Markie walked downstairs around eight on Sunday night to find that Jesse had dutifully begun their Sunday-evening Skype call with her parents. Her son, knowing these conversations weren’t easy for her, had taken it upon himself to initiate them. Every week when she heard the bloop-bloop-bloop of the computer call starting, she reminded herself that this gift he was giving her was worth several days of one-word answers and contemptuous glares on his part.
She loved her parents. She truly did. So much that for years she had dragged her husband and son to see them every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Mother’s and Father’s Day, to be greeted the same way each time: a knuckle-breaking handshake for Kyle as Clayton looked over his son-in-law’s shoulder at the car in the drive and said, “We were certain this would be the year you’d be able to spring for airline tickets. Well, maybe next year—but only after you take lessons from my daughter in how to hang on to a job. Ha ha ha. I mean, it’s only funny because it’s true, am I right?”
A pat on the arm for Jesse, followed quickly by “Whoa there, mister! Shoes off before you take another step. Remember how things work here. Now tuck in your shirt before your grandma gets a view of you. No collar, huh? Well, we’ll have to make do for now, but Lydia will want to go buy you something better before we go to the club, of course.”
A hug and kiss for Markie, along with a nod in Kyle’s direction, and “Still keeping this guy around, huh? Say, I figured out his secret to marrying up—having in-laws who live too far away to talk sense into their daughter.” Hardee-har-har. And welcome home.
Clayton, whom Kyle had long ago dubbed “the Commander” (never to his face, of course), would then corner his son-in-law in the kitchen to pour drinks and pour on more insults, Jesse would tear upstairs to hide in the guest room with a book or handheld game, and Markie and her mother would settle in the living room to wait for the tray of cocktails, Markie in desperate need of hers and getting more desperate by the second.
“Don’t let him destroy anything up there.”
“He never has before, Mom.”
“He’s a lot . . . ganglier now, though.” This with a frown, as though the boy were growing for the sole purpose of spiting his grandmother.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“But you’ll check on him in a few minutes. Or send Kyle up. Just to be sure.”
“Fine, Mom.”
“Now tell me. Are you still working?”
“You know I am.”
Heavy sigh. “But surely you wouldn’t choose to work if you had the option of staying home and being a mother?”
This was some of Lydia’s best work—a single bullet that could splinter into multiple fragments and hit more than one target: Markie, for sacrificing her child’s delicate psyche by “dumping” him in one of those—shudder!—“daycare places,” and Kyle, for failing to earn enough money that his wife could stay home with their son.
“I’m a mother even when I’m working, you know,” Markie would try.
“Oh yes, I suppose that’s true, from a technical standpoint. But you know what I mean, dear. Real mothering.”
Cocktails would finally be served, along with an assortment of cheeses and backhanded compliments. One of Lydia’s go-tos: “I always admire your generation, the way you’re not at all concerned about your appearance.”
When Markie and Jesse were there for their miserable week right after Kyle left, her mother put a reassuring hand on Markie’s arm and said, “I think it’s just as well you’ve let yourself go, dear. This isn’t the time to be worried about how much weight you’ve gained or what your hair looks like.” That didn’t stop her from offering to get Markie in to see her stylist, though. “Only because we’ll be eating at the club while you’re here. If we weren’t going to see anyone we know, it would be fine.”
Jesse also spent considerable time in the crosshairs of his grandparents’ criticism during that visit, making his initiation of the weekly calls all the more generous.
“You can’t stay in the guest room all day, dear, with the door closed and the drapes pulled. It isn’t healthy.” Lydia to Jesse, when he emerged for a glass of milk.
“It’s what teenagers do, Mom.” Markie, taking the carton from Jesse so he could escape the kitchen with his full glass.
“It’s not what you did when you were his age.” Lydia.
“That’s because no way would I let a kid of mine hole up like that, all antisocial.” Clayton, clapping a heavy hand on Jesse’s shoulder and steering him toward the kitchen table. “Your grandmother doesn’t need a mess on the carpet in the guest room.” As if the boy were incapable of drinking without spilling or had plans to turn the glass upside down and watch its contents splash onto the floor while he cackled maniacally, his eyes glowing red.
“Say, why don’t you sit right here and read the front page so you’ll have something to talk about when the McLarens and Wilsons come for dinner tonight.” Clayton again, indicating the newspaper lying open on the table. “You didn’t say boo at the club last night. I tried throwing you those softballs about the president, and you didn’t even swing. Let’s make a better showing this time.”
“I’m not really into politics, Grandpa.” Jesse, paging through the paper until he found the comics section.
“It’s all those video games he plays!” Clayton, to the McLarens and Wilsons at dinner later, after more failed attempts to get his grandson to sing for his supper. “They’ve melted his brain so much, the only part of the paper he can understand is the funnies! I’ll tell you what, he’s so addicted he had to bring his own gaming system!
“God forbid he go a few weeks without it. We’ve got that great big pool at the club, the tennis courts, an award-winning golf course, and all he wants to do is sit inside in the dark and play on that blasted TV all by himself!” As he complained, he flashed his teeth at Jesse as though it were all a big, friendly joke between them.
Later, when the guests were gone and Jesse was upstairs taking a shower, Markie asked her parents to lay off. “It’s a different world than when I was his age. There’s more pressure at school and everywhere else. Kids need space to unwind, escape. Especially ones who’re still reeling from their parents’ divorce.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say,” Clayton said. “Surely the boy recognizes you’re both better off without the dead weight. Did you tell him where the rest of his private-school tuition went? And all his college money? Did you tell him about the . . .” He wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to say the words affairs or adultery out loud. “About the rest of it?”