The O'Leary Enigma

by Bob Purssell

  * * *

  Remembering my father’s admonition, that evening I made a point of wearing one of my new skirts, the gray one, to dinner. My mother seemed somewhat pleased, but not really happy. After giving me a compliment, my father offhandedly asked, “Did you get anything else?”

  Getting his hint, I asked, “Can I show you the suit we bought?”

  When he nodded, I raced upstairs and changed into my new suit. Realizing my pants were at stake, carefully studying my reflection in the mirror, I made sure everything was just so. Heart racing, I returned to the kitchen and my parents. As I modeled my new suit, I glanced at my mother. She seemed, at best, modestly happy. In an action born of desperation, I hugged and kissed her.

  Caught by surprise, she asked, “What was that for?”

  “Just a thank-you for the suit, the skirts; you were right. They do look good on me.”

  Ever polite, my mother replied, “You’re welcome.”

  Disappointed at her modest reaction, I tried to hide the fact with a smile.

  * * *

  An hour or so after dinner, while my mother was reading, I found my father in his office. Together, via the Internet, we ordered the black boot-cut pants of my dreams. That done, my father asked, “How did it go at the mall?”

  “We didn’t argue.”

  Sardonically, my father observed, “Well, that’s a welcome change from the new normal.”

  “No. We were good. I even told her I was returning the jeans.”

  “Good move, very good move.”

  Feeling things were looking up, I briefly described the trip to the mall. As I finished, I said, “I got mother to look at a pantsuit.”

  Surprised, my father declared, “You’re pulling my leg?”

  “No, we were standing in front of a store window. She actually looked at the display.”

  “I’m surprised you got that far. In fact, I’m actually astounded she didn’t put her hands over your eyes so you wouldn’t gaze upon—dare I mention the word—a pantsuit.”

  “Why is she so down on women and pants?”

  My father shrugged and then ruefully answered, “Ask her.”

  Considering the tenuous peace that currently existed between my mother and me, I instantly decided not to go there. Instead, knowing my father liked them, I asked, “Do you think I’d look good in a pantsuit?”

  Why I asked the question, I do not consciously know. Was my subconscious trying to exploit the situation? Whatever the motivator, I waited expectantly for my father’s answer.

  “To look good in a pantsuit, a girl needs to be slender, preferably tall and slender.”

  When he stopped, I smiled because my beanpole body more than fit the “tall and slender” description. Correctly sensing my newfound interest, he gave me a look before telling me, “You know buying you clothes is your mother’s department?”

  I nodded.

  “If I help you buy a pantsuit, no more arguing with your mother, right?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “You recognize we’ll probably end up in your mother’s doghouse? She still reminds me about my taking you to that hockey game.”

  I nodded for a third time.

  “Okay, what did you have in mind?”

  After fetching the catalog that I had all but committed to memory, I skipped past the fabulous and expensive Sahara-colored pantsuit that had caught my eye. Instead, I showed my father my second choice since it was on special.

  After listening to me extol the virtues of my number two, my father asked me to flip through the catalog. As I did, he directed me to stop at the pantsuit I really wanted. How he knew, I’ll never know.

  Having second thoughts, not wanting to cause him a problem, I told my father, “It’s nice, but I don’t need a pantsuit.” That was true enough, since all the girls wore jeans and tops all the time. Okay, a girl like Elizabeth Sue might wear something really nice, but she was an exception, and only a very few girls dressed nicely like her.

  “Okay, your call. If you give me the jeans and the invoice, I’ll mail them for you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  That night in bed, I realized I was only somewhat happy. Yes, I was going to get my pants. And, yes, the trip to the mall had worked out better than I thought possible. That was all very cool, but not complete.

  I hadn’t, to use my father’s expression, truly patched things up with my mother. Try as I might, every time I reached out, she greeted my overtures with a politeness that contained little of the warmth I sought.

  Upset by my mother’s distant correctness, I tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully.

  * * *

  Every day during the week when I arrived home from hockey practice, I checked to see if the package containing my new pants had arrived. Thursday afternoon, I found a box, addressed to my father, leaning against the front door. Positive the parcel contained my treasure; I excitedly carried it to my father’s office. Looking up from his calculations, he saw what I was holding and suggested, “Why not wear your new pants to dinner?”

  After dashing up to my room, showering, putting on a clean bra and panties, doing my hair, and bursting with excitement, I opened the package. Surprisingly, there were more plastic bags than I had anticipated. Carefully, as if I were handling some fragile treasure, I placed each unopened bag on my bed. I read the invoice. In addition to the black pants that I had dreamed of getting, the package contained a gold silk blouse and the Sahara-colored pantsuit that I had told my father I didn’t need.

  Quite overwhelmed by my father’s generosity, I sat down in my chair and contemplated my bounty. Tingling with excitement, I savored the moment, wondering which should I put on first, the gold blouse and black pants outfit or the Sahara pantsuit. Should I satisfy myself or please my kind and thoughtful father? The question framed, my choice was obvious.

  Since I had never worn a pantsuit before, excited did not do justice to my emotions. Would I look sophisticated? Or, would I look like a kid trying to appear grown-up? Wondering which it would be, I did not look in the mirror as I dressed.

  Wearing the Sahara pantsuit with the yellow turtleneck and black boots that I had purchased earlier, I posed before my full-length mirror; never mind the rolled-up pant legs and the too-long sleeves. Thrilled, I couldn’t stop admiring myself. Somehow, the pantsuit made beanpole me look, well, decidedly grown-up, chic even. I grinned, thinking, this is something that an Elizabeth Sue would wear. Still preening myself, I happily reflected on the moment. Then I thought, you are one vain bitch, which caused me to laugh.

  Both enthused by how I looked and filled with trepidation at what my mother might say, I headed downstairs to show off my new pantsuit. My mother and father were talking in the kitchen while she stood at the counter preparing dinner and he sat at the kitchen table drinking an imported beer. Quietly, I walked into the room.

  Hearing my approach, my mother turned around and looked at me. Wiping her hands with a towel, she said, “Let me see.” Moments later, she ordered, “Turn around.” With apprehension, I slowly rotated to my left. When I had completed my 360 degrees, she told me, “Take off the jacket, I want to see the pants.” This was the scary part. Carefully, I draped the jacket on one of the kitchen chairs, and this time, unbidden, I turned around once again. Tense, I awaited my mother’s verdict.

  “You know, I normally don’t think pants are flattering on a woman.”

  Anticipating what was coming next, wondering why I had hoped she would think otherwise, I wanted to answer sarcastically, “Yes, Mother,” but I held my tongue.

  Continuing, my mother explained. “In your case, I can see I was wrong. The outfit is very becoming. I like the tan; it looks good on you.” I glanced at my father, who was obviously enjoying the mother-daughter interaction.

  When my mother asked him, “This was your doing?” my father nodded a
nd looked in my direction as he raised an eyebrow. My mother knowingly smiled back as she enquired, “Have you decided to spoil your daughter?”

  After he smiled wanly, my mother turned back to me and observed, “You’ll need boots; those don’t go with the pants.”

  My father finally spoke, “Barbara, let’s see the black pants.”

  Obviously needling her husband, my mother declared, “Now I get it. You aren’t going to spoil your child; you’ve decided to spoil her rotten.”

  My father replied, “Probably a case of selective senility,” and I laughed while my mother smiled. She then directed me to, “Run along, child. Put on the black pants. I want to see them.”

  I ran upstairs, elated. Carefully, I took off my Sahara pantsuit and changed into the black pants and the gold silk blouse. As I posed in the mirror, I had an inspiration. I put on my new black suit jacket. The black of the jacket was almost the same black as my new pants. Excited I returned to the kitchen.

  Once again, I underwent my mother’s critical inspection. Commenting on the jacket-pants combination, she said, “I see what you’re trying to do, and it’s a good idea. But it doesn’t work; don’t wear them together.” My mother then had me take off the jacket so she could see how the pants fit. When she said, “Very becoming, and they’re your school colors,” I gave my startled mother a hug, complete with tears of joy.

  I wanted my mother to feel my happiness, to be as happy as I was, to be at one with me. But she wasn’t. After a few seconds, she said, “It’s time for dinner. The food is getting ice cold.”

  I could feel her coolness.

  * * *

  Because we are playing at home, there is a school dance after the Friday night football game. I’m nervous. To my way of thinking, I have walked the extra mile to accommodate my mother’s wishes. However, my mother is still being cool toward me. This is a new experience, and one I do not like in the least.

  Does my mother object to me wearing my new pants? Will we argue again?

  These thoughts upset me. I seldom argue with my mother, never with my father. I hate arguing; I hate the yelling; I hate the loss of self-control.

  Other girls argue with their mothers. Some do it all the time. Some actually seem to seek out opportunities. Maybe arguing with your mother is the way it has to be. The thought makes me shudder; I instantly hate the idea.

  What can I do? I’m not like other girls. I know I would hate myself for winning an argument with my mother.

  Feeling all is hopeless, I begin putting my boot-cut black pants away. Not caring, I will wear something else.

  * * *

  I never hear my mother until she knocks on the door. Reflexively, I say, “Come in.”

  My mother enters the room and says, “I thought you’d be ready by now.”

  “I’m having trouble figuring out what I should wear.”

  “You’re not going to wear your new pants?”

  “No. I’m scared that you don’t like them. I don’t want to argue with you, again.”

  “I’ve been harsh, haven’t I?”

  Even though it is her statement, I instinctively react to her self-criticism. “You weren’t harsh. You were being a mother.” My mother smiles at my observation. Encouraged by her gesture, I blurt out, “I hate arguing, especially with you. It makes me feel sick.”

  My mother opens her arms, and I step toward her. We hug one another. I clear my clothes to the side of the bed, and the two of us start talking. I open up and we talk and talk and talk. I apologize for real. My mother tells me that my father has told her to, “Trust your daughter’s judgment.”

  I have what I want. My mother is back. She’s just like she was before we started arguing. She listens and I feel so close to her. We hug and I love my mother so much. Things are right between us again. Unnoticed, the time flies past.

  When my father calls out from the bottom of the stairs, “Barbara, aren’t you going to the game?” I jump up.

  Moving toward the door my mother says, “I’ll get the car. You change.”

  I start to put on my new pants, but I change my mind. Instead, I decide to wear the gold silk blouse my father had bought me and the black pencil skirt my mother and I had purchased the previous Sunday.

  When my mother sees what I have done, she says, with a quizzical expression, “I thought…”

  Smiling, I answer, “You should trust your daughter’s judgment,” and we both start laughing.

  * * *

  By the time I arrived at the game, it was already halftime and we were leading by two touchdowns.

  All through the second half—the Wildcats were romping to a twenty-seven-point victory—I thought up reasons why I was so overdressed. In a sea of jeans, tops, and denim, my pencil skirt and silk blouse outfit was effectively formal wear.

  In the hall outside the gym, when I hung up my coat, the interrogations began. Oh, I got compliments on wearing the school colors, but these were invariably followed by demands for an explanation. No one believed I just wanted to wear an elegant silk blouse/pencil skirt outfit to the dance. The general consensus: Barbara had again wimped out and knuckled under to her mother.

  That judgment would have held, but for the emergence of the cheerleaders. They arrived late to the dance because they had to change out of their uniforms. With one exception, like the rest of the girls at the dance, they too were dressed in jeans, tops, etc.

  The one exception was Elizabeth Sue. She entered the gym, wearing a gold silk blouse and black flare pants. Stunning was the only adjective that fit.

  From my vantage point across the gym, I watched as heads, young and old, male and female, turned to look. Either oblivious to or used to being the center of attention, Elizabeth Sue continued to talk with her cheerleader companions. I thought, the queen and her court.

  The dancing began in earnest, and I took my usual wallflower position. Emily, who played left wing on my line, dragged me out onto the floor, and we joined the crowd of dancers.

  When the music stopped after several songs, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Elizabeth Sue.

  I didn’t know the girl that well, so I said, “Oh, hi,” or something like that.

  She said, “I just wanted to say that I love your outfit,” and I could see others turn in our direction. Instantly, Elizabeth Sue’s comment had transformed dorky me into a fashionista.

  Ever so grateful, I replied, “Thanks.”

  Before I could say another word, Elizabeth Sue pointed. I looked and saw the photographer for the school newspaper. As a spoof, when he was working, the kid—his nickname was Clark Kent—always wore a hat with the word “Press” prominently displayed on the brim.

  Elizabeth Sue stepped close to me and said, “Smile.” I did, and Clark Kent snapped away.

  When I got home that night, I wanted to tell my mother about the dance. Unfortunately, she had already gone to bed. Saturday, both my mother and I were busy. After that, telling my mother about the dance no longer seemed that important.

  * * *

  A few nights later, just before I finish studying for the evening, my father stops by my room and asks, “How about giving the old guy an update on the teenage revolution?”

  Having second thoughts about how I had behaved toward my mother, I ask, “Do you think I was revolting?”

  My father chuckles. “No, I think you were having trouble expressing yourself.”

  “I was?”

  “You focused on clothes, when you were really upset about a whole lot of other things.”

  Thinking I had been obvious, all I can say is, “Oh.”

  “With all your talk about not liking dresses, you confused your mother. She didn’t understand what was truly bothering you.”

  Pointing to my bulletin board, I explain, “But I showed her the picture from the catalog.”

  �
��Do you remember your mother trying to tell you something was wrong with the picture?”

  Thinking back, I remember. “Mother told me, ‘She’s too big.’”

  “What did you think your mother meant?”

  “The model’s boo-boo-breasts were too large.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Confused, I do not respond.

  “Could she have been talking about the picture itself?”

  My head turns abruptly. For the first time, I look at the picture with a critical eye. In an instant, I realize only a model with gigantic breasts could make the sweater bulge that much. Was that what my father meant by enhanced? Oh, shit.

  Could it be my mother wasn’t criticizing the girl? Was she trying to tell me that there was something wrong with the photograph? Was it me, and not my supposedly obstinate mother, who had messed up?

  Oh, shit.

  “Barbara, here’s a thought: when people don’t understand me, it usually means I’m not making my point understandable, that I’m not listening closely to them.”

  * * *

  The Friday I wore the silk blouse and pencil skirt to the dance was the time I felt the closest to my mother. But the feeling didn’t last.

  Although we had reconciled, we now had a different relationship. Each of us made a point of being accommodating, of being inclined to compromise. With regard to clothing that meant my wardrobe always contained—even though they were not my favorites—very grown-up, conservatively styled suits with pencil skirts. My mother reciprocated by giving me latitude and trusting my judgment when buying clothes. Taking advantage of my freedom, I normally wore jeans. However, for special occasions, I had several stylish pairs of pants and pantsuits, which my mother tolerated more than she accepted.

  After our clothing argument, we had a very different relationship from many other mothers and daughters. Unlike many of my peers, who seemed to fight an unending series of mother-daughter battles, my mother and I behaved cautiously and carefully around one another.

  That meant the house was peaceful, which my parents and I liked. But it also meant that my mother and I had a static relationship, with neither of us wanting to rock the boat. Today, I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better, in some respects, if we had more confrontations that were emotional. Maybe we would have developed a deeper relationship.