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Mama pursed her lips, turning back to the steaming contents of her stove. She stirred. She salted. She tasted. Finally, she turned back to me with a dreamy expression of the generous mother-goddess that, frankly, scared me. She cleared her throat and used her special “imparting motherly wisdom from the mountaintop” voice. “When your daddy and I were dating, he planned on going fishing with some friends over Homecoming weekend. This was back in high school. We’d only been dating a little while, and I think he didn’t want me to think I could plan things out for him.”
“Clearly, he didn’t know you very well,” I said.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, stirring the potatoes. “I told him it was perfectly fine if he wanted to go fishing with his buddies, because Eddie Carroll had offered to take me to the dance.”
“Mr. Carroll? My math teacher? Ew.”
“You should have seen him in high school. With a full head of hair, he was quite the man about town. If things hadn’t worked out with your father—”
“Stop,” I told her, laughing. “I do not want to hear that I could have been a Carroll.”
Mama giggled. “You know, he still tells me on occasion that I have lovely ankles.”
“They are lovely. But back to the story, please,” I said, shuddering at the thought of Mr. Carroll ogling my mother at Parent-Teacher Night.
“Well, the moment your father heard that, he called his buddies and canceled the fishing trip,” she said, preening. “He was pinning that corsage on my dress faster than you could say ‘dog in the manger.’ And every dance or party after that, your father knew that he would be going with me, because I might have other offers. Sometimes men need a little competition to realize what they have. It’s healthy for a relationship.”
“Did Mr. Carroll really ask you to the dance?” I asked. A Cheshire-cat smile spread across her face. I laughed. “You know, Mama, sometimes I completely underestimate you.”
“You’re probably right. So, if I ask a question, will you bite my head off?” she asked.
“You know I won’t actually bite you, right?”
“You know what I mean,” she said, tasting the gravy. She offered me a spoonful, but I declined, as its bouquet reminded me of that smell refrigerators get after long vacations. “Why not just call Adam, honey? You were crazy about him in high school. And he’s such a nice boy.”
“I think I’m at the point in my life where I need more than a nice boy. I need a nice man.”
Mama tsked and patted my cheek. “Is Gabriel a nice man?”
Recalling the unfortunate Bud McElray incident, I hesitated. “Not particularly. That may be what I deserve, though.”
Mama sighed and stirred. “Well, I don’t really follow you. I can tell you that when Eddie Carroll tried to cut in at the Homecoming Dance, Daddy broke his nose.”
“Tempting, but Gabriel might not stop at the nose.”
“Let things with Gabriel take their course,” she intoned. “And in the meantime, see where things go with Adam. In the end, knowing they have a little competition may speed things along.”
“Speed what things along to what?” I asked.
Mama shushed me and handed me a tray of eggnog and slightly damaged leftover Santa cookies. “Now, just take this out to them, and mind your manners. Behave yourself with your grandma.”
“I will if she will,” I hissed back.
When I walked back into the den, Daddy was still mindlessly changing the channels, ignoring Grandma’s very presence. Wilbur and Grandma were snuggled up on the couch. Grandma was trying to tempt Wilbur with a candy cane, swiping it sensuously along his lips. Wilbur was smiling fondly at her as he reminded her about his diabetes. I guessed chronic disease precluded her need to seduce him with seasonal candy.
Repulsed, I turned on my heels and headed back to the kitchen, but Daddy called, “Jane?” Desperate for someone to share his suffering, he demanded, “Is that eggnog? With liquor?” I winked at him and gave him a double helping.
“It’s so nice to see you helping your mama for a change,” Grandma said, nodding imperiously toward the tray. I ignored the bait.
“Would you like some?” I asked Wilbur.
Wilbur was about to answer when Grandma patted his hand fondly and simpered, “Oh, Wilbur is lactose-intolerant. His stomach is just so sensitive. He can’t have salt because of the high blood pressure or sugar because of his diabetes. Or fats. Or nuts. Or meat. He usually sticks to Ensure or these macrobiotic shakes.”
Grandma pulled a canned shake out of her enormous Aigner purse. Wilbur took it out of her hand and stuck it back into her purse before I could get a good look at the label.
“So, how did you two meet?” I asked. “When did you two meet?”
“Oh, it’s the sweetest story.” Grandma sighed. “I was on my way into Whitlow’s to plan Bob’s service, and Wilbur was there in the hallway, waiting for a friend’s visitation to start. He saw how upset I was and offered me his hankie. It was so romantic and chivalrous, I just had to invite him for a cup of coffee in Mr. Whitlow’s office.”
