“It’s always what you don’t expect.”
Hal’s declaration on Aunt Helen is oh so true. 98 and counting, the Queen Mother continues to confound, frustrate, demand, criticize, and yes…care deeply for us both. (Note, however, that while she loves me like a nephew, she reveres Hal as a son).
So be it.
Friday shopping is now done Thursdays. For some reason she finds this better. The downside, of course, is that it knocks up a good work day for me; (Friday afternoons were pretty much “garbage time”). The upside is that by weekend I’ve recovered from the exhaustion generated by our trips to the grocery.
Like last week:
“Have you been to the new house?” she inquired.
(A simple question I think, and lead with the truth): “Yes,” I respond. Nothing else. (No uttering when I’d gone, or with whom I’d gone. No details. We’d learned long ago—my brother and I—that her interrogations were strictly governed by the accords reached in the Fourth Geneva Convention in 1949. We offer, as such, nothing but name, rank, and serial number).
“Is there more than one floor?” she pushed on.
“Yes.”
She paused—think Jack Benny — and then:
“Isn’t that stupid!” It began– her rant against multi-level housing.
“Why must people walk steps?
More Benny…
“You must agree with me,” she presumed, interrupting herself, as the dam broke down.
“Aunt Helen,” you’ve lived in three places in eighty years. Each was a second floor.”
“Why,” she shot back, “Must you always disagree?”
“Why,” I asked her, “Must you always find fault? Half the homes in the Jewish community have two levels. Are they all wrong?”
Then it came: that look, that venomous glare like when some clown knocks over the Scrabble board. There was silence driving on—a pregnant silence. Entering Marc’s I had that sick feeling, the kind you get when you’re down a touchdown yet sense you won’t see the ball again.
Our food run itself ran well. The aisles of her hallowed grocery are the foxholes of my Thursdays. I breathe safely as she speaks not to the frailties of life, but focuses rather on material matters: like the fact that the bananas are too big, or that the oranges just aren’t orange. (Not that each week she doesn’t importune me to inventory the four pound bags. In a world full of 9-orange four pound bags, our aunt once got 8. It was ’99 I think; ask her she’s kept the receipt. So we count each week. Did YOU ever count oranges in a bag? They keep moving around. It’s either going to be 8 oranges for $3.99 or 9 oranges for $3.99. Should the marginal cost REALLY matter? I actually asked her that once…nicely….. She shot me down. Immediately. At point blank range. “That’s why you have no money,” she adjudged.
Tied at halftime, we exited Marc’s in peace. This, for me, is a good sign. I figure if I can go into the locker room close—you know, ” in a position to win”—I’ll be OK. Second halves, frankly, are predictable
She’ll ask about my brother—not only his health, but how often I’d seen him that week. Was it at his house? Were third-parties present? (If others WERE present she’ll seek names, affiliations, the identify of drivers and, though not directly inquiring, will strain to learn if matters were prearranged). Only then does will she mention Michael…or Meredith. Only then, after again reminding me that Stacy never called directly to announce her engagement so perhaps (she’ll opinen) my daughter’s not really married—- will she ask of others
“Has Jamie called you?” she asked THIS WEEK. :
“Has Rabbi Skoff called you?” I rejoined.
More silence. Predictable silence. It’s all so predictable. Or so I thought…
We were by Cedar Center, within field goal range of her home, but moments from yet another Mission Accomplished…
“May I ask you something?” she purred.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard the expression ‘menage a trois’”?
(She pronounced it MENAIGE), but I picked it up.
“No.”
“It’s French”, she related, “When a husband, his wife, and a paramour live under the same roof.”
“Oh.”
“You and I are in, let us say, a ménage a trios! Do you know why I say that?”
“No.”
“It is you, and me, and your cell phone.”
It’s ALWAYS, as my brother says, what you don’t expect.
Last story is absolutely great
Why do you put words in My mouth? I never said “paramour”. I said “a pair or more”.
As Wikipedia clearly states (and here is the direct quote):
“Ménage à trois (French pronunciation: [mena? a t?wa]) is a French term which originally described a domestic arrangement in which three people having sexual relations occupy the same household – the phrase literally translates as “household of three”.
In contemporary usage, the meaning of the term has been extended to mean any living relationship between three people, whether or not sex is involved….”
You have a filthy mind.
I know Raymond. And you are no Raymond.
Was Aunt Helen the ‘brains” behind Three’s Company?