‘Hi, Mom. You look great.’ And she did. We had the same long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back, parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman whose determined expression is the only clue that she’s not quite as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. ‘This is my friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother.’
‘Hello, Mrs Robinson.’ He paused. ‘Wow, that sounds weird, doesn’t it? Although I suppose you’re used to it.’
‘I sure am. “Jesus loves me more than you will know.” Either way, please just call me Anne.’
‘It’s really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I’m not intruding.’
‘Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now come inside before you freeze.’
We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the small greenhouse they’d installed a few years earlier ‘for contemplating nature when the weather wasn’t cooperating.’ It was the only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you’d discover tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond, slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks (‘No need to buy those German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well,’ he liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.
‘Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest,’ he sang, pulling me into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.
‘Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is my dad.’
I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly what he’d say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The first time my parents came to the city after I’d graduated from college, I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She’d met them at graduation and once before – she probably barely remembered a thing about them – but my dad didn’t forget much. He’d kissed her hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, ‘Penelope, dear, of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember him being very bright and very articulate,’ he deadpanned without a hint of discernible sarcasm.
This was my father’s subtle way of inside-joking with just me. Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he’d had trouble responding to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even though he hadn’t seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery’s fictional dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I’d like to purchase a pound of ‘some really good shit.’ We thought it was hysterical, and he clearly couldn’t resist taking a quick shot now and then. Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.
‘Pleasure, Sammy. Come sit and keep an old man company. You from around here?’
We all sat. My father poured the Yogi Egyptian licorice tea that my mother brewed by the bucket as Sammy carefully arranged his large frame on one of the oversized beaded floor cushions scattered around the table. I flopped between him and my mother, who folded her legs Indian-style so gracefully that she appeared to be twenty years younger.
‘So what’s the plan for the weekend?’ I asked cheerily.
‘Well, no one will be coming until late tomorrow afternoon, so you’re free until then. Why don’t you guys see what’s going on at the university? I’m sure there’s a good program or two,’ my mother said.
‘The campus ballet troupe is performing an early Thanksgiving matinee tomorrow. I could arrange for tickets if you’re interested,’ Dad offered. He had taught ecology at Vassar for so long and was such a beloved professor on campus that he could arrange just about anything. My mother worked for the campus health clinic’s emotional health department, dividing her time equally between hotline work (rape crisis, suicide, general depression) and rallying the university to adopt a more holistic approach to students’ problems (acupuncture, herbs, yoga). They were the pet couple of Vassar, just as I knew they’d been the pet couple at Berkeley for so many years in the sixties.
‘Maybe I’ll check it out, but you’re forgetting that Sammy is here to visit his family,’ I said, giving them both what I hoped were warning looks to lay off. I spooned some of the unprocessed brown sugar and passed the dish to Sammy.
‘Speaking of which, what was Will’s excuse again for not being able to make it?’ my mother asked nonchalantly.
Sammy stepped up before I could intervene, not realizing that my parents had long been onto Will’s pitiful stories and lies, that it had become a favorite family pastime to tell and retell the new and creative fibs he crafted. He and my mother were close, despite the small detail that she was an annoying hippie liberal who refused to affiliate with a political party and he was an annoying conservative Republican who defined himself by one. Somehow they talked weekly and even managed to be affectionate when together, although each loved viciously mocking the other to me.
Sammy spoke up. ‘Wasn’t it something about Simon’s work?’ he said to me. ‘The Philharmonic called Simon at the very last minute to fill in for an ill musician. They gave him no choice, really. He just couldn’t say no,’ he blurted out before I could screw it up. He was loyal, I had to give him that.
My mother smiled first at me and then at my father. ‘Is that so? I thought he said something about an emergency meeting with his entertainment lawyer at their offices in New Jersey.’
Sammy flushed, immediately convinced he’d somehow gotten the story confused. Time to intervene.
‘They know Simon’s not filling in for anybody, Sammy, and they know you know it, too. Don’t worry, you didn’t give anything away.’
‘That was sweet of you, Sammy, but I simply know my dear brother too well to believe the stories anymore. Where are they off to? Miami? The Bahamas?’
‘Key West,’ I said, topping off everyone’s mugs.
‘You win,’ my father conceded. ‘Your mother bet me he’d cancel at the last minute and blame it on Simon. Frankly, I’m delighted he finally moved past that tired old deadline excuse.’ They both cracked up.
‘Well, I’d better get dinner going,’ my mother announced. ‘I went to the farmers’ market today and got all their winter specials.’
‘May I help you?’ Sammy asked. ‘It’s the least I can do after lying to you. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve been in a home kitchen – I’d really appreciate it.’
My parents peered at him curiously.
‘Sammy’s a chef,’ I said. ‘He studied at the Culinary Institute of America and is planning to open his own restaurant someday.’
‘Really! How interesting. Do you currently cook anywhere in the city?’ my father asked.
Sammy