Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  Pause.

  Perusing my handful of candy corn, I discard a mutant one that’s missing its white tip. If I’m going to eat this stuff, it’s going to have white tips intact, dammit.

  “I don’t know when, Mom. Soon…As soon as I have a chance.”

  Pause.

  I eat the candy in my hand, bored, wanting to get on with the show and see who gets the boot.

  I bet it’s Didi, the annoying female bartender from Wichita.

  Or Heidi Jane, the single mom from Los Angeles. I hope it’s her. I feel sorry for her little kids, left behind with some random relative while mommy and her enormously fake boobs go off in search of reality-TV stardom. Give me a break.

  “I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.”

  At that, it’s all I can do not to leap off the couch, grab him around the neck and demand to know what he’s talking about.

  Because it’s obviously about me. I can tell by his tone, the way he lowers his voice when he says, “No, she’s right here,” and his voice goes up for emphasis on the first part of here.

  Okay, this is exciting.

  My inner TiVo instantly rewinds everything Jack just said.

  No, not yet…But I will…I don’t know when. Soon…As soon as I have a chance…I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.

  He is so talking about getting engaged!

  I mean, what else can it be?

  Especially when he says in obvious and irritated resignation, “Yes, I’ll ask her tonight, okay?…Yes, I’m serious…. Because I don’t want you to keep bugging me, that’s why…yes, I’ll let you know right away…. I know…. I will. Okay? Goodbye.”

  He hangs up.

  I flash him one of those big Snoopy smiles. If I were a cartoon, a glint would be pinging off my front tooth.

  “So?” I ask.

  “That was my mother.” He tosses the phone aside and picks up the remote again.

  “How was she?”

  “She’s fine.” He backs up the scene again, blip by blip, in obvious effort not to miss a word Ed is saying this time.

  That’s odd.

  Did he or did he not just promise his mother he’d propose tonight?

  I know! He did!

  Which in and of itself is bizarre enough, because don’t you think he’d have decided when and where to do it on his own? As opposed to spontaneously agreeing because his mom is imposing a deadline?

  Then again, who am I to argue with any logic that will have a ring on my finger and a wedding in the works before midnight?

  “There you go,” Jack says, and presses Play.

  He presses Play.

  I guess he’s waiting until after the show so that I won’t be distracted.

  Okay, fair enough.

  I did say earlier that I would be really pissed if, say, there were a terrorist attack before I got to find out who got booted off that caused such a watercooler stir.

  But I wouldn’t be pissed if I got engaged before I found out. I guess I should have clarified that to Jack.

  Too late now.

  He’s all and now back to our regularly scheduled programming, watching television as though he hasn’t a care in the world. Good old calm, laid-back Jack.

  Ed, the host, is talking, but I’m not hearing a word he’s saying. I’m thinking that I’ll always remember that I got engaged wearing these pink sweatpants with the bleach stain on the hip, and a mouthful of soggy Nicorette.

  Didi the Wichita bartender gets voted off.

  When Ed breaks the news, she kicks him in the cojones before storming off the set.

  Okay, so that’s what all the hype was about.

  Me, I barely notice. I’m busy trying to remember if the just-in-case bottle of champagne I stashed in the vegetable bin in the refrigerator a month ago is dry or sweet, because after all that candy corn I definitely can’t stomach sweet.

  “That was great,” I say, stretching. “Why don’t we turn it off.”

  “The TV?” he asks, looking shocked. “Don’t you want to see the scenes?”

  I always want to see the scenes. He’ll be suspicious if I say no.

  “Yes,” I say a little shrilly, “of course I want to see the scenes.”

  We sit through the scenes. Next week’s episode seems to revolve around Heidi Jane and her tremendous boobage having a series of bouncy adventures in an exotic locale as other contestants scowl and plot to get rid of her behind her undoubtedly aching back.

  “Isn’t that a repeat?” Jack asks.

  “No, it said ‘all new.’”

  “I was being funny.”

  “Oh.” I snicker. Sort of. “So how was your mom?”

  “Fine…remember? You just asked?”

  “Oh! Right. I did. Sorry.”

  Ask me to marry you, dammit!

  It is so Beggar’s Night. At least right here, right now.

  I try to calm myself down, lest I accidentally wrap my hands around Jack’s neck and start shaking him.

  Out of sheer love, of course.

  “Listen…” He shifts his weight on the couch. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “What is it?” I ask, managing to sound calm, wondering if he’s going to get down on his knee.

  Here it comes!

  OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod!!

  This is so exciting! Can you stand it?

  Me neither!

  Then—hey, wait a minute!—I wonder why he isn’t going into the bedroom or something first, to get the ring. Does he have it stashed right here by the couch?

  I give the vicinity a quick once-over for a telltale ring box that might have been under my nose all along.

  Is it in the philodendron saucer?

  No-o.

  The messy stack of newspapers and magazines, mostly his?

  No-o.

  The nearly empty bowl of candy corn, mostly mine?

  No-o.

  I swear I feel like I’m mentally reading Where’s Spot?, which was my nephew Nino’s favorite book when he was a baby.

  Where are you, Spot?

  Where are you, sparkling diamond engagement ring?

  “First, it was my mother’s idea,” he says. “Not mine.”

  Okay, is this the most unromantic proposal preamble in the history of proposals, or what?

  “Not that I don’t want you to say yes, but…I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it and I don’t want you to feel obligated. I was going to wait to ask but my mother’s really impatient…She’d ask you herself, but I told her I wanted to.”

  I’m stunned into dismayed silence.

  She’d ask me herself?

  Major Oedipal issues, anyone?

  Good Lord.

  How could I not have noticed until now how unhealthy his relationship with his mother really is?

  “Tracey, would you possibly consider…”

  His proposal is drowned out by the roar of disbelieving anguish in my brain.

  This isn’t his idea! This is his mother’s idea! Look at him! He doesn’t look like a man in love! He looks like a man who ate bad shrimp for lunch!

  “What?” I ask dully, shaking my head to clear it.

  He repeats the proposal…

  Which isn’t a proposal!

  He’s not proposing to me!

  Hallelujah!

  Make that semi-hallelujah.

  I mean, I want him to propose…but not like this.

  What a relief that this isn’t the big moment after all!

  What this is, in fact, is an invitation to spend Thanksgiving with Jack’s family in Westchester.

  The reason it’s such a big deal is that I have never not gone home to Brookside for Thanksgiving.

  In a family where you’re excommunicated for forgetting an octogenarian’s birthday, you can just imagine the reaction if you skip a major holiday.

  That hasn’t even been an option for me…

  Until now.

  But is it, really? My parents wou
ld be crushed. My siblings would be pissed. And my grandmother…well, if she hasn’t already written me out of her will for moving away, I think it’s safe to say this would clinch my not getting her bone china settings for eight and a cut of her passbook savings.

  Then again…I’m all grown up.

  I have a life of my own now. In New York.

  A life with Jack.

  Wouldn’t it be more natural to spend Thanksgiving with him than with my family, since Jack’s the person I share my daily life with now?

  There are two ways of looking at that.

  One is that Jack’s the person I share my daily life with now, meaning I see him daily…so shouldn’t I share special occasions like Thanksgiving with the family I rarely get to see?

  The other view is that Jack’s the person I share my daily life with now, so why would I leave him for special occasions?

  “I bought my plane ticket back in July when JetBlue had that sale,” I point out, trying to sort through my inner turmoil.

  “JetBlue is great. They’ll give you a credit if you don’t use it.”

  JetBlue is great. But still…

  “My parents would freak out.”

  “I know. That’s why I never asked you in the first place. But my mother really wants you there since she’s doing the cooking this year. She wants it to be special.”

  Last year, Thanksgiving was a nonissue, since Jack spent it with his newly separated father. His sisters were off with their in-laws or boyfriends and Wilma was on a cruise with some fellow soon-to-be divorcées. Jack and his dad went to a restaurant, I went home to Brookside, and alternatives were never discussed.

  When I made my plans for this year, I did ask Jack to come along, but he said he couldn’t because his mother was having Thanksgiving at her new condo, and he’d promised her he’d come. It never occurred to me to offer to stay here with him…which I guess it wouldn’t, not having been invited.

  Until now.

  “I don’t know…”

  “You don’t have to say yes,” Jack says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. He’s so cute. So sweet and earnest and worried because he’s met my family and knows how suffocating they can be. I love him so much.

  Nothing matters, I realize with a warm gush of emotion, but that.

  “Hey,” I say, “yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

  “You would?” He breaks out into a grin. “I’m so happy! My mother is going to be so happy!”

  “I’m happy, too!” I say, and we hug.

  We’re happy.

  We’re happy, we’re peppy, we’re bursting with love, and it’s all so warm and fuzzy that I could just cry.

  Wow. I mean, the best moments in life are warm and fuzzy. Nothing beats warm and fuzzy…

  Mental note: mold is warm and fuzzy.

  Which reminds me…

  “Where’s the phone?” I ask Jack. “I have to call my mother and tell her.”

  Why, you may ask, does mold remind me of my mother?

  I have no idea.

  Crocheted afghans, onions and garlic frying in olive oil, vinyl purses, Jean Naté…all those things remind me of my mother.

  But mold?

  Well, it isn’t personal. But a reminder is a reminder, and I tell Jack that I really should call her.

  “Do you want me to wait to call my mother until after you call yours?” he asks, handing me the phone.

  “Why?”

  “Just in case…you know.”

  “In case my mommy says no, Tracey isn’t allowed to have a Thanksgiving playdate at Jackie’s house?”

  “Well…yeah.” He grins.

  “I’m a big girl. I’m calling to tell her, remember? Not ask her.”

  “Okay. Go for it.”

  I realize he wants me to call with him sitting right here, listening.

  Well, okay. I have nothing to hide.

  I dial the number.

  Maybe she’s not home, I think hopefully.

  If she isn’t, then I can tell my father, who never hears a word I say because his hearing is going and because he says I talk like an auctioneer.

  So, yeah, I’ll tell him, and he won’t hear, so they won’t realize I’m not coming until right before Thanksgiving, in which case I can put off the inevitable maternal explosive reaction for almost another month, by which time I’ll either be merrily smoking again or accustomed to L.W.C.

  There’s only one problem with that plan.

  My mother is one of those people who is always, always home. Usually cooking for a crowd, at that. I don’t think I’ve ever called and she’s not there. I mean ever.

  It’s not like she’s a recluse or anything, but she’s hardly Sally Social Life, either. Not out of the house, anyway. In the house, she’s a regular domestic diva.

  The only day she leaves for any length of time is Sunday, which is when she goes to morning mass and then on to various relatives’ houses for various meals. I know not to call her on Sundays.

  I also know not to call on Wednesday mornings, because that’s when she goes grocery shopping and gets her hair “done”—she has that old-ladyish kind of hair that I guess you don’t “do” yourself with shampoo and a blow-dryer because she’s had a standing appointment at Shear Magique every week for as long as I can remember.

  Speaking of which, you’d think the Shear Magique people would tactfully suggest that she get her lip “done” too, while they’re at it, but maybe they’re only about cutting, washing and teasing hair, not removing it with hot wax.

  Anyway, I fully expect my mother to be home when I call on this blustery Beggars’ Night, and I’m not disappointed.

  Rather, I am disappointed…because she’s home.

  Not home would have been so much easier.

  “Mom!” I say, as if I’m pleasantly surprised to hear her voice. “How are you? What’s new?”

  She blows her nose loudly in reply, probably on a tissue she had tucked up her sweater sleeve, then says unnecessarily, “I’ve got your father’s lousy cold.”

  “Dad’s sick?”

  “So ab I.” She coughs, lest I doubt her.

  “That’s too bad,” I say, and it really is.

  For her and for me, because my mother in perfect health isn’t going to react well to the news I’ve got to tell her. My mother with a nasty cold finding out that her youngest child—her “baby”—won’t be home for the third most important holiday of the year (after Saint Joseph’s Day and Christmas)…well, just imagining her reaction is enough to send clammy chills down my spine.

  You know what? I don’t think I feel like telling her tonight.

  She coughs again.

  “Okay,” I say cheerfully, “so, I’ll let you go…”

  Jack looks at me like I’m crazy.

  Through her overflowing adenoids, my mother says to me like I’m crazy, “What? You’re goig to let be go? You just called be!”

  “I know, but…shouldn’t you be resting or something?”

  “Be?”

  “Be resting,” I repeat slowly, thinking her ear canals must be clogged, too.

  “Be rest?”

  “Be resting,” I enunciate, as one might with a person who is practically deaf. Or a clueless moron.

  Okay, that was mean.

  I know it isn’t my mother’s fault she can’t hear, or that she took so much cold medicine it’s left her mentally impaired for perhaps the rest of her life, or at least the rest of this conversation.

  I’m just so not equipped to deal with mother-daughter tension at the moment. Necessary equipment being cigs, of course. A cigarette would make all this pesky frustration evaporate. I just know it.

  “Doe!” my mother says cryptically, sounding as impatient as I.

  I don’t think we’re talking about a deer, a female deer, here.

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I’m having trouble hearing you. Can you just…speak up or something?”

&
nbsp; She shouts, “I said, doe, I heard that part. I beadt, be, rest? Sidce whed do I have tibe to rest?”

  Welcome to the UN and my own personal mental interpreter, who after a few moments manages to translate the gibberish into: I said, ‘no, I heard that part. I meant, me, rest? Since when do I have time to rest?’

  Silly me. I forgot. How can one rest when there are undoubtedly endless sheets to be ironed and abundant bric-a-brac to be dusted; countless pots to be stirred and dozens upon dozens of cannoli to be stuffed?

  “Ma,” I say, shaking my head, “the world won’t come to an end if you take a break and lie down for a while. You have to take better care of yourself.”

  “Sabe to you, skiddy middy.”

  Translation: same to you, skinny minny.

  She’s been calling me that for months, ever since she saw me in a bathing suit at a family picnic and was horrified.

  Get this: she thinks I’m wasting away, all skin and bones.

  That’s because she dwells in a utopic oblivion where anyone under a size fourteen is force-fed fettucine. A size eight—which I have been for two years now—practically warrants an Alfredo I.V.

  “I do take care of myself. And anyway, I’m not the one who’s got a lousy cold, Ma,” I point out.

  She sneezes as if to punctuate that remark.

  “God bless you,” I say sympathetically. “God, you’re so sick.”

  “No, Daddy’s the wud who’s really sick. He’s already id bed.”

  Yeah, well, that isn’t unusual. My father turns in about nine every night, at which point he’s already been snoring in front of the television, on and off, for a couple of hours.

  Why is it that middle-aged people either need excessive sleep, or none at all?

  I look at Jack and try to picture him with gray hair and corduroy slippers.

  No can do.

  Grow old along with me…the best is yet to be…

  Yeah, I used to think that was true.

  At least, to a certain extent.

  But I’m starting to think that it might be all downhill after, say, thirty.

  Look at my parents. I’ve known them since they were about thirty, and I can’t ever remember them being happy and peppy and bursting with love.

  I mean, they’re still married, but they’re so boring and tired and sick…not all the time, but they’re sick now, and I’m finding all of this infinitely depressing.

  If Jack doesn’t propose to me soon, we’re going to miss all the good stuff and go straight to old and tired and sick. Because as far as I’m concerned, the only time the best is yet to be is…well, now.