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I wave the statue around. “Onlythis is a son buying a birthday present for his mother, who is anartist. I’d say it seems like he was trying to find something shemight appreciate.”
I know I’m being rude. I know it’sprobably none of my business, but it feels like it is.
“You know,” I continue, “I thinkthis is a lovely piece, and I think it was quite expensive. Iremember seeing it at the gallery this past spring—the artist is abit of a local celebrity and the exhibit was quite the event. Chrisand I went with some friends.” I turn to him. “I didn’t realizeyou’d bought it.”
“Yeah. I went back for it a fewdays later.”
Donald keeps his attention onChris, with occasional glances at me. I think he’s worried abouthis son, which actually endears him to me.
“You can’t force liking a piece ofart,” Charlotte says. “You either do or you don’t.”
“And you don’t.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Then you won’t mind if I takeit,” I say. Chris and Donald’s eyes widen. “Because I think it’sabsolutely fantastic.”
“Not at all,” Charlotte says inher most creepily even, robotic voice.
“Excellent! Thank you!” I chirpand place the statue across my lap, then turn to Chris. “It was oneof my favorites from the exhibit.”
His eyes soften as he smiles.
Donald looks shocked but notentirely displeased, his eyes darting between Chris and me.
Chris grabs my hand, then turns tohis parents. “Thanks for the lovely dinner and company,” he says.“I think Roxie and I will go out for drinks now, if you don’t needus to help with the dishes.”
“Oh no, not at all. I will takecare of the dishes,” Donald jumps in, clearly relieved that theawkward interlude has come to an end. “You kids have fun, and Iwill see you both tomorrow.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I say with asmile that’s 73% fake. “It was nice to meet you both. Happybirthday, Charlotte.”
She just nods, her mouth in atight straight line.
Chris, my new statue, and I make abrief stop in our room, and then we’re off.
****
“That shit you pulled was reallysomething,” Chris smiles as he takes a sip of his beer at aneighborhood bar.
Now that my adrenaline hasplummeted, I feel mostly embarrassed. “I am sorry, okay? I justfelt so … protective of you. She was so cold and inconsiderate. Howcan she be like that?”
“She has very high standards forher art. And art in general.”
“I understand that, but this was apresent, and she treated it like shit. She treats you likeshit.”
He shrugs.
“Is this how it’s always been?” Iask.
“Pretty much. She’s always actedlike she’d rather I weren’t around.”
“That must’ve been awful.”
“Yeah, well.” He rolls the bottlebetween his fingers. “It was when I was young. I couldn’tunderstand why she was so aloof. She always had something else todo. She’d tell me I was annoying and needy.
“Dad wasn’t too touchy-feelyeither, but he never dismissed me. Thank God for Ximena, who’s beenwith us most of my life. When I was a kid, most of the affection Ireceived was from her. Some from my grandparents, but mostlyXimena.”
“Jesus, Chris. I don’t know whatto say.”
