Im working over all of this stuff, rehearsing, ready to let loose with major mom artillery. As soon as she gets her skinny, tattooed butt inside the door, there will be massive inflictions of guilt. There will be bomb craters of guilt.
It isnt just the boy or the motorcycle or the tattoo. That, unfortunately, has become typical Kelly behavior in the past year or so. What really whacks me is that my daughter is morphing into someone I dont know. Someone who has no respect for me, who all too often doesnt even seem to like me very much.
Its scary when that happens. Scary enough to make me want to cry, mourning my beautiful little girl. The one who was so strong for me when she was ill. The one who looked up from her hospital bedshe was so sick that night, so sick!and said, Dont worry, Mommy, Im not going to die. I checked with God and he said not to worry, Ill be fine.
And she was. From that day on Kelly got better. Little by little, day by day, every test showed she was going into remission. Eventually, on that marvelous ninth birthday, that wonderful wonderful birthday, all the blood work, all the scans showed her cancer-free. I thanked God, I thanked the doctors and the nurses, but mostly I thanked Kelly, because shes the one who never gave up, who never let the disease take over.
Anyhow, so thats my state of mind. We live in the house in Valley Stream I inherited from my mom, the one she bought after she and my dad divorced. A divorce I always figured was partly my fault. All the stress I caused for them when I was Kellys age. Guilt, guilt, guilt. The mortgage happened when Mom needed money for a hospice. I told herpromised herI wouldnt put a mortgage on the house, that was her gift to me and Kelly, but what can you do?
My dad, a New York state trooper, he used to have a saying when he was about to deal with something important: Im loaded for bear. Well, I thought I was loaded for bear, or at least loaded for Kelly. But when she finally did come home what did her mother do?
Mom burst into tears.
Because Kelly is smiling that impish smile, the one she first learned moments after being born. That smile I hadnt seen for a while, not directed at me. A smile that breaks my heart because I miss it so.
Mom? Why are you crying? Did something happen?
Im shaking my head. Cant get the words out so I point to my lips, and then to her.
You want to talk, Kelly says. Sure, yeah. You saw me on the bike. It was really dumb, me not wearing a helmet. I know that and Im sorry. Seth was wearing his helmet, did you notice? He gave me a hard time, said it was so retarded, not wearing protection for your brainpan. Isnt it weird hed say brainpan? But thats Seth. And the tattoo, Mom?
Kelly swings around, lifts her little midi-blouse.
Its a fake. Body art. Got it at this place in Long Beach, on the boardwalk.
I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, very nearly speechless. Oh, Kelly.
My daughter plunks herself on the stool next to me. With her amazing eyes and her amazing smile, she looks five going on twenty. Youve got to get over this worry thing, Mom. Im okay. Really. The helmet? Wont happen again.
People get killed on motorcycles, I respond, my voice husky.
Yeah, they do. They get killed by lightning, too. And by worrying themselves to death.
Whos Seth?
Kelly looks at her fingernails. Youre going to ground me, right?
Absolutely.
Then I better go to my room, she says, and flounces away, as if its fun to be grounded. As if being grounded was her idea.
She stops on the stairway, looking back at me in the kitchen.
Dont worry, okay? she says. Theres just totally no reason to worry about me.
But there is. Big-time. And, as it turns out, for a much bigger reason than I ever imagined.
3. Man Of Steel
The thing about a turkey buzzard is that it looks really ugly perched on a branch or hopping around next to roadkill. Looks less like a bird, more like feathered hyena with hunched shoulders and a hooked nose. But let the ungainly critter soar and it becomes unspeakably beautiful, rising on big and glorious wings. What an amazing transformation, from a hideous bag of cackling bones to an elegant dark angel, circling in the noonday sun.
Ricky Lang envies the buzzard. Hes sprawled on the trunk lid of his BMW 760i, the twelve-cylinder sedan, staring up into the blinding blue sky. What he wants, what he really and truly wants at this very moment is to be that buzzard. Riding the updraft without effort, just the slightest wind-ripple of white feathers marking the edge of his great black wings. White feathers like daubs of ceremonial paint. Not as valuable or potent as eagle feathers, hell grant you that, but Ricky prefers the buzzard to the eagle because buzzards love to fly for the sake of flying.
Oh, baby, how they love to soar on the blurry heat rising from the vast casino parking lot. They soar over the malls and highways, anywhere theres an updraft. Of course buzzards keep their eyes peeled for food, for something newly dead, thats what they do, how they survive. But it isnt just hunger that motivates the birds. Ricky has seen scores of turkey buzzards far out into the Florida Bay, circling miles from shore. Soaring like that, over water, a buzzard takes its chances. If it has to rest in the water it will be unable to launch itself back into the air. Feathers soaked, it will drown. Yet still it soars in dangerous places.
Theres only one explanation for such behavior. The big ugly bird soars in dangerous places because doing so makes it beautiful.
When the heat on the trunk lid finally becomes unbearable, Ricky Lang heaves himself upright. Five feet ten inches of hard muscle, small, fierce brown eyes flecked with gold, and the rolling, pigeon-toed gait of a sailor. Not that hes ever been to sea, not really. Airboats dont countan airboat is more like skidding a slick car around a soft, watery track. Got the slightly bowed legs from his dad. That and hands like ten-pound hammers. First time Ricky ever saw the movie Superman he had to talk back to the screen because white-bread Clark Kent wasnt the Man of Steel, no way. Tito Lang was the Man of Steel, everybody knew that! Fists like steel, head like steel, nobody messed with Tito, back in the day.
Ricky, five years old, assumed Superman was stealing from his father. Thirty years later, the Tito of todaythat doesnt bear thinking about, it makes his head hurt. More like the Man of Mush than the Man of Steel. Brain gone soft, pickled with swamp whiskey, and his trembling hands formed into weak arthritic claws that cant manage his own zipper.
Thinking about his dad, Ricky clenches his fists so hard that his ragged fingernails draw blood. Feels good, the pain, keeps him focused. Unlike his father, Ricky doesnt drink swamp whiskey, or any form of alcohol. He gets drunk on other things, on liquors that form in his own brain.
Fear of the dead, rage at the living. Thats what keeps his heart beating. Lately hes learned to sip at the rage, make it last. For instance today hes been enjoying a prolonged confrontation with casino security. Started at, what, eight in the morning, and its nearly one oclock in the afternoon, so hes had it going for five hours, on and off. A marvel of sustain. He loves the push and pull of it, the way he makes the security guards all jumpy and sweaty. Their eyes bugging when they see him approaching the main entrance. Hurried yaps into their handheld radios, looking for guidance, calling in the reinforcements. Theyre afraid of him and that makes it sweet, because he can savor their fear and use it to organize his own thoughts.
Being in charge of his own thoughts is very important to Ricky. That when he says jump, his thoughts say how high? Because his thoughts have been all over the place lately, bouncing around in his skull like speeding pinballs. Each bounce inside his head resonates all the way to the balls of his feet, and makes him feel like he can leap buildings in a single bound.
As Ricky approaches the entrance, shrugging his big shoulders like a linebacker, a size-large dude in a lime-green blazer hurries out to intercept him.
Am I a bird or a plane? he asks before the guard can speak. You decide.
The guard glances nervously at a charter bus unloading senior citizens. All those soft, Q-tip heads bobbing slightly as they head for the bingo halls and the slot machines.
Sir, I told you, sir. You are not permitted access.
Bird or a plane?
Sir, you are not permitted access to the casino or the casino grounds. You must exit the parking lot.
Ricky grins, passes his hand through the thick bangs of his Moe Howard hair. Dude? I own this parking lot.
Im sorry, sir. The guard is blocking his way, but not yet willing to lay hands on him.
I own the casino, Ricky reminds him. You get that?
I dont know who actually owns the casino, sir. I only know that you are not permitted to enter the premises.
That was my rule, Ricky says, pretending to be reasonable. I made the rule, I can break it.
The guard grimaces, eyes swiveling for the reinforcements that havent yet arrived. Nobody likes dealing with Ricky Lang, theyre slow-footing it.
Tribal council makes the rules, sir, the guard responds rather plaintively. Members of the tribe are not permitted in the casino.
Ricky doing a two-step dance with the man, trying to get an angle on the entrance. I am the tribe, Ricky says. Im the sachem, the chief, the boss. This casino exists because of me.
The guard reaches out, places a tentative hand on the center of Rickys chest.
Sir, please.
Ricky looks down at the hand, amazed, and becomes very still.
I know who you are, Mr. Lang, says the guard, as if desperate for him to understand. Tribal council says you cant come in, you cant come in.
Ricky selects one of the guards fingers, breaks it with a twitch of his fist. Before the man can fully react to the convulsion of pain, Ricky rolls him across the pavement, where he flops, moaning, at the feet of the seniors entering the casino.
Help! a Q-tip screams, an elderly woman, or maybe its an old man, hard to tell when they get that age. Indians!
Ricky laughs all the way back to his BMW. Indians, what a riot. The old lady probably thought she was about to be scalped. As sachem of the Nakosha, an elected office that made him both chief and high priest, he could have explained that traditional warriors did not take scalps. Never had. Scalps were taken by white soldiers, as souvenirs and to collect bounties. Nakosha warriors took nosesthe nose was the seat of dignityand threaded them into battle necklaces. Some warriors used knives to harvest the noses, others used their teeth. If it ever comes to that, Ricky decides hell go with the knife.
4. The Sacred Rights Of Momhood
Okay, putting your ear to your daughters door doesnt look good, Ill admit it. But Kelly is in her room for about ten minutesdoor locked, of coursewhen her latest ringtone starts blasting away. Something from Snow Patrol, who are actually sort of cute. Anyway, I hear the cell go off, my mom-antenna reminds me of the Seth problem. As in who-is-Seth-and-how-did-he-get-in-Kellys-life without-me-ever-hearing-his-name, let alone any sort of description or explanation?
Very clever way my daughter has of not answering a simple question: she volunteers for punishment and then disappears into her room, locking the door.
The mysterious Seth, the young man with the motorcycle, thats probably him on the phone right now. And since Kelly has refused to give me any details, its within my rights, the sacred rights of motherhood, to determine who this kid isall that stuff about how the boy really wanted her to wear a helmet sounds bogus to me. Besides, he was the one driving like a lunatic, right?
Try as I might, I cant hear a thing. They must be whispering to each other. What I want to knowis he in her class, is he older, what? All I caught was a glimpse, but come to think of it, the minimum age to legally carry a passenger in New York is seventeen. So hes at least a year ahead of Kelly, maybe more.
Finally I work up the courage and knock.
Kel? I ask through the closed door. We have to talk. Who is this boy? Does he go to your school? Do I know his parents?
After a slight delay she calls out, Its late, Mom.
I picture her hand cupped over the phone, her eyes rolling.
Its nine oclock, I remind her. Since when is that late?
Im really tired, Mom. Well talk tomorrow, okay? Ill tell you all about it, honest.
Shes so polite that it isnt in me to argue. And once again shes rightby morning Ill be thinking much more clearly. Not only less freaked about the whole scene, but also less likely to be manipulated into, say, letting her self-select her punishment.
Maybe grounded isnt the right call. Maybe what Kelly needs is a few months volunteering at an E.R. Let her see what happens to kids who risk their lives on a dare, or for the fun of it. Get her pushing wheelchairs, changing drool cups, all that good stuff. I picture a light going off over her head, an epiphany, how fragile life is. Kelly giving me a big hug, saying, Mom, you were right! I have to be careful!
The fantasies of parenthood. As Kelly herself would say, theres minus no chance of that. Minus no chancein teen-talk, thats less than zero, with a sneer.
Most of the women I know watch Letterman or Leno or Conan before they drop off. Tuning in to the mainstream can be reassuring, I guess. It helps us relax, reminds us that we all have our troubles, were all capable of Stupid Human Tricks.
Im not averse to a little tube before bed, but the only way I can get my head ready for sleep is to make a list. Putting the next day in order helps me feel less anxious about whats expected of me.
1. check fabrics, ECWW
2. place Tanner order
3. check on second fittings, Norbert & Spinelli weddings
4. call Tracy
5. call Fred
6. lunch McQ
7. dry cleaners
8. grocery
ECWW is East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, where I purchase ninety percent of the fabrics for my clients. The satin, silk and lace people. The company is normally very reliable, but theyve got a new guy running the shipping department and hes been messing up my orders. I have to do something about that. Last year my little one-woman company purchased over two hundred thousand dollars worth of fabrics from East Coastfar from their biggest account but not insignificant. Number two, Haley Tanner, Ive mentioned already. Norbert and Spinelli are upcoming weddings, nine bridesmaids and two bridal gowns between them, both slightly behind schedule because everything is slightly behindsee the problems at East Coast. Number four on the list, Tracy Gilardi, came on to assist with fittings three years ago, but she turned out to be so competent I tend to let her do her own thingwhere I get excitable she always remains calm, which can be very helpful in nervous-making situations like weddings. Fred is Fred Grossman, my accountant. I want to check on quarterly tax payments. Alex McQuarrie is one of the top wedding planners in the area; he throws me a bone now and then, sets me up with a high-budget client. Or not. Sometimes all he wants is a companion for lunch, a sympathetic ear. Well see. Dry cleaners and grocery, self-explanatory.