Chapter 21
Noise rose from the foyer. The front door chimed. Footsteps. Loud voices. Di’s book club was arriving. Who? How many? For a moment, I wondered whether I should greet Di’s friends. I didn’t want anyone in town to think I was unfriendly or worse, a snob, but then Di didn’t invite me to “the book club.” Better that way.
I perched on the top of the staircase like a kid spying on her parents as guests popped beer cans, opened wine from Walmart, filled glasses, and clinked. Naive me, I thought Di’s friends would be female, but the group was heavy on men. Of course, no woman like Di ever had girlfriends. Because of her track record, I wondered which man from the club she intended to marry next.
I listened to a heated discussion about real estate. The town was planning to transform a former cotton-shirt factory and warehouse into Section 8 housing—affordable apartments. No one was for it.
I heard glass shatter on the hardwood floor, Di commanding some poor schlub to sweep up. The conversation moved on to politics. Not presidential, which might have been interesting. Local. I had no interest in who was running for the Board of Taxation, so I stood, went to Lisa’s room, and called her.
“Is something wrong?” Lisa said.
“No.”
“Oh. Then why are you calling?”
I didn’t want to say that being upstairs listening in on the book club made me feel lonely. “I thought you’d want an update on Callie.”
“Mom, I speak to Callie on her Gizmo every day.”
“She never mentioned that to me.” Why would she think her mom calling—a daily event—was news to share?
“You called me whenever you traveled,” Lisa said. “Remember when you took a trip to Bermuda and left us at home with Bubbe? She reorganized the entire place, top to bottom. If she could move the furniture on her own, she would’ve had me switch rooms with the twins.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, Callie is in the same room she had when you left.”
“Mom, thanks for giving Di the guest room.”
“Oh, you know, I’d do anything for Di.”
“Ha. Ha. I miss Callie. But I’ve got to go. I bought two stuffed animals she’s going to love. Something for you too.”
“You don’t have to bring me anything.”
“That’s my line,” she said.
In the morning, I woke early. I listened to the sounds outside. A loud caw of a crow. The cackle of a chicken. A car rambling by. Callie was asleep. I studied her perfection. Although she had an alarm clock that rang with the sound of birds chirping, she usually lolled in bed until I said, “It’s time to get up,” then begged her to roll out of bed for as long as I had the patience. Right then, I let her sleep. Barefoot in my nightgown, I stepped downstairs for coffee, which I had every intention of brewing very strong.
And there, at the kitchen table, was Di mooning at a younger man, maybe forty, with a well-trimmed mustache and short beard, ruddy cheeks, tousled dark hair, tortoiseshell glasses. No shirt. I checked under the table: he wore pants but no shoes. His feet were long, narrow, and bony—might as well have been skis. His toenails were desperate to be cut.
Di was planted across from him in her fluffy slippers, a silk robe, scarlet with black trim—reminiscent of a bordello wardrobe in a bad movie—tied loosely at the waist. She had a lot of robes.
“Are you kidding?” I blurted.
I thought of the time my son Alex introduced me to his first girlfriend as the fifteen-year-old girl ducked under the blanket on his twin bed. But this was nothing like that. Di was (dare I say it) seventy years old. And her eight-year-old granddaughter was in the house. Was this what occurred when Di stayed at Lisa’s alone with Callie? Did Lisa know? What about Brian? Did he have a hint about what his mother was up to, or was this what he expected from her? It was maddening, infuriating on so many levels, the least of which was Di sending me back in time to when I was a disapproving mother.
“Good morning,” the man said, scratching his beard.
I found it grating enough that he spent the night, but even more bothersome how comfortable he appeared. It seemed like, to him, it was nothing special.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Randy.”
Di spoke up. “Randy is mayor of Woodfield.”
I couldn’t believe this guy was mayor.
“He ran unopposed,” Di said.
“I figured that.”
“No need to be nasty,” the mayor said.
“Well, your honor, Mr. Mayor, I think you should proceed posthaste to city hall before my granddaughter comes down to the kitchen.”
“The mayor is having coffee,” Di said calmly. She could not care less what I thought.
I went to the cupboard for a paper cup. I transferred the coffee from the mayor’s mug. “Please,” I said. “Enjoy it on the road.”
The mayor didn’t argue. In silence, he stood, shoved his chair under the table. He said he had to run upstairs for his shoes. I said, “Wait here,” and went instead. I found his long, narrow loafers, remembered his crumpled shirt, stomped down the stairway, handed over his stuff, and watched him leave.
In the kitchen, Di leaned back in a spindle chair, sipping from Lisa’s coffee cup, glaring at me as though I was the one who was out of my mind. “Don’t mention this to Annie. It’ll be our little secret.”
Why wouldn’t Di want Annie to know? Because Annie was a chatterbox? Because Di’s behavior was inappropriate? Because Annie would tell Lisa? I went for it. “Is there a particular reason you don’t want Annie to hear about this?”
“Yes.”
“And what is it?” I asked.
“Annie is friends with the mayor’s wife.”
I took a beat. “Got it. Makes perfect sense,” I said sarcastically.
“Our little secret.” Di winked.
I winked back. “What about Lisa?”
“Lisa?” Di asked. “What does Lisa have to do with this?”
“Can I tell Lisa that you invite men to sleep in her house—even with her daughter upstairs snoozing in her bed?”
“Oh, she knows.”
Lisa knew. And she allowed this? I couldn’t believe it. There was no way she would let this go on under her roof. I’d have to tell her.
Later in the day, Lisa phoned.
I said, “Lisa, Di had the mayor over.”
“So?”
“He slept with Di in the guest room.”
“Did Callie see him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.”
“What do you mean okay?” I said, amazed she wasn’t upset.
“Di was discreet.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, Mom, stop being such a dinosaur. She’s seventy years old. A grandmother.”