Lucille
Melissa Dyrdahl, 2/28/21
“Mother,” the man said, “Are we having a cocktail with lunch?”
I’d just been seated at the table across from them, waiting for my friend Laurie. I was early and she would be late. Maybe I should have a cocktail too.
The man appeared to be about my age, with oversized glasses and a gold pinky ring. She was that hard-to-guess-by-looking-age between 80 and 95.
I wondered why the man called his mom Mother. It sounded so formal. I had about a dozen names for my mom – some obvious like My Momma or Momcat, while others were nonsensical, like Lucille, which was not her given name, but something my friends and I started calling her when I was in high school. My mom found it hilarious.
His Mother was an attractive woman, well dressed, with twinkling eyes and a little Christmas tree pinned to her sweater. Her beauty parlor hair was styled in a silver helmet that would be undisturbed by a Category 2. I suspected she had a manicure – I watched her hands as she reached to put her napkin in her lap – yes! I knew it. Her nails were shiny and red. She reminded me of my mom.
“Of course we’re having a cocktail, Jeffrey!” Mother said, happily. “It’s the holidays!”
My mom and I used to do beauty-parlor-and-lunch dates. She especially loved to try new restaurants. She never ate very much the last year or so, but we always had a doggy bag to take home. The next day her caregiver Kari would serve the leftovers on her favorite china, but more than likely my mom would look at it and say, “No, I don’t want any dinner.” Later she would start asking for her box of See’s Candy. Kari would eventually cave in and give it to her.
###
“Marie called yesterday and said she is not inviting Dan to Christmas dinner this year,” the man named Jeffrey said.
“WHAT?” Mother asked.
“MARIE CALLED YESTERDAY AND SAID SHE IS NOT INVITING DAN TO CHRISTMAS DINNER THIS YEAR!”
I felt for him. I knew what it was like to say something in a normal tone of voice, only to have to repeat yourself again, ONLY LOUDER, multiple times in a conversation.
“Why is she not inviting him?” Mother said.
“Mother, we invite him every year, and then we don’t hear from him again until the next Christmas. He never even says thank you.”
I remembered the Christmas parties my parents had when I was growing up. My mom would start baking cookies right after Thanksgiving, the folder full of recipes she’d torn out of Bon Appetit sitting on the kitchen counter as she planned the party menu. Guests would arrive hungry, talking about what a great cook she was as they walked in the door. My dad played bartender, wearing a red and white plaid vest he’d had since the 1950s. Whether or not he could get it buttoned was a bet my mom and I would secretly make each December. But there was always that one couple, Norma and Dick. My mom was too gracious to stop inviting them, but they never reciprocated.
###
“Besides,” Jeffrey continued in a slightly louder voice, trying to forestall a request to repeat himself, “Dan’s moving.”
“He’s moving?” Where?” Mother was shocked by this news.
“He’s moving to East Texas. He wants to live someplace where he can shoot his guns whenever he wants and cut down trees with his chainsaw.”
“EAST TEXAS?” Mother now seemed more appalled than surprised. “Oh My Lord,” she said.
I imagined calling my mom to repeat the overheard conversation to her, and we would laugh about Dan’s Texas-sized desire for guns and chainsaws. This would inevitably lead us to reminisce about that time in Charleston. One of us would say, “Remember that restaurant? And that young couple, the woman in the fancy dress? They were celebrating something, and then they started fighting!” The other of us would say, “And then she stood up from the table and yelled, “It’s not MY fault. You’re the one who can home with the sex disease!”
###
The waiter delivered Mother’s cocktail, garnished with cranberries and a sprig of rosemary.
“Isn’t that festive!” she said, clearly delighted. Lucille would have had the same response. “Where is Dan going to work if he’s in Texas?”
“He hasn’t worked for years, remember? He’s living off his inheritance from Aunt Margaret.”
“He used to teach! In a one room schoolhouse.”
“You mean when he was part of that religious cult?” Jeffrey said with a sarcastic tone. “Who knows if he even has any credentials?”
Mother replied, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
“He has those CRAZY jeans, Mother.”
My eyebrows shot up. Dan wore outlandish pants? No. Wait. I realized Jeffrey meant genes.
“He gets that from your father’s side, Jeffrey, not mine.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and put my elbows on the table to hide the lower half of my face with my hands. My mom would absolutely crack up at this part.
“Some families have the CRAZY gene,” I could hear her say in her sweet voice, but our family has the EYES ARE TOO CLOSE TOGETHER gene!” which would make me laugh so hard.
“Yes!” I would say, “and we also have the SWOLLEN ANKLES WHEN SITTING ON A PLANE TOO LONG gene!” in an attempt to top her.
I knew that if she were still alive, we would keep this joke going for years.
###
The waiter came by to take Mother and Jeffrey’s order. They teased each other about how much to eat for lunch because they were both definitely having the bread budding with warm whiskey sauce for dessert.
Laurie texted to stay she was five minutes away, which made me sad. She would arrive in a swirl of merry and bright, and all I would be able to hear was her talking about her kids and her kitchen remodel. I wasn’t ready to leave Jeffery and Mother. I wanted more time with their familiar banter, with Mother’s red nail polish and Christmas tree pin, with the joy in her eyes because she was having lunch with her adored child.
I called the waiter over and ordered a cocktail, the festive one with cranberries and a sprig of rosemary.