Iwouldhavehadher on a flight out of JFK, Newark, or even LaGuardia the next morning, but she was too damn stubborn.
“I’m not leaving without a proper farewell,” she said, in that don’t-argue-with-me, I’m-your-mother tone. Also, she was currently elbow-greasing the hell out of Poppy’s coffee table, in her odd habit of cleaning wherever she was an overnight guest, and it seemed rude to stop her. “Where I come from, guests don’t simply vanish into the night. We show our appreciation—”
“I wouldappreciateit if you would get on a plane as soon as possible.”
“Zelda.” She put down the furniture polish, gripped my shoulders, and looked me in the eye. “When you’re as old as I am—”
“Not this again.”
“When you’re as old as I am,” she repeated, giving me a shake, “you realize how important it is to do things the right way. To take your time about your goodbyes and make them special.”
We were both right. I wanted her out of harm’s way; she wanted to cook a gigantic meal for eight people and two dogs. I had logic; she had seniority.
“Besides,” she added, dropping her hands from my shoulders and looking away mournfully, “I don’t know when I’ll get back up here…”
Oh,right. She had guilt on her side, too. I’d forgotten about that. “Fine, Mother. Make your meal.”
She squealed and threw her arms around me. Since I was so much taller than her, they landed mid-ribcage and made my bones creak. She released me and finished polishing nonexistent fingerprints off the coffee table. “Now,” she said, “have you got a Publix around here?”
“No Publix.” My mother’s love for the southern grocery chain was legendary. “But we have some respectable purveyors. Or Whole Foods, if you’d prefer.”
She looked at me with suspicion as she grabbed the couch pillows and fluffed them. “Whole Foods? Isn’t that where all the hippies go?”
“Not anymore, Mom. It’s just a grocery store, albeit a fancy one.”
“Whole Foods,” she muttered. “More like wholepaycheck.”
“Oh, like Publix is cheap?”
The couch pillows flew in perfect arcs and landed—poof,poof—in the corners, startling Jester, who had curled up in the center of the couch to take a nap while the humans barked at each other.
He leaped down, staggered slightly in mid-afternoon sleepiness, then stretched in a perfect downward dog I couldn’t even dream of matching. He straightened up and trotted off to the kitchen, presumably to see if anyone had dropped food since the last time he was in there.
“And I want to use the restaurant,” Mom said.
“Why can’t we cook here?”
“Wearen’t cooking anything.I’mcooking. And—no offense—but that kitchen is sized for two or three, not six to ten.” She had me there. I had almost opened my mouth to agree when she kept going. “And it wasmymother’s restaurant…”
“Yes. Fine. Whatever you want.” I ended it the way all arguments with my mother eventually ended, which is why I tried not to get into them in the first place. “But we do ittonight, and you go hometomorrow. Are we clear?”
She was off humming to herself and fluffing the couch pillows again. Not listening to me in the slightest. “Mom?”
“Yes, yes, whatever you say.”
“WhatdidI say?”
“Something very wise, I’m sure.”
Only coffee could fully drag me out of the haze of the previous night. I started with one cup at home, but made it two when I got to the restaurant.
I cooked and served and cleaned my station, letting the heat, noise, and music drown me in simple, uncomplicated sensations. It was good not to think for a while.
Until Berron burst through the door, perfectly dressed as the Brooklyn hipster who had never set foot in Brooklyn. Today’s outfit had the audacity to combine corduroy slacks and a thick flannel shirt with a mustard-colored sweater over the whole thing.
Oh, and a fedora.
“Where’s my sister?” he said, with all the resonance of a Broadway actor.
