Marrying Mom Read online

  Barney nodded. That morning Sharon had told Sig that a bank was going to foreclose on their home next month if they couldn’t raise some money. Barney didn’t seem concerned. Sig leaned close to him, despite his intoxicating aroma. “Keep one eye on the children, Barney, or I’ll pluck out your other one and put it in your goddamn martini. Next to the olive.”

  Sig pushed past Barney into the kitchen. Mrs. Katz was putting the final touches on her angel food cake, a fantasy complete with a portrait of Phyllis, “Happy Birthday,” and a wreath of pastry posies encircling it all. Monty seemed to dote on Phyllis and, with any luck, this family gathering would be the opportunity to show off their loving family and put the pressure on him to make the move. More problematic was Phyllis. Despite the grand inquisition that the Sibs continually attempted, Phyllis hadn’t told them anything about the way she felt. But what else was new? Who knew what she would do in the face of a proposal? There was no doubt she enjoyed Monty, but she still persisted in doing nothing but wisecracking at him and ducking all their questions.

  “Please, Mrs. Katz,” Sig begged. “Please finish that up.”

  “Good doesn’t mean fast,” Mrs. Katz said.

  Sig was called out to the dining room, where Sharon was overseeing the table and deeply confused. “How many for dinner?” she asked. It had been hard to find anyone appropriate to invite. Phyllis had been feuding with her sister for thirty-five years, so their aunt and uncle were out of the question. She’d never spoken to her in-laws, Ira’s side of the family. Sig had resorted to inviting Phillip Norman. She’d also invited Bernard Krinz. What the hell. And then Sig had remembered Paul Cushing and her invitation to him and his granddaughter. To her delight, he’d accepted. With a little luck, he might also be attentive to Phyllis and push Monty over the edge into a proposal. It seemed that Bernard’s presence had some kind of effect like that on Todd, who was more attentive to Bruce than Sig had ever seen. Anyway, if Cushing didn’t work as a ploy, Monty could be dumped, and Paul Cushing looked like a very good next candidate.

  Bruce was helping his mother prepare for the festivities. Preparing her toilette wasn’t getting any easier. “So? How’s it going with Todd?” she asked as she twitched and fidgeted while he attempted to do her makeup.

  Bruce sighed. “It isn’t easy being gay in the nineties.”

  “Hey, it’s easier than being gay in the fifties. And you think straight people don’t also have problems? You think Monty is perfect? Do you think I should tell him I’m really going to be seventy? I mean …”

  “No, he’s not perfect. Definitely don’t tell him your true age. I never tell anyone mine. I don’t think it matters to him. But don’t take chances. He’s very rich.”

  “Rich, schmitch. Brucie, he’s nice to me. He makes me laugh. He’s kind. Okay, he wouldn’t know a kre-plach from a doorknob, but he’s a good person.”

  “So? Will you marry him?”

  “He hasn’t asked me,” Phyllis said coyly.

  “But if he does?”

  “Well, I think he loves me …”

  “Nobody loves me that I love back,” Bruce admitted. “Not even you.”

  “Bruce Geronomous! How can you say that? Don’t you know that I love you? Of course I do. You think I put on control top pantyhose just to get a rich husband? I did it to please you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Because you’ve always liked slim. Audrey Hepburn. You with those movies. How many times did you watch Audrey Hepburn in Charade? Let’s face it, you liked her better than me.”

  Bruce nodded. “I loved her. She would have been perfect for me if she was a guy.”

  Phyllis took Bruce’s face in her hands. “Honey, nobody is perfect for anybody. Not Ira. Not Monty. Not this Todd. Not even Audrey Hepburn, she should rest in peace.”

  “So you won’t marry Monty? You don’t believe in true love?”

  “No, Bruce. I believe in true compromise. Be nice to Todd. Don’t tease him. It sounds like he’s nice to you.”

  The party was in full swing. Well, perhaps it would be more accurate to say half swing, but it was as swinging as it was going to get, Sig realized. Phyllis had sung her favorite song while doing an imitation of Bea Lillie. One of the problems was that virtually nobody remembered Bea Lillie, so even a good imitation—which Phyllis’s probably was—was wasted. But the song, “There Are Fairies at the Bottom of the Garden” went over really well with Todd, Bruce, Bernard, and the children. And Monty, as he always did, laughed hard and smacked his thighs.

  Monty had convinced Mrs. Katz to have another lethal whisky sour and she’d become as frisky as a mating whale. “And who are you?” Sylvia Katz asked, turning to Paul Cushing. “Do you come down to Florida much?” Paul admitted that he didn’t. “Where’s your wife?” Sylvia asked archly.

  “Sylvia, forget about it,” Phyllis told her, taking her by the arm and pulling her back into Monty’s presence.

  Sylvia put out her hand. “You know, the birthday girl is quite a catch. The men in Florida were crazy about Phyllis,” she said. “They couldn’t get their wheelchairs over to her fast enough.”

  Monty laughed, though Sylvia was serious. “I have no need of a chair, you’ll see. But I do have a need for Phyllis.” He took Phyllis’s arm, tucked it under his own and looked at the three Sibs. “There’s a poem I’d like to recite,” he began. Bruce visibly restrained Todd from getting up from their seat on Sig’s white divan to take another photo. Monty stood and, like a schoolboy back in Glasgow, put his hands straight at his sides, ready to declaim to Phyllis. He began Andrew Marvell’s poem, “To His Coy Mistress”:

  “Had we but world enough, and time,

  This coyness, lady, were no crime.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Sig,” Bruce whispered. “He called Mom a lady. Do you think she’s going to go ballistic?”

  “Shut up, I think this is the big moment,” Sig told him.

  Monty continued.

  “I would

  Love you ten years before the Flood,

  And you should, if you please, refuse

  Till the conversion of the Jews.

  My vegetable love should grow

  Vaster than empires, and more slow.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Sharon whispered. “Does he want her to change her religion?”

  “What’s vegetable love?” Barney asked. “Is the guy drunk or perverted?”

  “Shh.” Sig silenced them.

  “But at my back I always hear

  Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;

  And yonder all before us lie

  Deserts of vast eternity.”

  “Nice and cheerful,” Bruce said. But Sig looked over and noticed that Phyllis looked enraptured.

  “Then worms shall try

  That long preserved virginity,

  And your quaint honor turn to dust,

  And into ashes all my lust.

  The grave’s a fine and private place,

  But none, I think, do there embrace.”

  Monty ended with a flourish.

  “Really cheerful,” Todd commented. “Did he write that?”

  “What did they teach you in high school?” Bruce asked Todd.

  Todd shrugged. “I must have been out that day,” he said.

  Sylvia was wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. Monty turned to Phyllis and took her hand. Then he turned back to her children. “I’d like to ask for your permission to marry your mother,” he said. “I won’t do it if you have any objections—out of respect for your father and all. I’d understand, but I love Phyllis and at our age, we don’t have time to waste. I have no family; I wasn’t lucky enough to have children, but I’ve always felt family is the most important thing.” He got misty-eyed. “I like you all and I’d be very gratified if you could think of me as part of this family.”

  “He wants dysfunction?” Bruce whispered, but Sig ignored him. She held her breath and looked at her mother.

  “We would like that ver
y much, Monty,” Sig said. “But of course, it’s up to Mom.”

  Monty turned back to Phyllis and pulled out a blue velvet box. He popped the lid and even from across the room the Sibs could see the sparkle of a huge centered diamond and large triangular baguettes at the side. Phyllis looked at the ring and looked back at Monty. For a moment, Sig’s stomach lurched and she thought Phyllis was going to crack wise and reject Monty’s offer. Then—miracle of miracles—Phyllis stood and began to recite herself.

  “As my son, the compromiser, would put it:

  “Roses are red,

  Kids like a toy,

  I’m saying, ‘Yes.’

  I’ll marry the goy.”

  Sig let out her breath. Bruce, Todd, and Sharon cheered. Barney raised his glass and Paul Cushing clapped. Sylvia began, again, to cry. It was a beautiful thing, Sig thought—by tomorrow she might be able to tell the hotel that her mother was leaving.

  Phyllis slid the ring onto her finger. It was enormous. She held her hand out and grinned. “It’s bigger than my knuckles are,” she said. “And they get bigger every year.”

  Monty kissed her and it was a real wet one. “I’ll replace it as often as necessary with one even bigger,” Monty told her. His affection was obvious. For some reasons tears welled up in Sig’s eyes.

  At that moment, she caught sight of Paul Cushing, who was looking at her from across the room. He nodded and smiled. And he lifted his glass to her. “May I propose a toast?” he asked. And everybody turned to him. “To Phyllis and Monty. When you love somebody, anything is possible.” He winked at Sig, but in the moment before he did, Sig had seen something in Paul’s blue eyes: sympathy, affection, or perhaps pity. Sig shuddered before she lifted. her glass with all the others.

  Do you think he’ll want a prenup?” Sig asked her brother. She was on her headset phone from work, but it was just after four P.M.—when everyone on Wall Street turned into dinosaurs. She herself felt like chopped liver—but she had just enough energy left to discuss the possibility that her mother was actually going to marry a very wealthy man.

  “You know, our plan worked,” Bruce said, as if reading her mind. “I bet we could do anything if we worked together.”

  “Yeah, but it isn’t going to happen overnight and we still have to survive.” Because she was using her headset phone her hands were free. Sig stretched out her hand. She stared at her emerald ring. She thought of her mother’s huge diamond, the new one that Monty had given her. Sig sighed. She’d feel naked and vulnerable without it, but it was her only valuable piece. It could pay for the Pierre and Mom’s clothes and maybe even her back mortgage payments. “So? You think he’ll want a prenup?” she repeated.

  “I don’t think Monty’s that kind of guy,” Bruce said. “He’s old-fashioned. I mean, the Scots aren’t known for their open-handed generosity, but they don’t like to go to lawyers the way we do.”

  “We have to tell Mom not to sign anything.”

  “Oh yeah. Like she takes direction well!” Bruce laughed.

  Sig laughed, or approximated one. She looked down at the comforting green depths of her ring. “Look, whatever happens that way, the whole thing is a miracle.”

  “Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “Plus, I’m starting to get emergency reorders. The cards are selling. I was right. I feel so light I’m walking en pointe. I look like the goddamned sugar plum fairy.”

  “Well, you’re my goddamned sugar plum fairy, and I love you,” Sig told him, feeling a flood of affection for her kooky brother.

  “Oh, I bet you say that to all your queer brothers,” Bruce replied, but he sounded pleased. “Anyway, gotta go. I’m meeting with Bernard Krinz. I actually think he’s going to invest some money in the business. I need it to deliver the new orders fast. Not to mention that Bernard’s made Todd sit up and take notice of me. It’s a beautiful thing. I figure I can be profitable again by gay Valentine’s Day.”

  “Great,” Sig told him. “Good luck with Bernard and Todd,” and disconnected the phone, but it rang again almost immediately and Sig, her headset still on, hit the connect button. It was probably the cage, confirming some of her sales. It had been a very busy day.

  “So, you won’t believe this,” Sharon’s voice brayed into Sig’s ear. “I just got a call from Mr. Moneybags and he and Mom are planning to come up and spend the day.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “Huh? It’s a lot nicer than nice,” Sharon said vehemently. “Monty suggested that we go over to tour Jessie’s school. He said he’d heard I could use some help with the school fees. He says he wants to endow the place.”

  “That’s wild,” Sig said. The guy must really like her mother, she thought, then felt a pang. No one, no man, had tried to please her that way in a long, long time. “When you asked him, he just said yes?” she inquired.

  “I didn’t ask. He just offered.” Sharon sounded wheezy with delight. “That’s not all. He also says he wants to talk to Barney about a job in his company.”

  “This is a Christmas miracle,” Sig breathed.

  “Speaking of Christmas, are you going to come up here tonight for Jessie and Travis’s Hanukkah party? It is the last night of Hanukkah. You know they’ll want their Aunt Sig here. And I’m making latkes.”

  Sig nearly groaned aloud. Fried potato pancakes were just what Sharri needed more of, Sig thought. “Is Bruce coming?” she asked, hedging for time.

  “Yeah. He’s promised her the new Barbie.”

  “What Barbie is left?” Sig asked. “Bisexual Barbie? She comes with both Skipper and Ken?”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Sharon said. “I don’t know, but Jessie’s so excited she threw up this morning.”

  That’s always the omen of a good time to come, Sig thought. At least the party wasn’t going to be held on her carpet. “Okay,” she said wearily, “I’ll come.”

  “Great. Barney will pick you up at five.”

  Sig had just taken off her headset when the phone rang again. If it was an order, no matter what the size, she’d tell them to call back Monday. She placed the gear on her head and pressed the connect button. The voice on the other end was deep.

  “Sigourney? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Paul Cushing. I need to talk to you.”

  “Now is fine.”

  “No. I need to see you in person.”

  Sig thought of the latke party and her shopping. “How about Monday?” she asked.

  “Why don’t I drop by your apartment Monday night?” he said. “It’s important.” What was that about? she wondered, but she had too much to do.

  Sig spent the rest of the time making calls to her mortgage broker, the co-op board, and the loan officer at Citibank. It took her more than three hours, but before she was done she had managed to talk everybody into believing she’d get current in her payments within two weeks. She’d made her decision: she’d have to sell the ring, and then the apartment, but she’d do what she had to do and a Merry Christmas to all.

  There was one more call she had to make, though she couldn’t bear it. She lifted the phone and dialed Sotheby’s and asked for Mr. Grenville. She was put on hold. The telephone music was playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and it was just ending. Then, to Sig’s despair, she heard the drum intro for “The Little Drummer Boy.” Sig immediately covered the earpiece so she wouldn’t have to be tortured any further. When Mr. Grenville was put through, Sig released her hand and began by reintroducing herself. Hesitantly, she said, “I think I would consider selling the emerald now.”

  “Ah. A fine stone. And our pre-Christmas sale would be the time to sell it. But you’ll have to hurry. It’s too late to be in the catalog.”

  Sig looked down at her finger. It’s only a little piece of colored glass, she tried to tell herself, then sighed. No man had ever given her a ring, and now she had to give up the one she’d given herself. “I’d like to put it in the auction,” Sig said.

  With some money
in sight she took a cab uptown to Takashimaya, the chic Japanese department store on Fifth Avenue. The tearoom on the lower ground floor was the only place Sig could go to during this season and have a guarantee she wouldn’t be accosted with any version of “The Little Drummer Boy.”

  After a snack, Sig needed to focus on her holiday gift shopping. She’d do it all there. She still had most of the cash she’d taken out, and she’d use her credit cards if she had to. She had decided on a beautifully packaged box of green teas for Barney, who, as far as she knew, didn’t drink tea; an Italian silk scarf for Sharon, since scarves came in only one size; a long, hand-knit muffler for Bruce in an absolutely killing smoky color; and finally, resentfully, a cleverly designed pair of rubbers for Mrs. Katz. Sig hoped they would fit over the socks and sandals.

  That left only her mother and, exhausted and fighting the holiday crowd, Sig made her way up Fifth Avenue, past Bendel’s, Doubleday’s, and Trump Tower. She easily passed up Tiffany’s. After all, with that doorknob that Monty had given her mother, it looked like Phyllis wouldn’t need any jewelry. Sig sighed, looked at her own ring, and got as far as Bergdorf Goodman. She decided to step in. There had to be something marvelous there for her mother, the woman who was about to have everything.

  Sig entered through the Fifty-seventh Street revolving door but found herself awash in a tide of purposeful shoppers. She passed through the accessory department, passed the leather goods, and lingered only a moment in the perfume hall before taking the elevator upstairs. She walked around the third floor, where the crowd was thinned out by the prices and the intimidating help, until she found herself in the back corner, where luxe carpeting and two antique fauteuils sat invitingly. “Bridal Salon” said the sign, and Sig found herself walking into the hushed holy of holies. There, a mannequin stood in a satin and tulle fairy-tale creation. Sig stopped and stared, her breath caught, her eyes devouring the beautiful dress. She’d never worn one, but if she ever had, she wished it had been this one. “Can I help you?” the heavy, middle-aged saleswoman asked. Sig jumped and turned to face her. “Are you looking for a mother-of-the-bride dress?” the woman asked politely.