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“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Roberta said, tutting.
“Bobbi, you be nice to the boy,” Hudson said. “He was hit by a damn car.”
Roberta shifted her attention to Hudson and pointed at him with a wooden spoon. “And just whose fault was that?”
“Um. The driver of the car?” Simon asked.
“Actually,” Roberta said, “that’s a good point.” She shifted her attention back to Ben. “But that car would’ve had a much harder time running your ass down if you’d stayed at home, is all I’m saying.”
“Don’t go blaming the victim. That’s unfair,” Hudson said.
“Victim. Huh. Did someone drag his ass out of this house? No, I didn’t think so. Now stay out of this, you. Ben, I am offended that you didn’t even say goodbye. Or ask me for help. I’d have driven you anywhere you wanted to go. All you had to do was say something. Instead, you had to sneak out of here like you were being held prisoner or something.”
Ben thought about that for a second. “Um. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was running away so you could’ve helped me?”
Roberta nodded, a wide grin spreading over her face. “Now you get what I’m talking about. We were so worried about you, Ben. You worried everyone just sick. Don’t do that again, okay? Now give me a hug.” She enveloped him in a soft embrace then pulled back to look him over again. “You, baby, are a problem child. We’re going to have to swaddle you in bubble wrap if you keep this up. Are you hungry? I know that hospital food is trash. I can throw something together really quick.”
Roberta’s “really quick” lunch turned out to be a full meal with salad, soup, assorted sandwiches, and chocolate soufflés for dessert. That it was all prepared and ready to be served was not at all lost on Ben. His appetite had tanked after the surgery and it hadn’t come back yet, but Ben did his best to do the meal justice. Simon and Hudson ate everything he didn’t, though, so at least nothing was wasted. After he’d eaten everything left that was remotely edible, Hudson excused himself and went downstairs to his apartment.
Ben wondered where Simon’s mother was, but was afraid to ask. Even if she didn’t hate him on sight, and Ben was pretty sure she had, their initial meeting was the cringiest thing that had ever cringed. The memory was so awful Ben had locked it up, thrown away the key, and cordoned it off with police tape.
The question was answered, however, when Ben and Simon made their way through the dining room and living room. There she was, nearly as tall as her son, with hair that was more white than silver and somehow didn’t make her look old, although she had to be over seventy.
Simon’s mother stood with her back to them, orchestrating the decoration of the largest Christmas tree Ben had ever seen except for the one in the Prince building’s lobby. The ornaments on this tree were all silver, gold, or glass, and it sparkled like an enormous jewel.
“Wow,” Ben said, the word coming out without conscious thought.
Simon’s mother turned and Ben wanted to run and hide, but this time the woman wasn’t shouting, which was a huge improvement, and Simon stood behind him, both giving Ben courage and also eliminating an easy escape.
“I found the largest tree available and I believe I got a good one this year,” she said regally. “What do you think?”
Ben’s mouth wouldn’t form a reply but Simon came to his rescue. “It’s lovely, Mother.”
“And you, Ben. What do you think?”
Ben could tell she was making an effort to be polite, which unstuck his tongue. “It reminds me of the one at work.” Then he cursed internally, because that sounded stupid as hell.
“It… does?” It was clear Simon’s mother had no idea how to take Ben’s statement.
“He means the one in our building, Mother. She always supervises that one going up, too.”
“Oh.” This wasn’t awkward at all. Nope. Not even a little bit. Ben dug through his extremely small knowledge of Christmas trees and came up blank. Scrambling for something to say, he asked, “Are Christmas trees usually this large?” Mrs. Prince’s face froze in what Ben guessed was confusion, so he elaborated. “Momma didn’t believe in Christmas trees so I didn’t grow up with one.”
Now it was her turn to say an awkward, “Oh.”
“Yours is really pretty, though, Mrs. Prince,” Ben added. He could use Simon to rescue him again. To demonstrate, he stepped on Simon’s foot but he manfully ignored it.
Simon’s mother seemed to rally. “Please, Ben, I know we got off on the wrong foot, so let’s start over. I’m Margaret Prince, but I’d like it if you called me Maggie. I’m not fond of Margaret. Or Peggy.”
“Hudson calls her Peggy,” Simon said in Ben’s ear.
“The trick,” she said, “is to ignore Hudson. I’m sure he’ll come up with something dreadful for you, too. I think it’s his extremely irritating and juvenile way of showing affection.”
Forgetting all about feeling self-conscious in front of Simon’s mother, Ben spun on his heel and stared up at Simon. “Tell me he doesn’t know my name. My real name.”
“The cat’s out of the bag, sweet. Sorry.”
“If you’re lucky,” Maggie said, “he’ll call you Scrooge.”
