Chapter twelve
Jack Rawson’s mother, Muriel, leaned over the second-floor railing of her Winnetka, Illinois, home.
“I’m ready for my coffee, Cora.”
The housekeeper got a cup and saucer from a kitchen cabinet; she carried them to a percolator and glanced out the window above the sink.
“Miziz Rawson, you better get down here; there’s somebody sleeping in the yard.”
Muriel came into the kitchen; she knocked on the window. Billy Rawson looked up.
Billy was sent upstairs to shower while Cora mixed a batch of pancakes. Muriel took her coffee into a downstairs bathroom and topped it off with some brandy she kept in an empty bottle of Phillips Milk of Magnesia. She took a swig from the bottle before she flushed the toilet and went back to the kitchen.
Cora flicked drops of water onto the surface of a Sunbeam electric frying pan. When the droplets sizzled, she added Wesson oil to the skillet.
“What do you think he wants?” asked Muriel. “Probably money.”
“Now, don’t go jumping to conclusions,” said Cora. “Maybe, he just wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me, my ass!”
Mrs. Rawson picked up the Tribune from the front stoop. On her way back to the kitchen, she stopped by the liquor tray in the living room and poured herself a short one.
Billy drowned his pancakes in maple syrup.
“Do you still have the Electrolux, Cora?” he asked.
“You sure did like riding on that thing. No, we gave it to Goodwill when we left Saint Paul. Your grandmother got me a Hoover upright; it’s a fancy piece of junk.”
Muriel sat down at the breakfast table.
“Let’s not beat around the bush, Billy. What are you doing here?”
Cora set a plate down in front of Mrs. Rawson.
“Poached eggs and dry toast just like you like them,” announced the housekeeper.
Jack tossed a load of garbage into the dumpster behind the Good Karma Cafe. Then he entered the restaurant’s back door and made his way to the coffee machine. He helped himself to a cup of Columbian; Ellen buttered a piece of corn bread and stuffed it in her mouth.
“Your ex-wife’s here; she’s waiting for you in the bar.”
Kit Rawson handed a piece of paper to Jack.
“Here’s the note.”
Jack read it aloud.
“ ‘I’m being true to myself. Billy.’ ”
Jack thought, What the hell does that mean?
“I think that’s Shakespeare,” he said.
Kit ripped the paper from his hand.
“This is all your fault; you never spent any goddamn time with him. You were a shitty father and a lousy husband,” she shouted.
“Is that why you cheated on me?” asked Jack.
“No, I cheated on you because I didn’t want to live your dream,” said Kit.
She took in the surroundings—the napkins stuffed under the legs of tables to keep them from wobbling, the mismatched chairs that were so hard they made your crotch fall asleep, and the line cook picking his teeth as he eavesdropped on their conversation. She felt the stickiness of the floor and caught a whiff of refried beans. Kit looked into Jack’s bloodshot eyes; she raised her hands in the air.
“I cheated on you because I didn’t want this!”
She reached for the phone on the bar.
“I’m calling the police.”
Jack grabbed her wrist.
“I don’t want any cops around here; it’s bad for business.”
He let go. “Stop worrying; he’ll be back.”
The phone rang; Jack picked it up.
“Karma Cafe.”
“Jack, is that you? . . . It’s Cora.”
Jack melted at the sound of her voice. It carried him back in time to the Electrolux, shelled peas, Our Gal Sunday, chicken frying in an electric skillet, chocolate chip cookies, tumblers of cold milk laced with Hershey’s syrup, and the sound of Cora’s slippers scuffing the floor.
“Jack, Billy’s here.”
“Let me talk to him,” called out Muriel.
Cora handed her the receiver. Jack’s heart pounded; he couldn’t catch his breath.
“It’s your mother; remember me?”
Jack thought, Do the Jews remember Hitler?
“Your son’s here. He wants to go to some artsy boarding school that you can’t afford because you pissed away your inheritance on that goddamn granola shack. Well, I’m not gonna pay for it,” said Muriel.
“Yes, you are,” said Cora.
Muriel covered the mouthpiece with her hand and looked over to the housekeeper.
“You tell Jack you’re gonna pay for his son’s schooling . . . and sound happy about it.”
Muriel removed her hand from the receiver.
“What I meant to say, Jack, was that I didn’t want to pay for it at first, but I’ve changed my mind.”
At 1:30 p.m., Billy tuned in a Cubs game on a TV in his grandmother’s den; Cora brought him some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies along with a tumbler of cold milk laced with Hershey’s syrup.
A little later, Muriel got behind the wheel of her Lincoln Continental.
She thought, I’ve had one helluva day, and it’s not even two o’clock.
She opened the glove compartment and pulled out an almost empty half-pint of vodka. Muriel finished off the bottle and shoved it under the front seat. She drove to the end of the driveway and stepped on the brake. Empty bottles clattered under her seat.
Jack grabbed a half-pint of tequila from the bottom drawer of the desk in his office. He thought about the afternoon of Cora’s husband’s heart attack—the crappy hospital, the rude staff, and Cora sobbing into the sleeve of his sports coat.
“Fuckers,” he muttered as he took a snort.
Peggy Rawson knocked on the door and stuck her head in the office.
“Jack, I only have enough money to pay the produce guy and half of the staff. What do you want me to do?”
“Shut up and close the door; that’s what I want you to do.”
Peggy stepped into the office and folded her arms.
“May I have some of that tequila?”
Jack reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a shot glass. He filled the glass and raised the half-pint into the air.
Let’s drink to Muriel; let’s drink to Mom.”
“Why?” asked Peggy. “Is she dead?”
“No, I talked to her today.”
“Did she ask about me?”
“Of course she asked about you,” lied Jack. “I told her you were doing great. Now, back to business. Settle up with the produce guy and pay the staff that buys shit from Randy. We’ll make enough from them to cover the rest of the payroll.”
“It’s PAYDAY, Jack. EMPLOYEES expect to be paid on PAYDAY.”
“Okay, how’s this? Pay the ones that buy shit from Randy. Pay the ones working tonight at the start of their shift; they can’t go to the bank if they’re working. Tell the ones who worked today there was a problem processing payroll, and they need to come back for their checks tonight . . . after the banks close.
“What if they also work the day shift tomorrow? They won’t be able to cash their checks until Monday.”
“Exactly,” said Jack.
Tania arrived at her mother’s apartment building at exactly 6 p.m.
I bet she made me a zwieback torte, thought Tania as she entered the lobby.
Johnny the doorman said, “I’ll call upstairs.”
He put down the receiver. “She’s not answering; I’ll buzz you in.”
Tania took the elevator up to the seventh floor and knocked on her mother’s front door. She heard a TV blasting. She knocked louder; no one answered.
“MOTHER? MOTHER, IT’S TANIA.”
She pounded on the door.
“Who’s there? I have a gun and a big dog in here . . . so scram,” said Angela.
“Mother, it’s Tania.”
“Who?”
“It’s your daughter, Tania. Open the door.”
“I don’t know any Tony. Go away, or I’ll sic my dog on you.”
She paused.
“Woof, woof, grrrr,” barked Angela. “Hear ’im?”
“MOTHER, IT’S TANIA!”
“Tania? Why didn’t you say so?”
Angela unlocked the door.
Tania’s mother opened the top drawer of her bedroom bureau; she rifled through her panties and bras.
“I know they’re around here somewhere,” said Angela.
“Can you retrace your steps? Where did you have them last?” shouted Tania.
“If I knew where I had them last, I wouldn’t be looking for them. Forget about it; I can’t stand wearing those stinkin’ hearing aids, anyway.”
Angela sat down on her bed.
“Do you want something to eat?” she asked.
“That’s why I’m here; you invited me to dinner,” said Tania. “It’s my birthday.”
“It is? How old are you?”
“I’m forty-one.”
“You are? Well, how old am I?”
“You’re eighty.”
“I am? How did I get so old?”
Tania looked inside her mother’s refrigerator.
“There’s eggs,” she announced.
Tania checked the expiration date on the carton and tossed it in the garbage. She opened a crumpled paper napkin that was on the second shelf. She set the packet on the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” asked Angela.
“Your hearing aids,” said Tania.
Tania stopped by the cafe on her way home. Bunny, the cashier, and Randy were behind the register browsing a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
“You’d look hot in that one,” said Randy.
He palmed Bunny’s tits with his hands.
“Let me take your measurements.”
The cashier giggled and grabbed Randy’s crotch.
“Now, let me take yours,” she said.
“Okay, okay,” said Tania. “Are the paychecks ready, Bunny?”
“I don’t have ’em; you’ll have to ask the boss.”
Jack sat at the desk in his office. He leaned over a copy of Consumer Reports and used a rolled-up dollar bill to snort a line of coke off the cover. He sat upright.
“I’m rating this shit high in overall satisfaction.”
He returned the bill to his nostril and lowered his head.
There was a knock at the door. Jack bucked in his seat and called out.
“YEAH.”
He used his hand to sweep the remaining powder into a plastic bag.
“I’LL BE RIGHT THERE,” shouted Jack.
He stuffed the plastic bag in a paper sack, shoved the sack in the safe, and opened the office door.
“Are the paychecks ready?” asked Tania.
“Yeah, I’ll get yours.”
He sat down at his desk and opened all the drawers.
“I just had ’em and then I got wrapped up in this magazine.”
He pointed to the Consumer Reports.
“They rate different brands of peanut butter in this issue.”
Jack opened the safe and looked under the paper bag.
“Here they are.”
He handed Tania her check.
“You’re working the day shift tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, you won’t be able to cash your check until Monday. I can loan you a couple bucks if you need it.”
“Bilal the grocer’ll cash it for me tomorrow, but thanks for offering. That was nice.”
Yeah, I’m a real nice guy.
He opened the magazine and turned to an article on generic versus brand-name drugs.
Tania came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. She whispered in his ear.
“I don’t care how much of that shit you shove up your nose; I still love you for who you are inside.”
