Marrying Mom Read online

  All at once Sig felt both a thousand years old and as vulnerable as an infant. “No,” she said. “I’m the daughter of the bride,” and then surprised herself and the saleswoman by bursting into noisy tears.

  Phyllis and Sylvia, bundled up tightly against the December chill, were walking up Madison Avenue. “This,” Phyllis said, “is where the really rich people shop.”

  “Not Fifth Avenue?” Sylvia asked.

  “Nah,” Phyllis told her as she took her friend’s arm and helped her avoid a fast-strutting matron holding a Yorkie under her arm. “This is the place. And it’s the last day of Hanukkah. I’m going to get myself a present—a trousseau.”

  Phyllis had always kept a little money aside. It had been her habit from the very earliest days of marriage to Ira. Though she’d worked with him all those years, he’d never paid her a salary. She had merely asked for the housekeeping money and managed to put a little bit of it away. Over forty-seven years it had added up. Of course she’d had to use it from time to time, but only bits, and only for things like gifts for the children or a surprise trip with Ira. She was frugal. Even now, when she had just a modest amount coming in, she managed always to put aside a little bit at the end of each month. She’d been afraid she might have to use the money for private nursing, or that the government would get it if she had some catastrophic illness. Now, instead of waiting for a rainy day Phyllis was going to spend it—well, maybe not all of it, but plenty, and she was going to spend it on a trousseau. She and Ira had gotten married right after the war when there was still a shortage of lots of things, especially money. She had never had a trousseau, but she was determined to come to Monty, her fiancé, her lover-to-be, with all the accoutrements a bride should have with her.

  Sylvia looked around at the fur-clad holiday shoppers. “I think we could do better at the Saw Grass Mall.”

  Phyllis laughed. She’d learned a few things watching her son make her over. “Natural fabrics, Sylvia,” she said. “And we’re starting from the panties out. Monty’s seen your underwear, but he hasn’t seen mine.”

  “Bernard saw mine, too,” Sylvia said with a dreamy smile.

  When they passed the window full of negligees, Phyllis stopped in her tracks. Silk with the iridescence of butterfly wings was mated with lace as frothy as sea foam. Sylvia followed her friend’s eyes. “Do you think it’s machine washable?” she asked. But without even answering, Phyllis moved toward the door like a somnambulist.

  She bought it all. All of it and a silk bathrobe in a pinky champagne color that made her look sixty again. She didn’t question the outrageous prices, she didn’t look at the sale rack. She did none of her usual moves. She merely pointed at the most beautiful things, had them wrapped, and paid for them. And the adventure of it all was heightened by the idea that only Monty would see her in this new garb.

  “Spending money is exhausting,” Sylvia Katz said as she took a booth seat at Three Guys coffee shop on Madison.

  “How would you know?” Phyllis asked as she slid into the seat opposite.

  Phyllis herself had bought three pairs of extraordinary lace undies, two matching bras, and the most beautiful nightgown she’d ever seen. They had cost her almost a thousand dollars, but she hadn’t winced. Instead, she’d imagined the look on Monty’s face when she stood before him. Her only regret was that she hadn’t ever felt this way before, and that the body under the fabrics would not be nearly as silky as the garments themselves. She sighed.

  “Phyllis, are you having regrets?” Sylvia asked, and then, before Phyllis could explain, ordered an egg salad sandwich from the harried waitress.

  Phyllis herself ordered a BLT without mayo. “I’m going to get myself a new coat and a hat to match,” she announced to her friend. “And maybe a bag.” She looked across the table at the huge, battered, ugly purse that Sylvia, as always, was schlepping. “I’ll buy one for you, too,” Phyllis said. What the hell, she was spending this much, she might as well spend a little more.

  “Oh, no,” Sylvia protested. “When Sid left me, this is all he left me with.” Sylvia paused. “Do you think this Monty will be nice to you? I mean, really nice?”

  “I think so,” Phyllis said. “It’s very odd. It seems to me like Ira loved me, and put up with who I was because of it. But Monty loves me because of who I am. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “No,” Sylvia admitted and reached for the egg salad sandwich plate that the waitress was handing off.

  For a moment, Phyllis was flooded with pity for her friend. Loving Monty had given her more compassion and more generosity. “Hey, you want some dessert?” she asked. “Lunch is on me. I’ll blow ya.”

  “Delicious,” Monty exclaimed, and gave a pat to his mustache where singed bits of potato pancake still hung. The holiday meal had been hideous, the latkes inedible and the salad sandy, and all of the embarrassment complicated by the fabulous gifts Monty had dispensed to the whole company, putting Sig’s in the shade. Then there was the endless stream of apologies from Sharon, who absolutely demanded insincere but constant reassuring response.

  “I think I’ll slit my throat,” Sig whispered to Bruce.

  “Before you wear that Hermés scarf?” Bruce asked. He was distractedly stroking the suede jacket he’d been given.

  “All right. I’ll wear it tonight going home. Then I’ll slit my throat.”

  Bruce nodded. “When I go home, I’m going to have seventeen hysterical messages from Todd, who is convinced that I’m having an affair with Bernard.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that kind of a boy. I always go for looks over money. It’s my curse.”

  “Speaking of looks over money, I think things are looking good between Monty and Mom.”

  “I sure hope so. I wouldn’t eat one of Sharon’s latkes for less than the opportunity to inherit a million dollars.”

  At that moment, Monty cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “It was a wonderful meal.” He rose from the table. “Thank you, mine host.” He smiled at Barney. “And now, if you’ll step into the living room, I have a little proposal I’d like to discuss with you, son. I think you need to keep busy.”

  Bruce and Sig exchanged looks. “Son?” Bruce asked.

  “Oh my God,” Sig said. “He is going to offer Barney a job.”

  “Pur-rump-a-pum-pum,” Bruce said.

  When Monty arrived at the Pierre after the latke party, he was dressed in his evening wear, except for the Murray’s Space Shoes on his feet. “Well, you look snazzy,” Phyllis said, and realized how out of date the word was. For the first time in close to fifty years she felt as self-conscious as an adolescent. “Have you got special plans?” she asked.

  “I do,” Monty told her and leered at her in a most attractive way. Though he was bald, and more overweight than he should be for his health, Monty exuded a kind of self-possession that made him attractive, even sexy.

  There was a knock at the suite door, though Phyllis wasn’t expecting anyone. “May I?” Monty asked and went through the foyer and opened the door to reveal Bernard Krinz.

  The architect actually entered the room smiling, then scanned it. For once his handshake didn’t feel like that of a used car salesman hoping to close a deal. He seemed, instead, enthusiastic—even impatient. For a panicky moment Phyllis thought Bernie was looking for her, but then Mrs. Katz came out of the bedroom, out of her lumpy sweater and in a beaded dress. Monty put his hand on Krinz’s shoulder and gave it a hearty squeeze.

  “Well,” he said, “Metropolitan Opera opening night, the best box in the house, and a lovely woman to enjoy it with. Wagner isn’t my favorite, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  Phyllis turned to Sylvia in complete bewilderment, but Sylvia seemed dressed and ready, as if she knew all about it. Bernard helped her on with her voluminous coat and her ever-present purse. It wasn’t until they had gone that Monty turned to Phyllis and smiled. “More costly than buying off my little b
rother with a chocolate bar, but it is a guaranteed five hours of absence and privacy.” Then he leaned toward Phyllis and put one hand over her shoulder and against the wall, so she was imprisoned between his bulk and the window at her right. She knew he was about to kiss her—a real kiss, a kiss that mattered and might lead to other things, and she felt a flutter in her chest that wasn’t angina. It had been a long time since she’d been really kissed, and she wasn’t sure how she would react.

  At that moment the suite bell rang again. Monty raised his brows, smiled, and answered it. This time three waiters, one with a wheeled table, one with champagne (two bottles) and ice buckets, and the last with a tray of savories paraded into the room. “I thought we might dine in,” Monty said. The head-waiter set up the table and, with a flourish, was about to lay the pink linen napkin on Phyllis’s lap when Monty stopped him. “Thank you, but no. I’ll take care of her,” he said, dismissing all the staff. “If we need you, we’ll call.”

  Monty had ordered everything. Oysters for himself, her favorite melon for starters. The fruit tasted wonderful with the champagne Monty fed her. Phyllis had never been babied in this way. When there was any taking care of to be done, she took care of it. She took care of the children when they were little, she took care of the business and Ira when he was sick, and she took care of all the extended family members when they were grieving. Now there was someone who had ordered her dinner, down to her favorite salad, and had even noticed the salad dressing she preferred. Monty was a man who paid attention. “I’m not used to this,” Phyllis admitted.

  “Well, you better get used to it,” Monty said and spooned the last one of his oysters into her mouth. “It’s fun to treat you really well.” He smiled a wicked grin. “I have an idea.” He stood up, leaving the rest of dinner and the unused cups and the silver coffeepot which was being kept warm by a Sterno can. “I don’t think we need more food now,” he said. “I think all we need is time.”

  He took her hand and Phyllis felt a tingle, a buzz so electric that she almost giggled aloud. The man was seventy-four years old and totally mad, but she responded. Yet at the same time as she felt his heat for her rising and being matched by her own, she felt a certain reluctance. It was shyness, and even a little fear.

  As if he sensed her hanging back, Monty encircled her in his arms. “‘We are old, Father William,’” he said, misquoting some ancient poem Phyllis could barely remember. “I don’t want to rush you, but I do want you.”

  “You do?” Phyllis asked, both shy and coy. She liked to hear him say it. She liked everything about this old man.

  “I want you to sleep with me,” Monty said, nuzzling her ear. “My performance may not be what it once was, but every now and then …” His voice was husky. “I don’t believe in long engagements, do you?” Phyllis nodded and let Monty lead her slowly into the bedroom.

  He kissed her at the threshold and then led her to the bed, laid her down, and gently took off her shoes. “I’m a little nervous,” Phyllis admitted.

  “Only a little?” Monty asked and laughed. “At our ages the tables have turned. You can’t lose your virginity, but I can easily lose my pride.” He bent over and kissed Phyllis, just a brief kiss, but he still tasted of oysters, champagne, and something else. Then, matter-of-factly, he sat down on the side of the bed.

  He took Phyllis’s hand in his own. “Do you know what I’ve learned in the last five decades about sex?” he asked. Phyllis, still self-conscious, shook her head.

  “What I’ve learned is that there’s a lot that goes into loving a woman that most men are too impatient to bother with. Age has stolen a lot from me, Phyllis my dear. But it’s granted me patience.” He bent over and kissed her again, this time deeply. “I can promise you two things: that you have nothing to be embarrassed about and that, in the end, you’re going to have a very, very good time with me.”

  And he was right.

  It was only two mornings later that Sig was awakened by wild knocking on her door, interspersed with equally wild buzzing of her buzzer. No one gets up this early on Sundays in New York. “What? What?” she mumbled grumpily and managed to wrap a mohair shawl around herself to get to the relentless noise of the door. Only nine shopping days ‘til Christmas and she had to be bothered with this?

  Sharon, panting, her face red, stood beside Bruce, who was as deadly pale as an Irishman’s ass. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is Mom all right?”

  “No,” Sharon said.

  “Oh my God, is she …”

  “It’s not that,” Bruce rapped out. “She hasn’t had a stroke. I’m going to. Monty’s checks have bounced, both for my business and for the school contribution.”

  “What?” Sig croaked. “That’s impossible. What about Montana? What about the airline? What about the Guinness heiress?”

  “Fake. All fake,” Bruce told her. “Except the heiress. He married her and bled her dry. He’s a fortune hunter. He met Mom on the flight from Florida in first class. He must have been trolling for a rich widow.”

  “Mom flew first class?” Sig asked. She put her hand up to her head. The three of them were still standing in her doorway. Sig bent down to pick up the Sunday Times from the doorstep. She’d have to check to be sure her ad for the apartment was listed. “Come in,” she said. “Come in.” Bruce and Sharon filed past her, Sharon’s shoulders hunched. They sat down in the living room. “Okay,” Sig said, feeling more tired than she ever had in her life. “Start from the beginning.”

  “The statistical genius over here got it wrong. Her data, as they say in the market research business, was severely compromised,” Bruce grimaced. “Monty is penniless. He invested his wife’s money in his airline. It went bankrupt more than a decade ago. He’s been living on credit and loans ever since. Copernicus, here, had the numbers wrong.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault,” Sharon cried. “Mom picked him out, not me.”

  “Where is Mom?” Sig asked and she felt both a fluttering in her stomach and the beginning of that feeling she got when her throat closed.

  “I guess she’s still at the Pierre,” Bruce said.

  Sig groaned and visibly shuddered. What was the bill there going to be? She’d dropped off her ring for auction, but now, even with its sale, her prospects of keeping her home and straightening out her life were worse than ever. She couldn’t stave off the despair. “Okay,” she said with a studied air of calmness she didn’t feel. “I have a plan: first we kill Monty. Then Bruce, you kill Sharon while I kill myself.”

  “And nobody kills Mom? What kind of plan is that?” Sharon bleated. “It was her fault. This Monty was hers,” Sharon said.

  Bruce ignored his suburban sister. “It just might work,” Bruce told Sig, then patted her now bare hand comfortably. “Sharon, if you want to, you can kill Mom before I kill you.”

  Sharon began to cry. “It wasn’t my fault,” she repeated.

  “Oh, shut up,” Bruce told her. “Everything’s always been your fault.”

  “It is not. It wasn’t my fault Barney turned down the job with Monty.”

  “He turned down the job?” Sig asked. “Is he crazy?” Bruce looked at her. “Rhetorical question,” she assured him. “Did he really turn down the job?”

  “He said it was beneath him. It was only middle management, something in the marketing department. He said he wouldn’t lower himself to less than vice president.”

  “My God! He’s been downsized and out of work for close to two years and he turns anything down?” Sigourney asked.

  Bruce shrugged. “Just as well. It was a fake, I’m sure.”

  Before this grousing degenerated into a full frontal attack, Sig pulled herself up. “Enough,” she said. “I’ll be dressed in four and a half minutes.”

  “What are we doing?” Sharon asked.

  “We’re going to the Pierre to have a little heart-to-heart with Mom.”

  The dark, glossy door to the Pierre suite looked solid as a castle portcullis. They’d
rung the bell three times and now banged on the door. “I feel like Westley rescuing Buttercup in The Princess Bride,” Bruce said.

  Sig looked at him grimly. “You’re the only princess around here,” she snapped. “No time for your movieolas now. And Westley would have had the door down by now.”

  “We’ll have to call security.” Bruce shrugged.

  “Excellent plan. I need some security,” Sig murmured. Then they heard a rustling, and the peephole eye was filled. The door swung open and Mrs. Katz stood there, clad in a fluffy Pierre robe. “So early?” Mrs. Katz asked. She cleared her throat. “Maybe you should come back later.”

  Sig pushed the door open all the way and strode past Mrs. Katz, the useless freeloader. How much had her visit cost Sig? The other two Sibs followed. Sig got as far as the living room, which was disordered by newspapers, a blanket on the sofa, and the remains of a small room service repast, when Mrs. Katz caught up with her. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Sig gave her one of her looks and walked on to the bedroom door. Her hand was on the doorknob. “Don’t you believe in privacy?” Mrs. Katz asked protectively.

  “Don’t you?” Sig retorted. “You came up here and moved in on my mother. You’ve stuck to her like glue. What privacy did you give her?”

  Mrs. Katz raised her brows in hurt surprise. Then, “Plenty,” she said, shrugged and turned her back. “You’ll see.”

  Sig threw the bedroom door open. Bruce and Sharri were right behind her. Before her their mother, her hair disordered but her face composed, lay in the crook of Montague Dunleathe’s hairy old arm. “Oh my God!” Sharri said and threw her hands up over her eyes.