Missing Mom Read Free Page B

intense spurts of concentration in the kitchen, in the vicinity of the stove (where at least one burner of four was likely to be malfunctioning); but there had to be “appetizers,” passed about repeatedly in the living room, and these were invariably “special new recipes” that required commentary, praise. On this occasion Mom had prepared celery stalks with curried cream cheese filling, codfish ball pastry-puffs, deviled eggs heavily dusted with paprika, and tiny hot sausage balls. (The sausage balls were an instant hit with the men, Sonny Danto especially.) While the conversation swerved, ebbed, lurched and languished and gamely revived Mom was anxious to keep the platters in continual motion.
    The exalted Mr. Wexley, with the air of a host, jarring to me, who had to wonder exactly what his relationship was with Mom, boasted of having brought “prime” New York State champagne for the occasion. With the self-importance of a small-town politician he lurched to his feet and lifted his glass to propose a toast to my embarrassed mother: “Gwendolyn Eaton! On this special occasion: Mother’s Day! Beloved citizen, neighbor, friend, and, um—mother! Who, I’ve been told”—he winked clownishly, sighting Mom along his long beak of a nose—“as a ver-ry pretty cheerleader at Mt. Ephraim High, Class of ’66, was known to her adoring classmates as ‘Feather.’”
    Everyone joined in the toast. Mom blushed. Sonja Szyszko was smiling broadly, perplexed: “‘Feaz-zer’? As a bird, is it? Bird feaz-zer?”
    Poor Mom. Her cheeks burnt as if she’d been slapped. It was impossible to judge if she was pleased by the attention, or mortified; if her laughter was genuine, or forced. Within the family Mom was always being teased; Dad had often led the teasing, though gently. It had been Dad’s role to be skeptical while Mom’s role had been to be naive, credulous, and ever-surprised.
    As we lifted our glasses, I saw Mom clutch at her glass as if not knowing what it was. I didn’t want to think She’s missing Dad .
    I touched Mom’s arm. “‘Feather’? You know, you’ve never told us why.”
    But Mom only just smiled at me, unhearing.
    Next, Rob Chisholm proposed a toast. His smile was all gums, glistening. He’d been drinking a succession of beers in the living room as well as devouring tiny sausages and his gravelly voice was buoyant as a rising balloon. “To Gwen, the most terrific mother-in-law any man could ask for if he’d have to have any mother-in-law, know what I mean? ‘May the wind be always at your back’—‘ watch your back’—whatever it is, that Irish toast. Hail, Mother Eaton!”
    There was a goofy looseness to Rob Chisholm this evening, I’d rarely seen in my brother-in-law and found intriguing. A kind of river-current swirl about him as if, with a little stumble, he’d be swept away. Clare laughed sharply, undecided whether her husband was being folksy-witty, or making a fool of himself.
    Mom said, fumbling at humor, “Oh, dear: ‘Mother Eaton.’ Is that what people call me behind my back? Like some kind of—nun? Isn’t that what a head nun is called, not ‘sister’ but—”
    Aunt Tabitha interrupted, “‘Mother Spancic’ is what my childrens’ spouses call me . What I have requested to be called. I think the generations should be acknowledged. If you are ‘mother’ you are spared being a sibling or a buddy to be called by your first name, but you are not just any ‘mother’—public property like a street vendor, or somebody with a booth in a flea market. No, indeed! You deserve respect, I think. For what you have endured.” Prune-faced old Tabitha spoke with such passion, most of the company at the table laughed, miscomprehending.
    To prevent the Scourge of the Bugs lifting his glass in a champagne toast I jumped in: “Here’s to moms . Without moms , where’d we all be?”
    A few quick swallows of New York State champagne, Nikki was sounding giddy.