Peter, Sizzlers, and Mother
One Friday evening, I went to pick him up from the office because his car was at the mechanic. As was my habit, I had prepared dinner at home. We dropped his partner at his house and headed for ours. Driving back, we passed a Sizzlers. “Let’s go to Sizzlers,” he said. “I have already cooked, Peter,” I said. “We will eat it tomorrow,” he cajoled. “Come on. It will be nice.” Needless to say, we stopped. I could never say no to him. I think I only said no to him once, and that was one night in the middle of a snowstorm when he wanted to drive all the way to Coney Island for a hot dog and caramel popcorn. I put my foot down then and adamantly refused to go there, or anywhere, for that matter, in all that snow! He still would not give up. Even then, he negotiated going to a diner two miles away for a cup of coffee and a cake heaped with chocolate icing. Pick your battles, they say, so I did.
At any rate, there we were on Metropolitan Avenue that Friday evening in Forest Hills. I found a parking spot, and we walked towards the eatery. We sat down to eat. Peter headed for the steaks. I headed to the salad bar. He must have been famished because he kept on going for more. Three times he went back for helpings. I commented that at the rate he was going, he would get sick, but he paid me no attention. After that, he helped himself to a plate of salad and several helpings of desserts. Once more I commented. Once more he did not heed me.
That night he groaned and moaned with a deep belly pain. I went downstairs and boiled a concoction of dried lime and rock candy for him to drink. That is an Iraqi Jewish mother’s guarantee of curing any upset tummy. It did not help him. He continued to moan and groan. Frustrated, I finally said, “It serves you right. I told you not to eat so much!”
“If you cannot sympathize with me, get out of the room and leave me to my misery!”
By this time, it was almost dawn. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown, put on a pair of his socks and my bedroom slippers, and went downstairs. It was a chilly autumn day. I put the kettle on for some tea. I curled up with a book and a good read.
Kelly woke up and took our then dog, Max, for a walk in the park. Peter’s mother, who lived in Florida, had a habit of calling each Saturday morning at ten o’clock before heading out to the hair salon. If I answered, we would chat a bit, then she would speak to Peter. Promptly at ten, the phone rang. “Good morning,” I answered cheerfully.
“Good morning, my darling daughter-in-law!”
“Good morning, my beautiful mother-in-law!”
That’s how we greeted each other. It was all in fun, and we loved it. We then continued our conversation. When we were done that day, she asked, “And how is that son of mine?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mother,” I replied nonchalantly. Immediately she became concerned. “What do you mean? You did not have a fight, did you?”
“Oh no, Mother!”
“What then?” she asked puzzled.
“He asked me to leave the bedroom.”
“He asked you to leave the bedroom? Why?” she asked, even more confused.
So I told her. “Wake him up! I want to speak to him!” she said sternly. “Yes, Mother,” I replied, with a smile curling about my lips.
Just at that moment, Kelly walked in with Max. “Kelly, dear, could you please go upstairs and wake up your stepfather? Mother wants to speak to him.” I do not know what she said to him, but later on, Peter commented, “You got me good this time!” I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Only for your own good, darling. Only for your own good. You do not listen to me. You do to her.’’