The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “You didn’t find Mack, either?”

  “We didn’t have a chance to look for him; my mother had a stroke shortly after he left. I was in my second year of medical school; I came home, to take care of Doug and my sisters.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Three and a half years.”

  “So Doug was six.”

  “Yes, almost seven. Carrie and Abby were ten and twelve.”

  “And you’ve brought them up. And taken a job.”

  “Yes.”

  “That takes courage.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Mostly being able to get by on very little sleep.”

  “I’d call it courage.” He paused as the waiter displayed the wine bottle, then said, “Tell me about Doug and Carrie and Abby.”

  Sara described them, with anecdotes, snatches of conversation, bits of dialogue. “But you can’t possibly be interested in all this.”

  “I’m interested in children. I’m a trustee of two community centers with after school programs in New York. What do they think about their brother? Do they think he abandoned them? You never even heard from him?”

  “Mack appeared on our doorstep.”

  The waiter poured their wine, deep ruby against the white tablecloth and the black of Sara’s dress. They touched their glasses. “To new friends.”

  Sara opened her menu. Reuben thought briefly about asking more questions about Mack, but rejected it. She would tell him what she wanted; he wasn’t about to turn their dinner into an interrogation.

  His thoughts stayed on her as they scanned their menus. She was so quiet some might call her diffident, but in fact, when she decided to talk—even about herself, which she probably seldom did (he was pretty sure of this)—she was open and honest. There was nothing fake about her, nothing evasive or stingy (he was certain of this), yet, clearly, she had built up defenses, keeping feelings and reactions under control. He wondered if she ever let herself get angry, and, if so, how long she would cling to it.

  “Well, Ms. Elliott!”

  Reuben and Sara looked up at the bright voice, too cheerful, too loud.

  “Mrs. Corcoran,” Sara said flatly.

  “Isn’t this amazing, that you’re here? I mean, you gave us such a long list of restaurants, isn’t it amazing we chose this very one on this very night? We don’t have a window,” she added peevishly, and Reuben could see her calculate the chances of success if she asked them to trade tables with her and her husband, and then drop the idea. At least she has some discretion, he thought. “Isn’t it the darndest thing, though? Lew offered the maître d’ a healthy little bonus to get a table right here by the window, instead of up there”—she waved vaguely toward the upper level of the restaurant—“and can you believe it? He turned it down! That was a shocker to Lew, let me tell you.” She laughed gaily. “I teased him and teased him about it. ‘Not everybody jumps,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to learn the local customs, now that we’re living here.’ ” She looked pointedly at Reuben until Sara introduced them. There was a silence. “I did call you today,” she said to Sara. “You must have a rotten secretary, not to give you your messages.”

  “I got your message. I’ll be calling you Monday morning.”

  “But I needed you today! I called because I needed you!”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t work on weekends unless there’s an emergency.”

  “This was an emergency! I lost the list of hair salons you gave me. What am I supposed to do to get a haircut? Pull a name out of the Yellow Pages?”

  Reuben looked interested. “What did you do?”

  Puzzled, she stared at him. After a moment, with relief, she said, “Reuben. That’s right, isn’t it? I was thinking maybe I forgot, and Lew gets so mad, he practically throws things—well, he does throw things— I forget so many names…” Her voice trailed off. “Asked the concierge in our hotel,” she said. “She gave me a list of places.”

  “And you did get a haircut?”

  Her hand went to her hair, patting softly in several places, as if to make sure it was all there. She nodded. “He was good. I forget his name. But”—she wheeled on Sara—“when I call somebody, I expect to be called back. I do not expect to be told I’m being called on Monday.”

  “Mrs. Corcoran, I do not work on weekends.” Sara’s voice was pleasant, but Reuben noted the clenched line of her jaw, the slightly narrowed eyes, the white-knuckled fist she lowered to her lap, thus answering his question about her ability to get angry. “The mayor’s office does not ask or expect me to do so. In fact, only two clients have ever called me on a weekend, and both had medical emergencies. My agreement with you is not open-ended.”

  “Listen, miss, you work for me. You work for me! You’re a flunky for the city, my taxes pay your salary—”

  “My taxes,” Lew Corcoran growled, coming up behind her. “Shut your face, Pussy, you’re making a fucking idiot of yourself.” A swift flash of terror lit Pussy’s eyes, so briefly that Reuben would have doubted seeing it, except for the tremor of her lower lip, caught now between her teeth, and at that moment he understood her attempts to dominate Sara, and, he assumed, all others who worked for a living. Those who live in fear, he thought—those who are dominated by others—are always the harshest to those they think weaker than they. Self-confident people are kind to others because they have no need to convince themselves, over and over, of their own worth. But poor Pussy Corcoran had to try to make others feel weak, at least weaker than she felt herself.

  Now, her husband’s hand resting heavily on her shoulder, she forced a wide smile and gazed with determined gaiety at the other diners as Corcoran nodded to Sara. “Sorry you had your dinner interrupted.” He turned to Reuben. “We’ve met.”

  Reuben stood, putting himself between Sara and the Corcorans. “If you’ll excuse us, we are trying to have dinner.”

  “New York? Something to do with money. Investments? Banking? What was it? I never forget a face.”

  Reuben shook his head slightly. (Like a grown-up, Sara thought, weary of the antics of a three-year-old.) “You’re probably thinking of a meeting in Newark a few months ago on Carrano Village.”

  “Goddamn, you’re right. You’re the developer.”

  “Project developer.”

  “Right, right.” He scowled, calculating possible opportunities he might be missing. “What’re you doing in Chicago?”

  Reuben moved forward, forcing the Corcorans a step backward, and then another. “I hope you both have a pleasant dinner. I would very much like to enjoy my own. Good night.”

  He stood still, a few inches taller than Corcoran, waiting. Corcoran’s face was flushed, his eyebrows drawn together in a dark slash. “I’ll call you,” he said. “Always open to new projects.” He put his hand beneath Pussy’s elbow and turned her with him.

  “Well, it is time to eat, isn’t it?” she chirped. “You must be starving, Lew, I know I’m so hungry I could—”

  He dragged her away. Sara watched her stumble on the steps.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Reuben as he took his chair.

  “I should apologize to you. I was rude to your client.”

  “And he won’t call me again, and neither will she, for which I am deeply grateful.”

  They laughed. “You have a beautiful smile,” Reuben said.

  The waiter came to their table from the discreet distance at which he had waited for the unpleasantness to pass, and refilled their wineglasses. Sara’s hand, relaxed now, came up from her lap. “It is time to eat, isn’t it?” she mimicked mischievously, and Reuben laughed again, admiring her because indeed she did not cling to anger.

  He sat back, more at ease, it seemed to him, than he’d been in months. Perhaps years. This pleasant, softly lit room, the intriguing woman opposite him, were an immeasurable distance from Ardis and her distorted world, the mockery she made of marriage, the greater mockery of all attempts to reach a civilized ending to theirs.

 
When they had ordered, Sara said curiously, “Do you work with him?”

  “No, good Lord, no. His company invests in real estate and insurance, but the rumors are that most of his dealings aren’t written about in the business pages until someone is indicted. He may be an investor in Carrano; I doubt it. I think he was just sniffing it out.”

  “What is Carrano?”

  “A planned village in New Jersey, near Princeton. Fifteen hundred houses around a commercial core, an elementary school—the high school is in Princeton—public library, recreation center, small theater.”

  “And Carrano—?”

  “Isaiah Carrano. A most wonderful man, a dreamer who’s determined to provide clean, safe, beautiful towns all over the country for low-income families. He has no children of his own, no relatives left, he’s wealthy and optimistic, and he wants to do good for children. His rule for Carrano Village is that only families with children, or about to have children, can buy there.”

  “Isn’t that discrimination? Age, if nothing else?”

  “We’ve discussed it. Isaiah is considering opening it up, with a quota for childless couples. Also probably illegal.”

  Sara smiled and asked about the library and recreation center. The waiter brought soup spoons and poured another inch of wine into their glasses. Around them, the hum of conversation was punctuated with the light clink of silver and crystal; waiters glided from table to table along the gentle curve of the room beneath chandeliers that seemed to sway slightly as diners left and others arrived; occasionally laughter rose, and drifted past. Sara and Reuben’s dinners arrived, the first course and then the second and third, and another bottle of wine, and the hours passed, and their talk flowed from one topic to another, one idea to the next, a word or phrase changing the directions they explored without flagging, without a break.

  They talked about their work; about books, theater, and music; about New York and Chicago. Sara did not ask what Reuben had left behind in New York, and he did not bring it up. He did not ask if she was involved with anyone, and she did not volunteer it. But they did not run out of talk, and when they left the table, Sara asked, “May I drive you to your hotel?”

  They smiled together at the absurdity of it: his hotel was three blocks away. But three miles wouldn’t be enough, Reuben thought. Three hundred. More. “I’d like that; thank you.”

  Sara glanced at her watch as they rode the elevator down to the garage. “One o’clock,” she exclaimed in dismay. “I had no idea. I told them I wouldn’t be late.”

  “But isn’t your brother with them?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “But you still wanted to be home early.”

  “I thought…I wasn’t sure I should leave them for a long time.”

  “You said he was good with the younger ones.”

  “Yes, they’re excited about him, happy to be with him. I don’t want to be the Wicked Witch of the West, spoiling the reunion they’re all having, such a happy one…”

  “But you yourself aren’t happy?”

  “Not… yet. I don’t know him or understand him. I’d like to, but I really don’t know anything about him. He was a spoiled kid when he ran away, always angry and ready to strike out—at me, because I was older, at the others because they were there, crowding his turf. I’m sure he could have changed in these years—he’s told us very little of where he’s been, what he’s been doing, and I don’t even know how much to believe of what he does say—but do people ever really change, fundamentally?” She stopped. “This is not right. I apologize. You don’t know Mack”— and you barely know me—“I shouldn’t force you to listen to anything about him.”

  “He seems to be taking up a large part of your thoughts.”

  She felt a swift moment of resentment. Her thoughts were her own; where she focused them, and for how long, was her business. Why did he probe so much? Most men were only interested in themselves.

  “And who takes up a large part of your thoughts?” she asked abruptly.

  He was surprised. He watched the cashier tear the charge slip from the printer, and they were silent as Sara signed it and they walked from the vestibule to the garage. The attendant drove up with her car, she tipped him, and it was not until she drove out of the garage onto Oak Street that Reuben said, “Turmoil and complications—probably not unique, but new to me—which I’ll tell you about sometime, if you’d like me to. They don’t involve a family; only one other person, and shameful behavior on my part that I don’t like to dwell on, and a situation from which I’m trying to extricate myself with the least possible damage, which is why I don’t talk about the whole thing very much. It does take up a large chunk of my thoughts. The rest of the time I focus on Carrano Village, and, lately, the possibility of a similar village west of Chicago.”

  Sara turned the corner. “And you,” he added. “Thank you for sharing dinner on such short notice; I’ve enjoyed it. Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “Didn’t you say you’re returning to New York tomorrow?”

  “Sunday,” he said, realizing it. “Yes. But I could put it off until Monday morning.”

  She smiled. “I should be with my family tomorrow night.” She brought the car to a stop at his hotel. “Thank you for tonight; I’ve had a wonderful time.”

  The doorman was holding the car door. Reuben did not move. “As did I. Everything about it.”

  Sara’s smile turned mischievous again. “Even the Corcorans?”

  “Even the Corcorans. They provided a minor villain we could dislike together. I’ll call you from New York, if I may.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Tomorrow night. Unless you’re busy with your family.”

  “I can manage a telephone call.”

  It was a short drive from the hotel to Fremont Street, and Sara would have liked to drive slowly, to extend it, to give her thoughts a chance to settle down. But she also was anxious to get home. At least they’ll all be asleep, she thought, turning the corner. The house will be quiet.

  But the downstairs windows were blazing, and before she could take out her key, Mack had opened the front door for her.

  “Welcome, welcome to my modest home,” he said with a grin. “Come in and rest your weary feet.”

  After a tiny pause, Sara laughed. “Thank you, sir, I’ll do just that.” She heard him lock the front door as she went into the library. It was perfectly neat. Whatever games and books had been taken out had been put away, whatever snacks had littered the coffee table had been cleaned up. The fire was expertly set and burning softly, a bottle of cognac and two glasses were set out on the small bar Sara’s father had built in the corner of the paneled room.

  “Lovely,” Sara murmured. Mack went to pour the cognac. “Not for me, thanks. I’ve had quite enough to drink for one evening.” He hesitated. “But don’t let that stop you from pouring your own.”

  “Thanks.” He joined her on the couch. “I didn’t want to drink with the kids around, so I waited.”

  Sara’s eyebrows rose. “You drank most of a bottle of wine at dinner last night.”

  “Ah, well, caught out. So I did. And I must confess I did tonight, too. The whole bottle, in fact. You have an admirable wine cellar, sis. I congratulate you; a woman of many talents.”

  “You drank a whole bottle of wine?”

  “Well, Abby had a couple of glasses.”

  Sara sat straighter. “She’s fifteen, Mack. She doesn’t drink.”

  “She does but she doesn’t tell you about it. What the hell, sis, it was only two little glasses, and it was wine, not gin or vodka or something really and truly sinister like marijuana. Merry meritorious marijuana,” he hummed. “Anyway, where better to learn to handle alcohol than at home with an innocent glass of wine when you’re fifteen and all your friends are doing it? Hmmm? Also”—he pointed a playfully accusing finger—“you do give her wine.”

  “I do. Half a glass. Because of course her friends drink, and I ass
umed she’s tried most everything they do. She knows half a glass, from me, is what she can drink at this age. I don’t want you giving her wine, or anything else.”

  “Why not? Why ever not, he asks plaintively, knowing the answer, which is that his sis does not trust him. His very own sis does not trust him! I ask you, gentle audience, is that fair? I’m her loving bro and she does not cut me one teeny little bit of slack. Slack off, sis. Trust me. I promise you I want only the best for these kids. For me, of course, I don’t deny that, but also for the kids. Listen, I’m very happy because we had a great time together, and we were all happy, and that’s what I want. For you, too. Did you have a good time tonight?”

  Sara contemplated him, his bright shining grin and tousled blond hair, the thin face and hollowed cheeks that made him look like a youthful refugee, the intense gaze that made him look like a supplicant. She remembered Doug saying she made him feel little. Mack made her feel dull. Slow, unresponsive, unexciting. And stingy. The Wicked Witch of the West.

  But Reuben hadn’t thought she was dull or unresponsive. It depends on the context, she thought, and the context with Mack just isn’t—

  “But obviously you had a great time,” he declared, “because you’re more gorgeous than when you left and that means somebody’s made you very happy. Right? I’m always right about things like that. Things like happiness and good times and, oh yes, love.”

  “Are you?” Sara moved to the wing chair in the corner, and adjusted the reading lamp so it did not fall on her face. “What do you know about love?”

  “Well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t see a smiling bride in the picture; I assume you didn’t get married in the time you were gone.”

  “Christ, no. Why would I do that? Somebody clinging, hanging on, needing. Needfully, needlingly, needing. Can’t see me there at all. Well, maybe someday,” he amended. “Right now, I’m too young.” He refilled his cognac. “See, sis, I have a lot to do. Big stuff. My destiny is big. So I’m getting ready for it. First of all, I settle in here, get my directions straight, establish a base. You know? You can’t go anywhere until you have a place to come back to, where the door is open and people are waiting…with smiles. I learned that.” His wistful voice and the childish grandeur of his inchoate dreams made him seem vulnerable, and Sara warmed to him.