Love, Life And Linguine Part 16

"Good."

Mom says, "Any more questions, Detective?"

"I think that's all for now," I say. "You're free to go. But don't leave the country."

Mom laughs. "Actually, we've been talking about leaving the country. To travel. But Sid and his wife traveled around Europe, and he's not keen on going back to places he's already been."

"You've never been to Europe," I say. "Doesn't he want to go with you?"

Mom shrugs. "He's more interested in going to the Caribbean. He wants to relax. Sit in the sun. Play golf."

I can't imagine my mother sitting still for more than a meal. But I don't want to rain on her Caribbean parade, so I refrain from commenting.

"You look pretty, Mimi." Mom runs her hand through my hair, which has grown past my shoulders. The doorbell rings.

Sidisms Mom volunteers to drive to Allison's. "Oh, but I need gas," she says as if this is an insurmountable problem.

Why is Mom acting helpless? As I open my mouth to admonish her, Sid leaps to the rescue. "I'll get you gas."

Mom smiles gratefully. "Thank you, honey."

Sid as he opens the pa.s.senger door for her. "Anything for you, Bobbi."

Over Sid's shoulder, Mom winks at me.

She just played him. Played him? No. Mom made Sid feel important. Needed. Valued. She is not helpless. She is certainly capable of getting gas for her car. Why should she if Sid will happily do it for her?

Did Mom do that with Dad? Not that I remember.

Have I ever done that with my boyfriends? Made them feel needed? I don't know. I'm always busy proving how independent I am. Isn't that what Nick told me? I don't need anyone for anything?

Interesting.

Sid drives us to the highway and pulls into the first gas station we see. Mom never, ever pulls into the first gas station. She shops for gas. Not until she's pa.s.sed at least five gas stations will she select one, even if there is a mere penny's difference in the price. But now she nods and smiles at Sid as he parks in front of the gas pump. She offers her credit card, and Sid says, "My treat."

"Sid is treating? d.a.m.n. We should've taken my car," I say somewhat seriously.

"Oh, Mimi." Mom laughs as if I've just said something terribly witty. Sid laughs with Mom, then turns off the car. He gets out of the car and stands near the pump. New Jersey is one of the last states to resist self-serve gas pumps. Attendants abound. There's no need to get out of the car. "What's he doing?" I ask Mom.

"Supervising," Mom answers. "It's an older man thing."

Really? Dad never did that.

Everything in life should be full service, Dad said.

A gas attendant puts the nozzle into the gas tank, and Sid watches the numbers turn as the tank fills. Then he hands the attendant money and the two men nod at each other as if they have concluded a business deal. This strikes me as insane.

Back in the car, Sid says to Mom, "You're all taken care of, sweetheart."

"Thank you, honey."

This is getting a little too sweet for me.

"How about a little music?" Mom suggests as Sid pulls out of the gas station.

"Your mother has a beautiful voice," Sid tells me.

"Thank you, sweetie," Mom says. "Yours is wonderful, too. We make beautiful music together." With that, Mom pushes b.u.t.tons on her CD player and music comes out of the speakers. Sid clears his throat and Mom waves her hands to the music. And then...

They sing. They harmonize.

I know this car has air bags. Does it have barf bags?

Meet the Children Sarah is waiting for us on the brick steps of her home. She looks up at Sid. "What am I supposed to call you?" she asks. "I have a Grandpa and a Zadie."

"Do you have a Sid?" he asks.

Although she accepts Sid's initial effort, Sarah remains aloof toward him. I watch Sarah watch Sid, and part of me-the really immature part of me-is grateful that she's on my side. The rest of the Louis family is being exceedingly polite to Sid. Even Jeremy. He must have gotten a talking-to from his wife.

As for Allison, she is in rare form. I volunteer to help her finish dinner.

"I can do it," she insists.

"I know you can do it, Ally. But let me help. I'll be your sous chef."

"My what?" She looks at me with crazed eyes.

"Your a.s.sistant. Tell me what to do. You're the boss."

"Fine. Good. Thanks. Can you handle the macaroni and cheese? And the mashed potatoes?"

"That's what we're having for dinner?" I ask. "Not that I'm judging."

Allison tosses her salad and explains. "The twins want chicken fingers and mashed potatoes. It's easier to give them what they want then have them throw a fit in front of company. But Sarah has decided that she's not eating brown food. So, I'm making her a hot dog and the macaroni and cheese. The grown-up food is brisket, rice pilaf, creamed spinach, and corn souffle. Oh, c.r.a.p. I forgot about the souffle."

Allison dives into the oven and removes the souffle. From where I'm standing, I can see that the souffle is burnt. Allison watches the souffle cave in on itself. "Oh, no," Allison says. "Now what am I going to do?"

"Here, gimme." I take the ca.s.serole dish from her. With a serving spoon, I take off the burnt crust and scoop the rest of the souffle into another bowl. "See? All better."

"Thanks, Mimi."

"Why the crazy?" I ask, hoping there's no earth-shattering reason. "You want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Allison exhales. "Next week, my mother is coming to visit."

Phoebe Greene travels from Boca Raton to Jersey twice a year, during Chanukah and August. Since her husband died seven years ago, Phoebe has traveled quite a lot more than she did when Hal Greene's work schedule kept them in Florida. Hal was a real estate developer who left his widow a comfortable fortune, which Phoebe spends freely. Almost as freely as she dispenses advice on how Allison should cook, eat, dress, and parent.

I adore Phoebe. But I have the advantage of not being her daughter.

"You have all week to worry about your mother," I tell Allison. "Tonight, let's worry about mine."

Other than the corn souffle, dinner goes perfectly. The twins tell Sid about their preschool teachers, and he tells them about his grandsons. "You would like them," Mom tells the boys. "They are the same age as you and very nice."

Mom's met Sid's family? That's news. Jeremy looks at me with raised eyebrows. I see his eyebrows and raise him a shrug.

As Mom, Sid, and I say our goodbyes, Sarah gives me a big hug, then looks at me with her big brown eyes. Quietly she says, "Are you thinking about Zadie?"

I blink a few times, then say, "Yes."

Sarah nods. "Me, too," she says.

On the drive back to The Garden, Mom tells me that she is-shock of shocks-spending the night at Sid's. That's when I remember that I forgot to talk to Mom about spending time with Allison. It's not right to tell her now, in front of Sid. Plus Allison will be busy with her own mother.

My mother walks me to the front door of the condo. "Mimi? Thanks."

"For what?"

Mom smiles. "Making Sid feel welcome."

"You're welcome."

Collingswood Farmer Joe calls to ask me for a date. With him working days at the farm and me working nights at Cafe Louis, the only time we can find is Sat.u.r.day morning-ish. Joe says that he will be manning a booth at a street fair in Collingswood, and I agree to meet him there. Collingswood is between Cherry Hill and Philadelphia. It's a ten-minute drive from either place. I drive Sally to Haddon Avenue, the town's main drag. I have never been to Collingswood, and I'm surprised at the quaint calm of the town.

White tents canopy the street, their peaks looking like egg whites progressing down Haddon Avenue as far as I can see. Lampposts are decorated with flowers; baskets of purple and gold impatiens hang around the lampposts' midsections, just below royal blue banners that read "Welcome to Historic Collingswood" in white letters. "Established 1883." Red brick buildings line the street, giving Haddon Avenue the feel of a real American Main Street. Not that I would know what that looks like. I am a child of the mall generation. But I'd like to think that life was once like this, with independent, family-owned shops doing a brisk business among neighbors. It's very Huck Finnish. I like it.

"Collingswood T-shirts," calls a young man standing in front of a display.

Crafty art is for sale under the tents, as are decorative masks, beaded jewelry, dried flower arrangements, ceramic and gla.s.s garden ornaments, and handpainted T-shirts.

"Collingswood T-shirts. Atkins friendly," the man calls.

Warm dough smell drifts from Joe's Pizza Parlor. Farther down the street, a big man stirs a pot of Kettle Corn while his colleague pa.s.ses out sample handfuls. Crepes are cooked under a hot griddle, and the sizzle reaches my ears. Area bakeries do a brisk business selling cookies, individually sized pies and breads. Flower merchants wrap purple lilies and pink tulips in yellow paper. Folksy rock comes from a live band on the tented grandstand.

"Collingswood T-shirts. Perfect gift for Christmas, birthdays, and Bar Mitzvahs."

Friends greet each other warmly with hugs and handshakes. Even the teenagers have left their melancholy at home. In front of the jewelry tents, men in khaki shorts and golfing shirts wait for wives wearing cotton capri pants and scoop-necked shirts. White-haired men and women shuffle slowly along the sidewalk. A stroller brigade winds its way through the crowd.

In the middle of Haddon Avenue, I spot Joe under a sign with the state slogan: "Jersey Fresh." Got that right. Joe greets me with a tongue kiss that tastes peppery, like arugula. Sure enough, I spot a bag of baby lettuce under the table. "Tico, you okay here for a while?" Joe asks the man wearing a Hunter Farm T-shirt.

Joe and I walk hand in hand down Haddon Avenue. "This is a nice town," I say.

"I come here a lot," Joe says. He points to a sign that says "Dr. Cohen." "There's my dentist's office," he says. I wave.

Joe nods and steers me down a street, away from the noise of the fair. We walk a few blocks and come to Cooper River. "Pull up a bench," Joe says, and sits on one overlooking the river. "What's new?"

"Well, we had a family dinner for my mom's boyfriend."

"Your mom is dating?" Joe seems shocked.

I give the details, then ask, "How would you feel if your mother was dating?"

Joe laughs. "My mother is in no condition to date. Sometimes she thinks my father is still alive."

"Her memory is going?"

"The doctors say it's early onset Alzheimer's. She's only sixty-three." Joe looks out at the river. "It's too soon."

"You take good care of your mom," I say.

"I try," Joe says. "There are a lot of people around during the day. Everyone who works on the farm checks in on her. At some point, I'll have to find a facility for her. I keep putting it off. I'm not ready to let her go."

I put my hand in Joe's. He squeezes.

"You're lucky that your mom is healthy," Joe says.

"Yeah, I am."

Joe says, "I think it's the slowness of the deterioration that bothers me most. I want to die like my father died. He keeled over in the fields. That's what he would've wanted. No hospitals. Just-boom. Done. Nature taking its course." Joe puts his hand over mine. "What about your father?"

"There was nothing natural about his death," I say. "He was hooked up to tubes and machines. The doctors were feeding him intravenously, and you know what Dad said? 'Needs a little salt.'"

Joe laughs. He puts his arm around me. I move closer to his body. Looking at Cooper River, Joe says, "I'm sorry that I didn't get to meet your dad."

Tears spring into my eyes. What is this with Joe? He says these sentimental things that make me all emotional. Blinking, I say, "You'd have liked my dad. And I'm sorry I didn't get to meet your father."

"Oh, he would have loved you." Joe leans his head against mine.

We sit quietly.

Eventually, I speak. "Fun date, huh?"

"It's not so bad. I like talking about my dad."

"Me, too. It's good to have you to talk to, Joe."

"Yeah? Well, I think we've had enough talking." Joe moves my head backward and puts his mouth on mine. We sit in the sun, kissing.

Mango Men "Joe is such a good kisser." Madeline has come to Cafe Louis for dinner, and I'm updating her on the Joe-Aaron situation. "Aaron's good, too."

Madeline is eating French fries for dinner. Even chefs eat junk food. Madeline points a fry at me. "Did you give them the mango test?"

"What's the mango test?" Christopher asks as he sashays down the counter.

"Is this a s.e.x thing?" Fly Girl appears from nowhere. "Tell me."

Madeline smiles. "If a man will eat a mango, he'll eat you."

"I'm going to vomit," Christopher says.