eleven
Word of Tucker clearly works its way to my mother because she decides to make a surprise appearance two days later. As I return home from work, I can hear her voice, high and animated, chatting with Jess about her “marvelous day” on Fifth Avenue. My mother still lives in Huntington, but since she married Dwight and can afford her expensive Manhattan haircuts and spa treatments, she comes into the city a lot more often.
I curse softly to myself and seriously consider creeping off to a nearby bar for a beer. But I decide that this wouldn’t be fair to Jess. Besides, my mother is a night owl, keeping hours more consistent with a college girl than a sixty-three-year-old. She will only outwait me and likely even spend the night with us, lapsing into her giggling, bunny-slipper-wearing mode, as if she just watched the Sandra Dee sleepover scene in Grease .
I take a deep breath and walk through the door with a forced smile.
“Hi, Mother!” I say, noting her salon-perfect hair and long nails freshly painted in a bright plum color. She is always well groomed, but today is one of her more impressive days. She does not look her age and is one of those rare women who really does look more like our sister than our mother (as opposed to all the women who get this false compliment from cheesy men).
“Hello, Claudia darling!” she says, standing to give me a prim hug, the kind where there is virtually no body contact other than our cheeks and shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were coming into the city today?” I say, which clearly means, Good Lord, woman. How many times have I told you that I hate drop-ins ?
“I’ve come to photograph you, Claudia,” she says, throwing the thick black camera strap over her head.
My mother fancies herself an artist. I’ve even heard her end the word with an e , for an affected artiste . It’s pretty amusing, especially when you know the truth, that she dabbles in watercolors and ceramics. But to be fair, I will say this for her: at least she has interests and hobbies and passions, even if those passions often include inappropriate romances. She was never one of those idle, soap-opera-watching moms. She actually did watch soaps, but she also made sure her life was as scandalous as the most outrageous character on all her favorite shows. For a while, she had this weird obsession with Erica Kane and once phoned the All My Children set to inquire about a black clutch Erica was carrying in a funeral scene. She got the information, phoned her personal shopper at Nordstrom, and shamelessly ordered the same one for her own Mother’s Day present. (My mother always picked out her own presents. Whenever my father tried, his effort would go unrewarded. “Did you get a gift receipt?” would be the first thing out of her mouth.) In any event, her latest hobby is black-and-white photography. I haven’t seen her in action, but Maura assures me that she tries way too hard, comparing my mother’s photos to her painful haikus. Maura also said that photography is one of her more annoying hobbies to date; in mid-conversation, my mom will whip out her Nikon, zoom in on your face and start snapping away, making comments like, “Chin down. Yeah. Just like that. Oh ! Fantastic! Work with me.” Apparently she also takes roll after roll of random inanimate objects, like coffee mugs and stools and titles them “Mug Series” and “Stool Series.” It’s all too pretentious to bear.
“I would have phoned first, but I wanted you au naturel .”
“Well, that’s what you got,” I say, looking down at my work outfit, black pants, black heels, gray blouse, no accessories. Unless I’m meeting with an author or agent, I put almost no effort into my work wardrobe.
“I wanted to capture you as part of your normal workday routine. No frills. Just you.”
As if I would have primped for you , I think, but instead I say, “Get outta here.” I mean it literally, of course, but try to sound playful. I can’t deal with her wounded routine.
“I’m serious. I need to take a roll or two. It won’t take long.”
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, make my way over to the armchair across from her, and plop down with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m too tired for this, Mother.”
Jess is standing behind my mother, sorting through a stack of mail. She stops and makes the cuckoo sign that was popular in elementary school, little swirls in the air, pointing at your own head then gesturing toward the other person. Then she crosses her eyes, which adds a nice psychotic touch.
I start to laugh, and my mother turns to see what’s so amusing.
Jess sombers up quickly, taking great interest in a catalogue.