Marrying Mom Page 8

  “Oh my God.”

  Phyllis Geronomous emerged from the dressing room of the bedroom suite. Sig stared, her eyes popping, Susan Sarandon style. Sharon actually allowed her jaw to drop. “Are you my mother?” she asked.

  Phyllis did a slow pirouette. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she told them as Todd snapped her picture. The sateen coat with the matching sheath dress under it was in an indeterminate color, somewhere between lavender and gray. As she spun, the costly fabric’s subtle sheen flashed in a most unflashy way. Phyllis’s once-blond, frizzy hair was now coifed in the simple elegant bob and virtually all silver. Her makeup, immaculately applied, seemed nonexistent. Instead, her skin looked nourished with a sheen that rivaled the one on her dress. And instead of her usual turquoise eye makeup and clashing blue-red lipstick, there was only a hint of purplish shadow above her eyes, a shadow so natural that it enhanced the deep-set hood of her eyelids and could almost have been mistaken for her natural color—if she had any.

  Her lips glistened, though the color there again seemed no more than the blush of a healthy mouth. Around her neck a large—very large—double strand of gray pearls covered some of the still-visible ravages of time. The only glitter was reflected off the diamanté clasp of the necklace, worn chicly to the side, and the matching earrings, which twinkled at her cheekbones.

  “Oh my God!” Sig repeated. She managed to tear her eyes off the vision and looked at Bruce, proudly preening behind Phyllis. “You’re a genius,” she told her brother. He blushed, but Sig was too fascinated with her mother to notice.

  Phyllis’s legs were encased in some silken but magical mesh that managed to pick up the gleam of the coat and dress while also covering her varicose veins. The shoes were the finishing touch. Feminine, strappy sandals, they were ladylike, clearly expensive, and sexy all at once.

  “Are those Blahniks?” Sig breathed. Six hundred dollars a pair.

  “They’re cripplers,” Phyllis admitted. “I feel like Lady Astor’s pet horse.”

  Bruce got the movie look. “It’s just like the Ascot scene in My Fair Lady,” he breathed. “You know, when Audrey Hepburn looks beautiful, but she still speaks like a guttersnipe.”

  “Nice way to talk about your mother,” Phyllis complained genially and walked across the room to the table on which her evening bag lay.

  Even in her gait some Pygmalion-like transformation had taken place. Was it the shoes? Sig wondered. Or did Phyllis walk differently because she felt differently? Phyllis almost … glided. “Can you do that for me?” Sig asked Bruce. “I could meet a decent man if you’d do that for me.”

  Bruce nodded enthusiastically.

  “What about me?” Sharon asked, coming out of her trance.

  “Impossible,” Bruce told her. “I’m an artist, not a magician.”

  “Bruce, be nice.” Phyllis warned. She turned from the table, purse in hand. Phyllis looked her eldest daughter over.

  “So severe, and your skirt should be shorter,” Phyllis said, staring at Sig. “Never wear a white top and black bottoms to an affair,” she told Sig. “You’ll be mistaken for the help.”

  Sig looked down at her black and white Moschino Cheap & Chic. God, sometimes she felt like strangling her mother!

  “Okay. Now what?” Phyllis asked.

  “Now we take Cinderella to the ball and she meets the prince,” Bruce said.

  My maiden name was Steen. Can you imagine? Phyllis Steen.”

  The architect didn’t crack a smile. “One of the Cincinnati Steens? I built a home for them. They were in shipping.”

  “No, the Bushwick Steens. They were just in trouble.”

  “Excuse me?” Bernard Krinz said. He looked puzzled. Phyllis rolled her eyes.

  “It was a joke, Bernie.”

  “Bernard,” he said.

  Sig shifted in her chair. The Winter Wonderland Ball had transformed the already beautiful Grand Ballroom at the Plaza into a Viennese Christmas card. The chandeliers were hung with faux icicles, and the tables were set with tiny Blue Danubes, complete with weensy ice-skaters. The band was playing nothing but waltzes. But nothing else was going right. Sig was sitting on the other side of the architect, their mark, and she could already tell that dinner was not progressing as she’d hoped. They had arrived at the Plaza, taken their seats, and made sure to arrange it so that Phyllis sat beside Krinz, who had come unescorted. But the conversation so far had been a collection of missed jokes, gaffes, and general cross-purposes.

  “So, Bernie, have you decided to take early retirement?” Phyllis asked as Sig winced.

  “Bernard,” Krinz corrected again. “I prefer to be called Bernard.”

  “Why?” Phyllis asked. “Let’s face it, Bernie isn’t great, but Bernard! It’s hardly the name a woman would call out in the throes of passion.”

  Bernard Krinz deliberately turned to Sig, who tried to salvage what she could. “My mother admires your work so much,” Sig said. Krinz didn’t even blink. “She has a really large portfolio,” she gabbled, desperate to say something. “My brother’s best friend is doing a photography book about some of your buildings.” She meant to talk about how Phyllis had collected photos of all of Krinz’s buildings, but her Wall Street background got in the way. Krinz misunderstood and turned immediately back to Phyllis.

  “Oh. Do you dabble in the market? I’m absolutely fascinated by it.”

  “Dabble? No. I buy what I need and I get the hell out.”

  “So you’re a plunger!”

  “Are we talking shopping or are we talking plumbing?” Phyllis asked, momentarily confused.

  “I’m talking about your portfolio.”

  Phyllis shrugged. “Oh that. The kids filled it. For research. I don’t even know what’s in there.”

  “Really? I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You obviously have a sense of taste in style. Is that dress by Lacroix? They don’t come cheap.” He paused. “You know, many people think that those of us in the practical arts can’t be practical ourselves. But I take pride in the profitable little investments I’ve made. I don’t claim to be a professional, but I’d be happy to take a look at your portfolio, if you’d like me to.”

  “Forget about it,” Phyllis said, and then Bruce, at her other side, jabbed her sharply under the perfectly cut armhole of her sheath. He bent across her and turned to Krinz.

  “You know, Mother would really love that. We’ve said to her, over and over again, that she should show more interest in the market.”

  “When did you say that? You’re the one who always makes me throw out my coupons.”

  “Throw out your coupons?” Bernard said, really disturbed. “My dear, you do need some kind of assistance.”

  “That’s what my kids say: ‘You need help.’”

  Across the table a handsome older man laughed. He was probably seventy if he was a day, but he had a glowing tan, a head of mostly thick white hair, blue eyes, a noble profile, and, Sig noted, a very blond young woman with him who looked as if she was in her teens. Phyllis narrowed her eyes and stared at him and his very youthful companion. “I hope she’s your daughter,” Phyllis said loudly.

  “She’s not,” the man taunted.

  “Do you know one another?” Bernard asked. Phyllis shook her head. “Permit me.” Bernard did the introductions. “This is Paul Cushing. We go way back. I built a corporate headquarters building for him. They may do another.” He cleared his throat. “Paul, this is Phyllis Steen.”

  Paul Cushing laughed. “Somehow I already guessed that.”

  “You see! What a name. No wonder I married the first person who asked me!” Phyllis said. “I had to get married. Not for that reason. For a different name. Not that ‘Geronomous’ is any bargain. Sounds like I’m about to parachute-jump. Who knew then that you could go down to City Hall and change your birth certificate for twenty-five dollars?” She looked across at Cushing with contempt. “Have you seen that young lady’s birth certificate?” she asked.
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br />   Sig felt as if she were about to explode, but, luckily, Bernard Krinz tried to smooth the situation. “Mr. Cushing is the ex-president and chairman of Whetherall Industries.” He lowered his voice discreetly. “He’s also a widower.”

  “Well, I’m Phyllis Geronomous,” she told Cushing. “Ex-president of the Turnbury Island Ladies Canasta Club. Widow of Ira Geronomous. And who’s your little friend?”

  The girl beside Paul Cushing looked up. She giggled. “I’m Wendy. Wendy …”

  “Just Wendy,” Paul Cushing said, cutting her off and obviously rising to Phyllis’s bait.

  “Oh, First names only, huh?” Phyllis asked acidly.

  “Need-to-know basis,” Paul Cushing told her serenely.

  “What are you, the Man from UNCLE?” Phyllis looked the pretty young girl over. “I just hope she’s over eighteen, or you’re in trouble, mister.”

  “Mother,” Sig said, as a wide but insincere smile spread across her face. “I think Mr. Krinz wanted to tell you something.”

  “What’s your name?” Paul Cushing asked Sig.

  “Sigourney Geronomous.”

  “She’s too old for you,” Phyllis spit out. “She’s only half your age.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cushing,” Sig said, “my mother …”

  “Your mother is charming,” Paul Cushing interrupted smoothly. He was very handsome, Sig thought, despite his age, and the wrinkles around his blue eyes made him more attractive. Her own were already making her consider an eye job. Life was so unfair.

  “Mother is outspoken.”

  “I admire that in a woman,” Paul Cushing said. He looked at his young companion. “My granddaughter does, too.” Wendy giggled again. “What is it you do, Miss Geronomous? Or is it Mrs.?” he said to Sig.

  Sig saw Wendy glance at her left hand. She didn’t wear a wedding band, obviously, but on her fortieth birthday in a fit of despair, she had splurged and bought herself a fabulous emerald. She had realized then that no one else was going to buy one for her. She looked at it as an investment rather than just an indulgence. But it was an investment she could relish. She loved the ring and lost herself for a moment in extreme depths. “Miss,” she said. “And I’m a broker.”

  “Well, it’s my lucky day. I’m in the process of looking for a new apartment.”

  “I’m not that kind of broker.” The man turned her off. Residential real estate brokers were morons. Didn’t he know that? Sig did her best to make general conversation. She spoke about the Bonnard show she’d recently seen and a bit about market trends. She drew Wendy, the young girl, out about her figure skating. She tried hard to hint, from time to time, that her mother loved to dance, that she spent the season in Palm Beach doing it, but there were no takers.

  During all of this, Bernard Krinz and Bruce had been conversing. At last he was helping out, Sig thought with some relief as their coffee was served. Then, just as she was beginning to relax, the oddest thing happened. A stranger approached the table and, finally, it was he who asked Phyllis to dance. “I’d love to, Monty,” she said. Bruce and Sig looked at each other in surprise. The old man was short and tubby. His dinner jacket looked like it was from some other era.

  “Who is he?” Sig asked her mother as Phyllis stood up.

  “Oh, he’s Monty. Monty Dunleathe. The guy I told you about. The one I met on the plane.”

  Phyllis started to walk off with the codger. “The guy she met on the plane?” Bruce asked. “What guy?” Sig stood up and put her hand out in a gesture of unknowingness. A fat matron in an expensive beaded dress pushed past the table and put an empty glass in Sig’s outstretched hand.

  “See?” Phyllis said, her voice raised with satisfaction as she reached the dance floor. “She thought you were the hired help.”

  Before Sig could react, Paul Cushing addressed Sig. “I was about to ask your mother to dance, but it seems that someone beat me to it. Since my granddaughter doesn’t waltz, could I interest you?”

  He was asking something about dancing. Sig was flustered. She put down the glass. “Me?” she asked.

  Bruce nudged her. “Get his number,” Bruce whispered. “A backup for Mom. We’re going to need it.”

  “I’d love to,” Sig smiled at Mr. Cushing. But she felt a strange reluctance. Cushing was smiling back, making his way to her. “We don’t want him for Mom,” Sig hissed at Bruce. “We’ve already got Bernie.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work out,” Bruce told her as she walked away.

  “Don’t be so negative,” Sig criticized.

  “I’m not negative,” Bruce answered. “It’s just that I’m certain.” Paul joined Sig and took her hand.

  “How can you be certain?” Sig asked Bruce over her shoulder as Paul Cushing led her away.

  Bruce smiled. “Because Bernard just asked me to dance.”

  I told you it was stupid,” Sharon said as she lifted a toasted bagel with too much cream cheese to her mouth. The Sibs were eating in a diner close to Grand Central Station, for Sharon’s convenience, since she’d taken the train in from Westchester for a progress report after the ball the night before. The station was thronged with suburban Christmas shoppers; it was a nasty place to meet since it was also inconvenient for Bruce and Sig and the food was bad. “You can’t handle Mom as if she was a normal person,” Sharon went on. “She isn’t normal. I can’t believe the two of you didn’t expose her to some other guys. Who else was there?”

  “You try to manage a rodeo,” Sig snapped. “We’re ruined.” What was the use. Why complain or explain? They’d always thought of her as a moneybags, an endless font of financial flow. “I think it’s time for us to pack this project in. I must have been crazy. I’ve spent God knows what at the Pierre already.” She looked at Bruce bitterly. “That’s not counting designer dresses or Blahnik shoes, thank you very much.” She’d have to try to explain to them, even though it hurt her pride, the kind of financial shape she was in. She took a deep breath. “You know, since Black Monday things have been … well, dark gray. It’s not the eighties any more. I have fewer and fewer investors. I’m making money for everybody, thank God, but I have fewer people to make money for. That means fewer commissions.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we know all about it,” Bruce said dismissively.

  “Listen to me, you ignorant pooftah,” Sig said, her teeth clenched. “It wasn’t necessary to charge up eight thousand dollars to dress Mom up. It’s not like she appreciated it. I can’t bankroll this thing much longer. I’m going to have to pack her up out of that suite by Christmas. Where is she going to go then? Your house, Bruce?” Sig asked nastily. He recoiled. Sharon actually snickered at his discomfort.

  “Your house?” Sig asked Sharon, who visibly shriveled and looked away. “We had a perfect target,” Sig said. “Bernard Krinz. I spent three hundred bucks a plate just to get into that stupid party and sit beside him. I figured we might meet a fallback—Sharon, you might look up that Paul Cushing guy—but to find that Mother found a fallback, inappropriate as he was, well, that tears it. The guy was a loser, but at least he was heterosexual,” Sig said. “He wasn’t as damned inappropriate as Bernard was, Sharon.”

  Bruce sighed. “Sharon, didn’t you know that Bernie was gay? Wasn’t that on the Internet or in the Who’s Who or something?”

  “If he was married once before, he could be married once again,” Sharon said defensively.

  “But not to Mom. Not to our Mom,” Sig said bitterly. “She didn’t even try to cooperate for thirty seconds. We got her the haircut, the clothes. Even the shoes. And then she pissed Bernard off …”

  “Bernie,” Bruce corrected.

  Sig shot her brother a murderous look. “She pissed Bernard off from the very beginning. Plus she antagonized Paul Gushing. And then, even if we could cast around for another candidate, she wasted the rest of our evening and my money by dancing with some jerkoff in a suit that predated the War of 1812.” She paused and rubbed her head. “I’m pulling the plug on
this,” Sig said. “It’s hopeless.”

  “Paul Cushing?” Sharon asked. “Wasn’t he chairman of Whetherall?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he was the president of the Czechoslovakia,” Bruce said. “She accused him of statutory rape. You know, her usual dinner banter. He didn’t like Mom,” Bruce sighed. “He could join the club. It’s a large and distinguished group.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Bruce. I thought she piqued his interest,” Sig said.

  “Can’t you get in touch with reality?” Bruce asked Sig.

  “Can’t you be helpful and productive and practical? All those things I have to be,” Sig snapped back.

  “Oh, do I hear the martyr marimbas being played?” Bruce asked and began to mime Carmen Miranda while he sang to the tune of “Mañana.” “My name is Sig the eldest, and my life is very bad. My mother treats me difficult, and I am very sad. I have to pay out money; it’s money all the time. Nobody really likes me because martyrdom’s my crime.”

  Sig glared across the Formica table at Bruce, who put down the salt and pepper shakers he’d been using as castanets. To Bruce and Sharri’s complete surprise, tears welled up in Sig’s eyes and began to roll over her lids and down her carefully Renova-ed cheeks. Then she burst into loud, wet sobs. “What are we going to do?” she asked. “Mom can’t stay on at the Pierre for long and she can’t live in some hovel.” Sig sniffed and tried to control herself. “It’s not fair to the neighborhood. And I can’t afford an apartment for her. None of us want her living with us. This isn’t working,” she sobbed.

  In a moment, both Bruce and Sharon had moved to either side of Sig. Sharon offered her Kleenex. Bruce patted her hand. “I just can’t do it anymore.” Sig continued to sob. “I’m up to my neck in debt. My commissions have dropped off to almost nothing. I haven’t dared to use my Platinum American Express because I can’t pay a bill at the end of the month. I’m going to have to sell my apartment and auction off my emerald.” She took Sharon’s Kleenex, put it up to her nose, and hiccuped.

  Sharon and Bruce looked at each other in one of their few moments of bonding. “Broke. Yeah, right!” Bruce whispered. They’d been hearing Sig complain about money all their lives.