Something
was really off here. Mom had never been
particular about setting the table. Most
times the dishes didn’t even match. She
called it her eclectic touch. I was sure
she had never owned a lace tablecloth. The wine goblets—where did they come
from? I had to get to the bottom of this
and so I repeated my comment in question form, “Set a pretty table and they will come?”
“Well,
aren’t you the cutie. What movie did
that come from? Something about
baseball, wasn’t it? That handsome
Robert Redford starred in that, right? Lindsey doesn’t play baseball, Dear. She’s a skier.
Don’t you watch the news?”
Mom
was losing her hearing and obviously didn’t hear the first part of my question.
She refused to wear a hearing aid,
insisting that she could hear everything and anything that was worth listening
to. Dad had always called it selective hearing. It must be genetic. On
occasion, my wife has said the same thing about me.
I
decided on a direct approach. “Mom, what’s the big occasion? Why are you going
so festive with the dinner table? Are you expecting someone special to dine
with you tonight?”
Ignoring
me, she walked into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. Running water, clanking dishes, combined with
Mom, humming a tune. Mom doesn’t know
the words to any songs but she loves music, so she hums a lot. Her friends call
her “The Hummer.”
I
checked my watch and realized that I couldn’t hang out much longer. To be honest, my patience was wearing thin. “Mom, are you keeping a secret from me? Who is coming for dinner?”
Mom
let out a big sigh and threw her arms wide open. “Come over here Sweetheart”, she chortled.
“And give me a big hug. Then, we have to
go wake up the boys.”
“The
boys? Did I hear you say boys, Miss Nora?”
The sound of heavy, plodding footsteps,
coming down the stairs accompanied the deep, throaty voice. A boisterous, hearty
laugh followed, sounding like Santa coming down the chimney. The man slipped
into the kitchen as if this had been his routine for years.
His
size was astonishing. He was a huge man,
his frame taking up the entire entrance to the kitchen. Deep crevices lined his rosy face, as if
chiseled from red clay. His thick, bushy
eyebrows were so expressive, they seemed to be engaged in a conversation all
their own. He was so homely, he was
handsome. His clothing was shabby but
clean and he was freshly shaved.
He
extended his huge hand to me. “You must
be Marcus.,” he said. “I’ve heard so
many good things about you. And now, if
my memory serves me right, I think I promised you a gourmet breakfast, Miss
Nora. Can you join us Marcus?”
Standing
taller than I ever imagined I could, I turned toward the home invader. “Well, this all sounds very cozy Mister…um Mister. I didn’t get your name sir. And you may have heard good things about me
but I know nothing about you. So if you,
and you too Mom, could fill me in here, I would appreciate it.”
I
felt ambushed. Stone-faced, with my arms
crossed on my chest, I turned and stared at Mom, demanding an explanation.
“Okay
Sweetheart,” she said. “It’s really quite simple. I’ve been volunteering at the St. Joseph’s
Shelter for the last three months.
That’s where I met George and his son, Jason. They’ve been homeless for
seven months now and well…Father Flynn called me last week, you remember Father
Flynn, don’t you? Anyway, he said that
the shelter was bursting at the seams.
They just don’t have enough room for everyone who needs a roof over
their head and a hot meal.”
“Well,
that may be quite simple Mom,” I said.
“To you anyway. So you just decided on your own, without consulting me,
that you would open our home up to people you barely know?”
A pregnant pause. “That was a question, Mom.”
“Yes,
I know that was a question, Dear. And here’s the answer. First of all, I’ve gotten to know George and
Jason quite well. They’ve been doing
most of the cooking at the shelter and boy, can they cook. George was the head chef at the Ritz Carlton
in Boston, but it came under new management and well… And Jason wants to follow
in his Dad’s footsteps, so he has a full scholarship and has been attending The
Culinary Institute in the city. Quite a
resume don’t you think? Secondly, and more
importantly, this is not as you called it, our
home. This is my home and I can do whatever I want to do in my own home. Sorry to
sound so harsh Dear, but I don’t feel you’re being very understanding.”
Mom
paraded over to George and wrapped an apron around his ample waist. I remained, silently in place, the place I
had been put in.
“I
don’t know about anyone else but I’m famished.” Mom said. “All I dreamt about last
night were the Eggs Benedict that were promised me for this morning. But
George, first come look at the table I’ve set for us tonight. You promised me a five course dinner so I
went to the thrift shop and bought---well, just come and look for yourself. And then you can go wake Jason up.”
I
remained in the kitchen, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. My mother’s assertiveness stunned me. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her like this.
But
then I remembered the time I had arrived home with an injured bird in my coat
pocket. I was about seven years old and
my father was adamant that we were not keeping it. Mom’s words came back to me now. In her inimitable sweet style, she had turned
to my Dad and said….”Well of course, we will keep this little bird, Dear. And we will nurse it back to good health and
then let him fly away. But not until
then.”
Mom had always been assertive, I thought. Maybe I needed to stop being so overly
protective. After Dad had passed away, I
thought it was my job to take care of her. It was obvious to me now that she
was quite capable of doing that herself.
Okay, what better time than right now to start doing just that.
I
ambled into the dining room and watched as Mom told George a little story about
each of her Thrift Shop purchases. George was smiling, nodding his appreciation
of all her selections. “Shouldn’t
someone wake Jason up?” I asked.
George winked at me and erupted with
laughter. “Believe me, that won’t be
necessary. Fry the bacon and they will
come.”
“That
includes me, George. Work can wait. I
can’t wait to taste your Eggs Benedict.”
“But
Mom,” I said, “I sure could use that hug right about now.”
Copyright 2014 by Moe O’Brien
