by Cora Brent
Today was no different.
Per my mother’s instructions, I’d picked up the centerpieces from a local florist because the owner had been my mother’s sorority sister some forty years ago at the University of Arizona.
As I struggled with the logistics of hauling ten flower arrangements in vases filled with colored glass beads out of the trunk of my Lexus, my mother, Cindy Pennington Gordon, floated out the front door wearing a teal cocktail dress that showed she still had an enviable figure at age sixty, even if some of its finer features were of newer vintage.
“Audrey,” she called, and I braced myself for some variation of the you’re-doing-XYZ-wrong speech that was as familiar as the scent of the lone magnolia tree that had somehow thrived in the front yard since I was a baby. But before issuing complaints, she offered me a dry kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, hugging a trio of fragile centerpieces. “Where do you want these?”
She frowned. She touched a delicate yellow rosebud petal. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Well, this is what we have.”
“Was Blanche there when you picked them up?”
“No. Her daughter.”
My mother wrinkled her nose. “The beads look tacky.”
My arms were starting to hurt. The damn things were heavier than they looked. “Would you like me to return them?”
She scowled. At least I think she did. Her face wasn’t very elastic at this point. “No, it’s too late now. The catering truck is already here and guests will be arriving in less than half an hour.”
“And no adult ever celebrated a birthday without carefully crafted centerpieces,” I muttered.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start, Audrey.”
I decided to hold my tongue and keep the peace. “Sorry.”
“You can bring them around back,” she sighed. “The tables are all set up.”
I thought my mother might grab a vase or two herself, but in her typical delegation style she figured I’d manage to take care of it. She headed back to the house, leaving me to grapple with the heavy iron gate and a precariously assembled collection of glass and flowers.
“Auntie Audi!”
Two short, blond tornadoes came careening around a corner and nearly collided with me as I eased through the gate.
“Boys, you want to help out your poor old aunt?” I asked, trying to accept hugs from my enthusiastic nephews and avoid dropping things on the unforgiving travertine.
Six-year-old Leo exclaimed, “I’ll help!” immediately, while five-year-old Isaac gazed up at me with solemn brown eyes.
“Are you really poor, Auntie Audi?” he asked.
“What? No, Isaac. It’s just an expression.”
“Oh.” He nodded with a frown. “But you are old.”
“Compared to you, yes.”
Leo took one of the centerpieces out of my arms. “At least you’re younger than Daddy,” he said with confidence, probably figuring it was a compliment.
“Yes, there is that,” I said wryly.
Isaac wasn’t finished with the inquisition. “Are you older than Kelly?”
“Who’s Kelly?”
“The babysitter,” said Leo. “She lives two houses down. She sits on her phone the entire time whenever she comes to our house, and I’ve heard her say that Daddy is hot.”
“I’m probably older than Kelly. I’m thirty.”
“Do you think Daddy’s hot?” Isaac asked me curiously.
My mouth twitched and I suppressed a snort of laughter. “Um, no.”
I was trying to nudge the boys deeper into the backyard so I could drop off these cursed centerpieces and retrieve the rest that were waiting in the open trunk of my car. After passing beneath the ornate trellises laced with carefully tended grapevines on the side of the house, I turned a corner and stopped to assess the extravagant food spread and strange table arrangement. There had to be some kind of order lurking behind the layout, but I was damned if I could figure it out. I just wanted to unload all these damn vases.
“Let me get that, buddy.” My older brother materialized from the house and took the centerpiece from Leo. “Why don’t you and your brother go play with your Nerf guns back there in the orchard?”
As the boys went running and hollering to the collection of citrus trees lining the south end of the two-acre backyard, William shouted, “And stay away from the pool!”
“Okay, Daddy!” they shouted back.
I set the vases down on the nearest two tables. William took a good look at the arrangement in his hands and seemed puzzled.
“What is this?”
“A centerpiece.”
“It looks like it belongs at a sweet-sixteen party.”
“Well, Mom spares no expense for your birthday.”
William might have detected a tone of sarcasm in my words. He set the flowers down and grinned at me. “How are you, Aud?”
“I’ll be better if you’ll help me haul the rest of these monstrosities out of my trunk. By the way, what’s up with the odd table grouping?”
My handsome big brother raked a hand through his hair and made a face. “They’re supposed to form the number thirty-five.”
“You’re shitting me.”
He laughed. “Unfortunately not. You know how Mom goes overboard on this stuff. It makes her happy.”
“Sure, I know that. I considered wearing the cardigan she gave me for my last birthday, but the weather is too warm today.”
“You’ve always suffered the short end of the stick—your birthday being the day after Christmas.”
That wasn’t the whole story. I knew it and William knew it, but this wasn’t the time to discuss old wounds.
“We should go grab the rest of these centerpieces,” I said, “before all the dignified guests begin arriving and suffer shock at the sight of naked tables.”
William checked on his sons with a glance. They were darting among the citrus trees and firing little foam pellets from colorful plastic guns. Both boys bore such a strong resemblance to their father.
“I don’t even know most of the guests,” William admitted with a sigh. “Dad’s associates and Mom’s socialites, with a few fringe relations thrown in for appearances. I’m sure we’ll see a mayor or three hanging around.”
“Is Dad still harassing you to run for office?”
“Of course. I have a feeling that’s the point behind this whole gathering, but I told him I’m already happily overworked in my courtroom.”
“Dad doesn’t often take no for an answer.” I searched the yard for a glimpse of the great Aaron Gordon, but all I saw were nervous caterers milling around and fussing over food.
“In this case he’ll have to take no for an answer,” William said in a hard voice. “It’s been a shitty year and I don’t need any new missions at the moment. Now let’s go retrieve the rest of those pastel eyesores.”
“You have the boys for the whole weekend?” I asked as we headed back to my car.
“Yup.”
William wasn’t willing to elaborate. He kept his eyes averted and picked up the heavy box containing the rest of the centerpieces.
“Want me to take some?” I asked.
“No.”
His muscles bulged inside his shirt with the effort. He must be finding time for the gym despite being a father of two and the youngest municipal judge in the county.
I closed my trunk and grabbed the wrapped gift, a gourmet salsa collection, from the passenger seat before following him silently. I wished I knew what to say when it came to my brother’s divorce. We’d never discussed it.
According to my mother, William’s ex-wife, Jennifer, reconnected with an old boyfriend on Facebook and decided she didn’t want to be married to my brother anymore. The words scandalous bitch might have been thrown around, but I wasn’t sure if that version of events was true. I sure as hell couldn’t ask Jennifer. Even though I’d always liked my sister-in-law, I’d never betray my bro
ther by talking about his ruined marriage behind his back.
Besides, if my mother was correct (rare but possible), then Jennifer really was kind of a scandalous bitch.
“You never answered my question,” William said when we returned to the backyard.
I placed a centerpiece on a table. The head of a yellow rose broke off. I stuffed it in my pocket. “What question?”
William pulled a chair out from the nearest table and sat down. The chair was too small for his large frame. “How are you, Audrey?”
“I’m good.” I smiled. “Actually, I got a promotion of sorts. I’m going to be the project manager for the new courthouse.”
“The big downtown courthouse?”
“That’s the one.”
He grinned. “Congratulations! That’s impressive. I’m really proud of you.”
I blushed. Praise from William always meant a lot to me. Maybe he sensed this and that’s why he gave it so freely. “Not as impressive as donning black robes and banging a gavel. But thank you.”
William scrutinized me. “Stop selling yourself short. You do that too often. The courthouse is an enormous undertaking and your bosses recognized that you’ve got what it takes to get the job done. That means something.”
“Stop.” I tapped his leg with my foot. “You’re going to make me cry.”
But William wasn’t done being my cheerleader yet. “You’ve come a hell of a long way since you were seventeen. I see that.” He jerked his thumb toward the house. “They ought to see that too.”
It was the closest he’d ever come to acknowledging that our parents had never quite forgiven me for all the grief I’d caused them years ago. I knew I had a lot to atone for. I was still trying.
I used my thumb to wipe a single tear out of my left eye.
“Thanks, Billy,” I said quietly. No one ever called him that anymore, not even me. But it seemed appropriate right now, right here in the backyard of our childhood home, as I was reminded that for my entire life William Gordon was the only person who’d faithfully believed in me even when I was an intoxicated, car-stealing, sex-crazed teenage delinquent. You couldn’t buy that kind of loyalty. It was only found through luck and in big brothers.
“So when does the courthouse project start?” William asked, politely ignoring my lone tear.
“Soon,” I said. “But there’s a lot of legwork to be done before we break ground next month. It’s a good thing I’m getting to see you now, because I’ll be buried in work for the foreseeable future.”
My brother glanced at his sons again and his expression grew wistful. “Don’t work too hard, Audrey. Time has a way of passing you by.”
And with that my parents emerged from the house in all their ageless power-couple glory. Time had not passed them by. Aaron and Cindy Gordon would be the first to describe themselves as “pillars of the community,” but the narrative wasn’t far off. My father inherited a family fortune at a young age and now owned a dozen real estate agencies. He also sat on the boards of directors for seven Phoenix-based companies, while my mother had spent the last two decades as chief administrator for the county’s largest hospital. They also made generous charitable contributions to causes ranging from the city zoo to the downtown homeless shelter.
When I was a kid, I used to be awed whenever I found our name etched into a prominent location. During a fourth-grade-class field trip we visited an art museum, and as we filed in I gestured to the wall featuring the names of all the largest donors. “That’s us,” I told my teacher, Mrs. Cook, pointing to the big letters that read “The Aaron and Cindy Gordon Family Trust.” Mrs. Cook gave me a funny look and said, “I know,” without smiling. It was the first time I realized that bragging about my wealthy, prominent family didn’t please everyone.
My father embraced me briefly, so briefly it almost didn’t happen. But then again, he was distracted because a congressman arrived. William heaved a sigh and left his chair when my father beckoned with his full glass of Scotch. I promised him I’d head over to the far side of the yard to keep an eye on the boys.
My nephews were happy to include me in their game. Ever since his divorce, William had thrown himself into his work more than ever, and with our busy schedules I hadn’t seen him or the boys as much as I would like. Now, as I ducked behind a grapefruit tree, I reminded myself that I needed to make more of an effort to be around Leo and Isaac before they grew into surly teens. My heels stuck in the damp ground surrounding the fruit orchard, and the citrus fragrance was overwhelming. Memories that seemed a hundred years in the past swarmed me. This had been my playground when I was a child and my place of refuge when I was a teenager. The trees had been much smaller back then.
Leo, Isaac, and I were engaged in an all-out Nerf gun war among the thick foliage when my mother interrupted to demand that we join the party and consume some of the expensive food that had been laid out on the banquet tables.
The boys wrinkled their noses as they considered the trays of food.
“Is that chicken?” Leo asked.
I squinted at the tray. “It’s fried shrimp.”
“I don’t like shrimp,” complained Isaac.
“Well, I’m sure we can find something you do like,” I said cheerfully.
“I like chicken nuggets and pizza.”
My mother was standing nearby with a glass of wine in her hand. “We don’t have chicken nuggets and pizza. Try some stuffed mushrooms.”
“I don’t want stuffed mushrooms.”
My mother regarded her little grandson with some impatience. She never did relate to children well, not even when William and I were young. There was always something else, something more important she needed to be doing. “There’s a lot of good food here, Isaac. If you never try anything new, then you’ll never really know what you like.”
Isaac pulled at his ear. “My mom keeps a bag of chicken nuggets in the freezer at home. If we don’t like regular dinner, she makes them for us.”
“Well, your mother does a lot of things that aren’t commendable.”
“Mom!” Criticizing Jennifer in a private conversation was one thing, but denouncing her in front of her children was something else. Leo and Isaac were still regarding the catered food with some consternation. Aside from my cousin Mark’s fifteen-year-old daughter, who was hunched over her phone and texting furiously, they were the only children in sight.
“Hey, boys, how about we run out and get some hamburgers and fries?” William asked, and I saw from the grim set of his jaw that he’d overheard my mother’s comment.
“It’s your party, William,” my mother objected. “You can’t leave.”
He waved her off. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
My mother scowled at the sight of her beloved only son walking away hand in hand with his two boys.
“Relax,” I told her. “He’ll return.”
She sighed and refocused her attention on me as I helped myself to a plate of shrimp. “You look tired, Audrey.”
I chose to ignore the critical aspect of her observation. “I’ve been working a lot. In fact I just received an important assignment. You’re looking at the project manager of the new downtown courthouse.”
My mother didn’t appear to have heard me. She was looking in another direction, raising her glass and smiling at a squad of women I’d never seen before but who probably occupied some pivotal role in her vast social circle.
Annoyance pricked at me. After thirty years I ought to be used to my mother’s perpetual distracted state, but sometimes it got to me.
“So I know you’ll just love Diesel,” I said, infusing excitement into my voice. “The odds are high he’ll be paroled from prison before the baby comes.”
She snapped to attention. “What? What baby? Who’s Diesel?”
I bit off a piece of coconut shrimp. “My imaginary boyfriend who was spontaneously invented and now has served his purpose.”
“Don’t scare me like that, Audrey.”
“Sorry.”
Not sorry.
My mother took my elbow. “Stop piling food on your plate and come talk to Sheila Closterman.”
I started choking on my shrimp. Sheila Closterman happened to be the mother of Dole Closterman, my ex-boyfriend who lived off his trust fund interest as he pursued his dream of becoming a pro golfer.
He had last been seen six years ago with his head bobbing between another woman’s legs at a Fourth of July party. The two lovebirds never noticed when I opened the door to the study in search of a bathroom. I stood there for a dumbfounded second before quietly retreating, locating one of the ice buckets where champagne had been chilling, and returning to the room just as Dole’s friend began squealing like a farm animal as she came. The fact that much of the ice had melted made the cascading effect particularly glorious as I poured the bucket over Dole’s head. After that I turned and left the party without a word. On the drive home I wished I’d had the presence of mind to cough up a parting line, something dignified and profound like “Hope you find that special girl who lets you piss on her tits.”
Dole Closterman’s mother probably didn’t want to hear that her beloved son was totally into watersports. There were just some things I wasn’t willing to try.
“Hello, Audrey, it’s so nice to see you again,” said Sheila Closterman with warm sincerity as she gripped my hand. I wondered what the hell she was doing here anyway. Then I remembered that she was a long-standing member of the Arizona Fine Art Society with my mother. In fact, Dole and I had met as a result of their connection, and since he was tall, superficially polite, and from a wealthy family, my mother was exceedingly disappointed when we broke up and eliminated the possibility of handsome Closterman grandchildren with trust fund birthrights.
“It’s nice to see you again too,” I said, hoping that Dole wasn’t lurking around here somewhere. I really wasn’t in the mood for surprises. I just wanted to return to the shade of the orchard and gobble up my coconut shrimp in peace.
The two women exchanged a glance, and then Dole’s mother said, “Your mother tells me how well you’re doing.”
Translation: “Audrey, we all know you’re thirty and hopelessly single and your poor mother is starting to despair.”
