so much. I’m glad we can agree. Gotta go, now. I’ll be in touch. Ciao.”

The cell phone went back into his shirt pocket.

“Don’t worry, Mom. Sis and I will get it all worked out.”

“You don’t need to get it all worked out,” I hissed.

“Well, who else, Mom? Who else?”

He looked around. “Everything has been the same since Dad died. Time for a change.”

As he lifted his slim designer briefcase from the table, several of my birthday cards fell to the floor. He leaned, picked them up and placed them on the table before moving toward the door.

“Gotta go, Mom. Got a big deal cooking. You take care, Mom.”

“You’ve always got a big deal cooking.”

He turned. “Mom, don’t start in on me. I’m not in the mood for it today.”

“I’m happy where I am.”

“Sure. For how long? Answer me that. For how long?”

“I want to die here.”

“That’s just great. Let me tell you something.”

We were spitting words back and forth.

“I am about to be named the president and CEO of my company. That’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. I also want to get you into a place that will take good care of you.” His voice rose. “I don’t have the time for it any more.”

“You’ve never had the time. It’s all about you. You’re just a never-satisfied striver.”

He put his briefcase back on the table. He gave me a long look and laughed.

“That’s good, Mom. That’s really good. Who the hell do you think I got it from? Good ol’ easy-going Dad? No. I got it from the person who was always best in class and wanted more. Wanted to go to college and did it. Wanted to be a French teacher and did it. You.”

We glared at each other. He picked up the briefcase again.

“I am your product, Mom! Not easy-going Steve, your favorite. Not Sophie, always tied in knots trying to live up to your expectations. A thousand times you told me I could do better. I’m the one who’s like you and I’m proud of it, even if you never understand. And I am going to the top, all the way, Mom, so get used to it and do as I say!”

“Never!”

“You stubborn woman!” He was shouting now. “You’re going to get sick and die, just like Dad, and I don’t want any part of it!”

“You listen to me!” I shouted back.

“I’ve spent a lifetime listening – now you listen to me!”

Five knocks on the door, ratta-tat-tat-tat.

He smoothed his hair back with his free hand. He took a deep breath and gave me a frown.

“Hope it’s not those Pakistanis down the hall. Just another reason to move, Mom. The roaches swarm here from their place.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a doctor. He has his Ph.D.”

He didn’t hear me as he turned away again.

“That’s just fine, Mom. Gotta go. Driver’s waiting. Remember, take your pills at the right time. Maybe they’ll help. Bye, now.”

He opened the door. “Oh, it’s you.”

My friend Daisy entered, a bottle of wine under her arm and carrying a saucer with a cupcake, a lighted candle in the middle of it.

Jim Junior turned back to me. “Two weeks, Mom.”

As she entered, Daisy looked him up and down and said in a sarcastic tone, “Goodbye, Prince Charming.”

My son rushed out and slammed the door as he left. Daisy shielded the candle from the breeze.