Confessions From A Coffee Shop (6 page)

“Did you spend all of the cash I gave you?” I asked before she had a chance to take her seat.

“Nope. There’s some left.” She didn’t sound flustered at all. As soon as money came in, she spent it. Saving was a foreign concept.

I rubbed my eyes in frustration. I had three outstanding bills at home.

Kat ran her finger up my inner thigh. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

Not wanting to ruin the night, I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed her fingertips tenderly.

I wasn’t excited about this dinner, fearful Mom would burst into tears and accuse Dad of having an affair when he asked for her to pass the salt or something.

“Don’t mention the affair tonight,” said Kat, as if she had read my mind.

It brought me back to reality. “What?”

“Your mom called and said don’t mention the affair.” She drummed her fingers on my leg playfully.

“Which one? My uncle’s, or the imaginary one my father is having?”

“Good point. Both.”

“Will Uncle Roger be there?”

“Yes, of course.” Kat’s furrowed brow implied I was an idiot. Roger had never missed a family dinner.

“How my aunt puts up with him is beyond me.”

Roger was discreet enough. If someone didn’t know our family all that well, they’d never suspect a thing. Not one bit. In fact, if a person didn’t know about Roger’s affairs, he or she may have walked away saying, “What a happy couple. How do they do it?”

I started to say something along those lines to Kat, but decided to remain quiet. I just wanted to get through the night without strangling my mother. It was a tall order.

“Oh, did I mention we’re having dinner with my parents tomorrow night?” Kat slipped that one in while we sat at a red light. “My father says he wants to talk to you.”

“Me? Why me?” I couldn’t fathom what a dentist could possibly need from an English professor.

“I dunno. Oh, we’re here!” The relief was evident in her voice. Just talking about her parents made Kat uncomfortable. Before the car came to a complete stop, she had her door open and was heading towards the front door, leaving the booze in the backseat for me to carry. Oh well, I was the jock, and I would never let her carry it in anyway.

Hoisting the box into my arms, I noticed my favorite beer in the bunch. Kat never forgot me. Each day there was some type of surprise. Smiling, I wandered into the kitchen and set the box down on the counter.

“Goodness, Cori, you leave anything on the shelves?” teased Aunt Barbara as she wrapped her arms around me. She stepped back. “Are you losing weight?”

Before I could answer, Mom jumped in with, “Oh you should have seen her last night. Shoveling cheese enchiladas in her mouth so fast I’m sure she got heartburn.”

“Pishposh, Nell. I tell you, she’s losing weight. You work too hard, Cori.” My aunt adjusted her apron and then mussed up her gray hair, which fell just below her chin line. Mom looked like she’d just walked out of a salon, but at least her clothes, while not as sensible as my aunt’s, were nothing too extravagant. Boston roots didn’t allow my mom or aunt to act like spoiled rich housewives from reality TV shows. Besides, they were both successful in their own right and didn’t have time to act like idiots.

Despite being polar opposites, Aunt Barbara and my mother were the best of friends and were wonderful sisters. I was lucky to have two such women in my life that I could go to. Even when I was a kid, if I needed motherly advice or a hug, I went to Aunt Barbara. Mom wasn’t the most nurturing person in the world, which didn’t mean she was a bad mom. She just had different strengths.

“Hi, Cori. You look well,” said Uncle Roger as he entered the kitchen.

“Roger, open your eyes. I swear Cori has lost ten pounds since we saw her last.” My aunt looked concerned. “When did you have your last physical?”

I shrugged and munched on a carrot stick I’d taken from the appetizer platter. “School, maybe.”

Seeing a doctor was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

“I want you to make an appointment first thing on Monday, you hear me?” My aunt held my chin with her right hand. “First thing.”

Roger peeked into the liquor box and pulled out the Harpoon Island Creek Oyster Stout that Kat had bought for me. “Oyster stout, that sounds good.”

“Cori loves it,” said Kat.

I cringed a little, since I was a vegetarian, but whenever the opportunity arose, I drank oyster stout. I became a veggie in high school, but there was one thing I could never give up: oysters. I was from Boston‌—‌it was in our blood. Even though I did feel guilty, momentarily at least.

Roger popped the cap off with the bottle opener on his Harpoon keychain and poured my stout into a tall mug he had pulled from the freezer. I watched the dark brown liquid gurgle into his glass. Catching a whiff of it, I wanted to grab the glass and guzzle it down; I didn’t, though.

Kat looked mortified, but she remained speechless. When she looked over at me, I shook my head, letting her know it was okay. Both of us had been trained to respect our elders.

“Roger, share with Cori. It’s her beer, after all.” Aunt Barbara came to my rescue.

Without missing a beat, Roger pulled another glass out and poured the rest in for me.

We clinked our glasses.

“Damn, that’s good.” Roger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then took another sip.

“Right on time, as usual, Dale,” Mom piped up sarcastically as my father walked into the kitchen.

My father had never liked his first name: Warren. In high school, his football buddies started calling him “Tisdale” and then shortened it to Dale. My mother preferred the nickname. She once told me that calling out Warren during sex was a mood killer.

I didn’t want to know that.

She continued by telling me that Dale was much sexier because it reminded her of the exotic dancers, the Chippendales. I, on the other hand, thought of the Disney chipmunks Chip and Dale whenever I heard the nickname. So when Mom said she preferred having sex with a Dale, I envisioned her frolicking with a chipmunk. I was surprised I didn’t need massive amounts of therapy. Maybe both Kat and I should look into getting a shrink. I wondered if we’d get a group discount if I dragged in my entire family.

My father took a seat on a barstool, settling in and crossing his ankles on the bar beneath. He wore white socks and brown loafers. As far as I could remember, Dad had always worn white socks with brown or black loafers. Mom begged and pleaded with him to buy colored socks, but he always refused. He gave in on most things when it came to her, but he would not lose the sock battle. For an entire year, Mom tied all of his white socks into knots to discourage him. She then proceeded to fill his sock drawer with beautiful, colorful socks that weren’t tied together. Each morning, my father patiently untied his white socks while he waited for his bread to toast. Finally, my mother caved, and the sock war ended, although she still made fun of him. To make it worse, they were white tube socks. Secretly, I loved the man for his conviction. He crossed his arms over his chest, and I noticed that his navy polo was more wrinkled than normal. Would Mom assume he’d just had a roll in the hay with his mistress and hadn’t bothered taking his shirt and tube socks off?

The snarl on her face indicated she was thinking something along those lines.

“Dad, when can we go to a game?” I wanted to play interference. My father had season tickets to the Red Sox and usually went with a buddy or with Roger. Occasionally, he’d take me.

Dad perked up and showed some life. “How ’bout tomorrow. The Yanks are in town.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. He had never taken me to see the New York Yankees play. I usually got the games no one wanted to watch, like the Houston Astros.

“That’s great!”

My glee obviously angered my mother, but before she could say anything, Aunt Barbara said, “I love seeing you two spending time together.” The tears in her eyes made her look joyful and sad simultaneously. She and Roger never had children. Aunt Barbara couldn’t have any, and Roger got snipped years ago to prevent any further marital complication.

“Who’s pitching tomorrow?” I asked, unable to contain my excitement, even as Mom huffed and strode out of the room with Kat on her arm.

Growing up in Boston made me a proud member of the Red Sox Nation. There was nothing like going to Fenway, indulging in a Fenway Frank, drinking a beer, and eating Cracker Jacks. My father had been taking me to the park since I was five. My mother never went. Sports weren’t her thing. However, she never missed one of my basketball games, even the away games. She even learned the rules and the lingo.

“I don’t rightly know.” Dad pulled out his cell and started searching. “Ah, Lester.”

Jon Lester was the best pitcher on the team. “And for the Yanks?”

Even Roger was curious to know. I had to keep an eye on him. I mean, the man already stole my beer; I wasn’t going to let him get his grubby hands on my ticket.

“Sabathia,” my father managed, struggling with his phone. His sausage fingers made operating a cell phone difficult.

I squealed. “Oh, this is going to be a great game. Both are leading in strikeouts this year. I love a good pitcher’s duel.” I rubbed my hands together in glee.

Dad stood and placed his arm around my shoulder as we joined Mom and Kat on the back deck. We rarely had father/daughter bonding moments, but when we did, I cherished them. And the best part was that it rattled my mother. Mom was not only competitive with her sister, but with her husband as well. If I didn’t act as if she were the best parent of the two, it pissed her off. But rather than trying to woo me to her side when she felt this way, she did her best to make one or both of us suffer.

It was early in September, but humidity still clung to the air. Cicadas buzzed and the power lines marking the back of the yard hummed. I loved that I couldn’t hear the T from here. I lived near the B-line, and day and night I heard the screeching of tires‌—‌a horrendous metal-on-metal sound. Out here, even beside the power lines, I felt closer to nature. I could even see Chestnut Hill Reservoir off in the distance. Someday, I hoped to have a place in the “country.” If I could ever get out of debt.

“Ah, Warren, seeing you two together reminds me where Cori got her fashion sense,” hissed my mother, swirling the wine in her glass and raising her eyebrows to emphasize her point. Her eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of knocking him down a peg or two, and her tone implied he was a nitwit‌—‌a sexless, fashionless nitwit.

I looked at my father’s khaki shorts and blue polo, and then stared down at my plaid Bermuda shorts, Harvard tee, and plain brown sandals.

“Hey, at least I’m not wearing white socks.” I guess I could be competitive as well.

“That’s because you take after your mother. White socks are the new black,” said my father, victoriously.

Aunt Barbara clapped her hands. “Point to Dale.”

Mom bristled. “Oh, please. The man tries to make love with his socks on.”

Kat and I sensed trouble.

“Where did you get this blouse, Nell?” Kat entered the fray, reaching out for the shirt and rubbing the fabric between finger and thumb. “It’s softer than a baby’s butt.”

The compliment worked. Mom started to tell Kat about this new boutique she had discovered on Newbury Street, and I heaved a sigh of relief. We had distracted her twice so far, but how many more bullets did we have to dodge? Dad and Roger broke off to the side and started a conversation about the Pats this season, and Barbara wandered back into the kitchen to check on dinner.

“Any more oyster beer?” Roger shouted after her.

“I only picked up one, but Cori and I can go get more if you like. Let me check with Barbara and see how soon we’ll be eating.”

I wanted to kiss Kat for thinking of that. I needed a break from my parents’ troubled marriage.

Kat nudged my hip gently on her way back inside. “You okay?” Stopping, she waited for an answer.

“Yeah. Thanks for the help, tonight.” I wove my arm around her waist.

“Anytime. I’m not ready for this blowout either, and I’m hoping it doesn’t happen tonight.” She sighed deeply.

Unfortunately, the liquor store was fewer than five minutes away; we were back well before I was ready for round three with my mother.

I sat heavily on one of the barstools and watched my aunt pull a vegetarian lasagna from the oven. Kat wandered back outside to keep an eye on the angry woman. Turning, I watched her go. She looked radiant in her halter-neck top and jeans. Of course, she could wear a gunnysack and still look sexy, innocent, and mischievous all at once.

“How’s work going, Cori?” My head whipped back around to Aunt Barb, who was setting the steaming dish on two trivets, so she wouldn’t scorch her new granite countertop.

“All right. Just wish I …”

“Have you asked your mother for help?” She pinned me with a concerned look.

“You know Mom. Loves to take me shopping, to get my nails done‌—‌but handouts‌—‌no way.”

“How much?” Barbara didn’t look up from cutting the lasagna into massive portions and slopping them on the plates.

“Oh, I haven’t asked her for money for years.”

“I mean, how much do you need now?” She was kind enough to keep her eyes averted.

“A few hundred,” I mumbled, totally ashamed.

She nodded, and I knew that before the end of the night she would slip the money into my hand. Barbara didn’t dwell on shame.

Instead, she started into a story about my mother. “Once, after a school friend of your mother’s lost sight in one eye following a freak Fourth of July mishap, Nell had the gall to tell him he should feel lucky. She said she always saw streaks of light in her left eye and it drove her mad, so Nell claimed he was much better off than her.”

“She didn’t!” I couldn’t believe it, although Barbara was not the lying type. She wouldn’t even think to stretch the truth for dramatic effect.

“Oh, yes she did. I was so embarrassed. When the boy transferred to a different school, I was so relieved to not have to listen to your mother go on and on about how the blinding light was killing her. She once even flopped to the ground during recess, screaming that someone should just shoot her to end her misery. After the boy left the school, oddly enough so did her mysterious eye condition. Many of us were relieved, including her teacher. Your grandfather was beside himself, poor man.”