Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  She takes a deep breath. “I promised I’d tell you tonight what’s going on with my mother.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Some of Shanelle’s story I’ve heard in the past. That she grew up in Dallas with her mom and maternal grandparents, no dad in sight. That her mom gave birth to Shanelle when she was seventeen, the age I was when I gave birth to Rachel. That she and her mother, who never married, moved to Mississippi when Shanelle was sixteen, after both her grandparents died.

  Outside our floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan pulses. The nighttime cityscape is as different from Biloxi as different can be. Yet as Shanelle speaks, I am transported to that small city on the Gulf Coast, ravaged by Hurricane Katrina but risen again, beckoning with sandy beaches and Civil War history.

  “What’s going on with your mom that has you so worried?” Trixie murmurs.

  Shanelle’s eyes are sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “For the last few weeks, out of the blue, she hasn’t been herself. She’s been really distracted. She can’t focus on anything, not the simplest thing. And she is so closed off. I mean, she’s always been private, but she’s more withdrawn than ever. I have never seen her like this.”

  I rub Shanelle’s leg. “You said earlier she might be ill.”

  Shanelle can’t speak for a few moments, and when she does a tear spills from her eye. “The thing is, my grandmother died when she was my mom’s age. Fifty-two. She died of leukemia.”

  Trixie and I glance at each other. We both see where this is headed. Trixie’s voice is soft. “What exactly are you worried about, Shanelle?”

  It takes Shanelle a while to speak again. Then: “I hate even to say it. But I’m worried my mom has leukemia just like Grandma did.”

  She collapses in sobs, which of course sets off Trixie and me. It’s impossible, at least for me, to see a dear friend cry and not be moved to tears myself.

  Finally Shanelle is again able to speak. “My grandma died when I was ten. It was horrible. I don’t want my mom to go through that. And she’s so young! She should have decades more.”

  I lay my hand on Shanelle’s leg. “I totally get why you’re so worried, but maybe it’s not as bad as you think. I mean, is your mom actually saying she feels sick or going to the doctor a lot?”

  “She’s not saying she feels sick. She refuses to say anything when I ask. And if she were going to the doctor, I wouldn’t know unless she told me. I’m not with her all that much, between work and Lamar and Devon—”

  She throws back her head. “It’s just that it would be so like her to get bad news and not say a word. So I wouldn’t worry.” Her voice catches on a sob. “As if I’m not worried now! I just can’t bear the thought that I might lose her.”

  “Don’t go there,” Trixie says. “It certainly sounds like there’s something wrong, but I agree with Happy that it might not be that bad. Don’t jump to the worst possible conclusion.”

  “What advice did you give me yesterday?” I say. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

  “I think you need to know more,” Trixie says. “Maybe give your mom a call tomorrow and try to get her to confide in you.”

  “You think I haven’t tried to get her to open up?” Shanelle cries. “She won’t!”

  “I bet your mom felt like she had to be strong all your life,” I say. “Because she had to be both your parents. Maybe try telling her that things are different now, that she can lean on you.”

  “Tell her you want her to lean on you,” Trixie says. “That you really want her to trust you that way. And, you know, that’s a transition we all have to make if our parents live long enough.”

  Shanelle thinks for a while. Then: “Well, tomorrow is Saturday, so my mom will be off work. That makes her more relaxed, usually.”

  Another idea occurs to me. “Maybe over the phone she’ll tell you something she wasn’t able to say to your face.”

  Shanelle’s lips tremble and again she dissolves in tears. A few weepy moments follow, but in a strange way they’re wonderful moments, too, to be with my BFFs sitting in the dark and sharing life’s ups and downs, which I hope we’ll be doing long after we trade our stilettos for sensible shoes.

  “Crying is good for a person,” Trixie asserts as she returns from the bathroom with tissues. “Tears have fluid in them that kills ninety-five percent of bacteria within ten minutes. I read it online.”

  “Then it must be true,” I say, and we trade tears for giggles.

  “I don’t know about killing bacteria,” Shanelle says, sniffling, “but I do always feel better after a good cry.”

  “Tears remove toxins, too,” Trixie says. “Especially the tears you cry when you’re upset. Not so much the tears you cry for other reasons. Like when you’re peeling onions.”

  We debate the likely veracity of that online wisdom as we moisturize anew. I cried enough that I’m sure my expensive eye cream fled the scene. Then we set up my sofa bed, plump the pillows on Shanelle and Trixie’s bed, and settle in for the night. “We’re going to miss you tomorrow night,” Trixie says to me in a sleepy voice from across the room.

  That’s right, my exhausted brain remembers. Tomorrow night I’ll be in a hotel with Jason. At least I will be if Kimberly lets him out of her sight.

  Too soon, my alarm chirps. I throw on skinny jeans, a turtleneck, and my black quilted jacket and sneak out the door, careful not to wake Trixie and Shanelle. A two-mile cab ride later I’m in the Meatpacking District, home to the Chelsea Market, the site of Jason’s first shoot of the day with Kimberly. My mother and Bennie, who’s even shorter than she is, are waiting for me at the Ninth Avenue entrance, no doubt shivering in the icy air. Behind them looms a beautifully restored redbrick complex.

  I grab my mom in a hug, the nocturnal conversation about Shanelle’s mother fresh in my mind. My mom has been blessed with good health, but I can’t expect that to last forever. And she’s already in her seventies. Grateful though I am for our good fortune, I can’t resist needling her. I stroke her fur coat. “I bet you’ll be the only woman in the Chelsea Market wearing one of these.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I thought this was the Meatpacking District. Can’t be too many tree huggers around here. Say hello to Bennie.”

  I bend down to grab him in a hug, too. That started over the holidays when I realized I had to get used to him dating my mom.

  Bennie is sensibly dressed in a saddle-colored field jacket and herringbone tweed flat cap. He’s the most energetic 75-year-old I’ve ever met. He walks fast; he talks fast; he never stops moving. Knowing him as I now do, I’m not surprised he owns his own business. Even into his eighth decade, he has energy to spare. I can’t imagine what he was like forty years ago.

  That’s not the only reason I admire Bennie. He suffered through one of the worst chapters in this nation’s history, in my opinion, when as a small child during World War Two he spent almost two years with his parents and brother in a California internment camp. He can’t remember those early years and will say only that it wasn’t this country’s “best time.” It seems to me that Bennie has made the most of every day since.

  Now he’s clutching his Frommer’s EasyGuide to New York City and grinning. He peers at me through his wire-frame glasses. “This is where Nabisco used to be. You know that? The cookie company. It used to take up this whole block, from Ninth to Tenth and 15th to 16th. You know what they invented here?”

  “I have no idea,” I tell him.

  “Oreo cookies! With a glass of milk, nothing better.”

  “I’m excited that the Food Network is here.” I should be a much better cook given all the cooking shows I watch.

  “Yes!” Bennie cries. “Iron Chef America!” He turns to my mother. “You know that was invented in Japan?”

  “I never liked that show,” my mother declares. “The ingredients are too crazy. Eel, tofu, forget about it.”

  Bennie roars. He seems to find my mother endlessly entertaining. “That’s what I like about your mother,”
he tells me. “She says what she thinks. My wife, she was Japanese, so she didn’t do that.”

  I am taken aback to hear Bennie talk about my mother in the same breath as his late wife. “Well, my mom has never been one to hold back.”

  “Why the heck should I?” my mother wants to know. “Anyway, where’s that Jason? He should be here by now. Then again, he’s never been punctual.”

  I glance at my phone, which boasts no texts from my tardy husband. “His flight did get in on time. Maybe Kimberly was late picking him up at LaGuardia.”

  My mother slaps my arm. “Why is that floozy picking him up and not you?”

  “Uh oh! Catfight!” Bennie chortles.

  “Mom, be nice,” I say, though in fact I was miffed when Jason insisted that Kimberly pick him up. She might change her mind about the location of the shoot, he told me, and they can’t afford to lose a minute since they have so little time to get everything done.

  All of which sounded like I should expect to have practically no time with my husband over the weekend.

  My mood doesn’t have time to darken too dramatically, however, as seconds later Jason and Kimberly heave into view, both of them loaded with camera gear. I almost topple over in astonishment at my first glimpse of Miss Drayson.

  Gone are the leggings, scrubbed face, and messy hairdo. In their place are skinny jeans, suede booties with a three-inch heel, and a belted puffer jacket that I bet sports a Burberry label. And her hair is silky and loose and she’s wearing makeup.

  “Pretty girl,” Bennie says, and I must agree. Kimberly is also glowing, which adds to the effect.

  Do I have to wonder why she looks wildly better than I’ve ever seen her? I think the reason might just be the six feet two inches of hunky American male standing next to her, with the olive skin and dark eyes and longish hair that grabbed my teenaged heart half a lifetime ago. Jason is wearing jeans and the white cable-knit sweater I got him for Christmas, but also a snazzy black leather motorcycle jacket I’ve never seen before.

  He looks fit and sexy and fabulous. This is the new-and-improved NASCAR Jason, who got off the couch and started dreaming big again, like he did in high school, before he settled into early fatherhood and a mechanic’s job and the monotony of married work-a-day life. I have to take some credit for the transformation, because it was I who prodded him to go to pit school and who in the end provided the tuition with my Ms. America winnings. Now here he is, a changed man. Seeing him, my heart does a little skip.

  Correction. A big skip.

  Maybe that’s partly why Mario has such an effect on me, I think as Jason pulls me into a hug and then touches his lips to mine. It’s the marvel of seeing Mario after a long time of not seeing him and thus getting the full effect of just how striking he is. I guess seeing Jason every day, I don’t appreciate him as I should. Now, since Jason has been in Charlotte and I haven’t seen him since New Year’s, I’m getting that jolt of appreciation I usually experience for Mario and Mario alone.

  As I take in Kimberly’s admiring gaze, I can tell that she’s appreciating Jason but good. And not only his looks, I would guess, but his maturity and glamorous career, too. In fact, I realize with a start, I bet Jason is Kimberly’s Mario.

  I can’t believe that’s occurring to me just this second.

  “You’re late!” my mother says to Jason.

  He hugs her and ignores the bait. We’re long past the point where my mom can get under his skin with a single remark. He shakes hands with Bennie and introduces Kimberly to Bennie and my mom.

  “When you’re done taking pictures of this guy,” Bennie says to Kimberly, “you can take a few shots of me. I’ll do my karate move,” and he launches into his trademark Bennie Hana chops prices! spin, kick and chop maneuver that we Northeast Ohio TV viewers know so well from his commercials. It’s quite impressive up close.

  “Don’t get him started,” my mother warns.

  “You know what karate means in Japanese?” Bennie asks Kimberly, who appears overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. “Empty hand!” and he executes another mini chop.

  “Enough, already,” my mother says. “I’m ready to eat.”

  Jason and I smile at each other over my mom and Bennie’s heads. I know what he’s thinking. The more things change, the more they stay the same. These days, I thank the heavens that some things are as they ever were.

  Jason sidles close to me. “You okay?”

  I nod and rise on my toes to kiss him again. I hope Kimberly’s still watching.

  “I missed you,” he murmurs. He’s got that look in his eyes that makes me wish we had the day alone together, and not for sightseeing, either.

  “I missed you, too. I’m only realizing how much.”

  We gaze at each other. I’m vaguely aware that Bennie is attempting to engage Kimberly in conversation. I wonder how that’s going.

  “There was some mix-up with the hotel,” Jason tells me. “I’m not in the one I thought I’d be in.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Just tell me which one and I’ll be there.”

  He grins and I can tell he’s looking forward to tonight just as much as I am.

  “If I don’t eat soon,” my mother says, “you’re going to have to scrape me off the sidewalk.”

  “I’m pretty hungry, too,” I admit, “and I need caffeine something fierce.”

  “We better get started,” Kimberly says.

  “Duty calls,” he tells me, and after one more kiss he and Kimberly spin off, lugging their gear with them.

  I watch them go. Too bad I can’t watch his shoot today. This brief encounter has made me even more wary of little Miss Kimberly and her intentions. I wish I knew more about the mysterious Damian Paganos who has her Uncle Jerry so upset, but I could find out nothing about him online.

  “So why did that Kimberly pick this place to take pictures?” my mother wants to know as we head inside Chelsea Market.

  “Photographers love it.” Bennie leads the way, flourishing his guidebook. “Dramatic lighting. Nooks and crannies. Let’s see for ourselves.”

  We walk into what is basically a food arcade. But that’s a tepid way to describe what is really a food emporium extraordinaire. It’s a ground-level concourse inside a renovated warehouse filled with bakeries, butchers, all manner of small groceries, restaurants, florists, artisanal this and that, even book and clothing stores. It’s got every flavor of everything, pretty much. And the late nineteenth-century industrial history isn’t lost, either. There are ducts that used to do something, signs that used to point somewhere, and a floor that probably was level once but isn’t anymore.

  We finally agree on a bakery, select some pastries—cherry cream scone, Irish soda bread, almond brioche—and settle in with coffee. It’s time to take a load off and people-watch. I don’t think there’s anywhere better to do that than New York City.

  “You having a good time with Bennie?” I ask my mom after he jogs off to check out a kitchen store’s selection of ginsu knives. “It’s a big deal that you’re on your first trip together.” I try to imagine my mother in a hotel room with a man other than my father. I can’t. Maybe that’s because I don’t try too hard.

  She looks away. “He’s a good man, that Bennie.”

  “That he is.”

  “Generous.” She says nothing more.

  “I think he really likes you,” I say after a time.

  “What’s not to like?”

  It’s a typically flippant remark, but I can tell my mother’s heart isn’t in it. I lean closer. “What’s wrong?”

  She sighs before cocking her chin at a storefront across the concourse. We may be indoors but she’s wearing her fur, buttoned up to the neck. “You see that display over there?”

  “At that chocolate shop? Sure, it’s for Valentine’s Day. What about it?”

  A second later, without my mother uttering another word, I understand the problem.

  Valentine’s Day has always been an especially happy holiday for Haz
el Przybyszewski. It’s her wedding anniversary. But this year, for the first time in fifty years, it’s not her anniversary anymore. At least not the way it was before.

  This year she and Pop are divorced.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My mother shakes her head. “I never thought I’d be alone on my golden wedding anniversary.”

  I lay my hand on hers. “I know.”

  She laces her fingers through mine. Her pale blue eyes shine with tears I am certain she will not let fall. “I do have that Bennie, but it’s not the same.”

  “I know.”

  She shrugs. “Though I bet there aren’t too many grandmas who have a boyfriend who buys them a fur coat. And from that Saks Fifth Avenue, too.”

  It’s not like you can buy a Russian sable at WalMart, but I don’t press the point. “See, Mom? You still have romance in your life.”

  “Not like I thought I would.” She’s silent for a time, then: “You know what that taxi drove past on the way to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral yesterday? The Ed Sullivan Theater.”

  “I remember you used to like The Ed Sullivan Show.”

  “That Ed Sullivan always looked so nervous up there. Not like that Mario. Anyway.” She heaves another sigh. “The point is, those Beatles showed up on The Ed Sullivan Show a couple of weeks before your father and I got married. So can you guess what song we danced to first at our wedding?”

  In all these years, I’ve never heard this story. “Which one?”

  “ ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’ ” She smiles at the memory. “Your father, now he could dance.”

  I bet he still can. But now if he takes to the dance floor, he’s squiring Maggie Lindvig, and that is a name I do not care to bring up.

  My mother does it for me. “Your father didn’t propose to that Maggie on Christmas and he didn’t propose to her on New Year’s. If he did, she’d have taken out an ad in the newspaper to let everybody know. Anyway.” She eyes me with the kind of penetration I typically get from Shanelle. “Could be he’s planning to pop the question on Valentine’s Day. Even though that’s the day the two of us should be celebrating our golden wedding anniversary.”