so good about Romeo’s Dagger—and it was good, Brooke, don’t ever forget what a fine job you did there, do you hear what I’m saying?—is that it had meaning. It was about love and courage. It was about more than how twisted people are. Although twisted is what sells. Twisted is money in the bank.”
“Audra, please, call me Audra,” said Audra to Mary Rose. “I suspect you’re right about the calla lilies, and while we’re on the subject, I don’t think I’ve told you how much I love Paraiso Mexicano. It’s absolutely inspired. I’ve had enough azaleas and rhodies to last me a lifetime. I adore it, and as I recall, not everyone agreed with me.”
“As I recall, Ma, no one agreed with you,” said Little Hank.
“Mary Rose did. She’s the only truly creative landscaper in this entire city,” said Audra.
Paraiso Mexicano was Audra’s name for the subtropical garden Mary Rose had planted behind the four-car garage. Other gardeners had told Audra what Mary Rose should have: “Mrs. Baron, you cannot, I repeat, cannot grow bougainvillea in this climate.”
But where there was money—not to mention the beloved’s mother—there was always someone to say, “If you want the impossible, I’ll try to give it to you.” Mary Rose built a trellis for the Bougainvillea sanderiana against the south side of the garage, dropped some hibiscus and salmon-colored impatiens in the ground, and told Audra to keep her palms and calla lilies in pots, which could then be transferred to the sunroom in the winter.
“It was all your idea, Audra.”
“But you talked me out of the banana tree. That showed determination and vision. Not every landscaper has determination and vision.”
“I was just following your lead,” said Mary Rose. She was anxious, I think, to be both agreeable while at the same time disavowing responsibility for the collection of exotic plants, some shipped from nurseries in Phoenix, that would no doubt be black and limp with rot come spring.
“You’re not eating,” said Audra. “Have you been morning sick?”
You know that silence.
Suddenly, the weather, which no one had noticed for hours, seemed to be inside the room. The applause of rain against the Italian-tile roof. The candles sputtering in the heavy silver holders, victims of unseen drafts. Mary Rose slid a glance at Ward, who kept eating his carrots, sliding them between half open lips as if he was feeding a parking meter. She said nothing.
I thought I didn’t hear this right. I busied myself trying to feed Stella mashed potatoes.
“You’re right, Dick,” said Ward. “The fact-based movie is in decline. Romeo’s Dagger was great. What did that one review call it? ‘Shapely and ironic’?”
“That’s what I want on my tombstone,” I said.
“What was the last good true story you saw? Dad? What about you?”
Big Hank looked at Ward over his glasses as if he were mad. “The last time I was in a theater they still had ushers.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Audra. “I know you young people talk about everything. For God’s sake, look what they advertise on television these days. So let’s not stand on ceremony. Yes, Mary Rose, Ward told us the news. And we are thrilled, absolutely thrilled. This is ridiculous. I think we should be honest. I’m beyond thrilled. I thought I was never going to have any grandchildren. And since we’re being honest, I might as well say it. Two healthy kids like you and Ward. I’m not racist. You know that about me. But with all those poor African-American girls having a dozen children or more, why, we have to hold up our end, don’t we? Us poor old middle-class white people?”
“Speaking of which, who is someone who’s never been mugged?”
“Ward, quit trying to change the subject,” said Audra. “But there’s one thing. And I hope you hear me on this, Mary Rose. I know you’re kind of the earthy type, and will probably be into all that modern-day homeopathic nonsense, but please, please, I beg of you. I’ve heard of women saving their placentas—good God, how far we’ve come! Talking about placentas at the dinner table—”
“You’re the only one talking about them,” Ward said into his Brussels sprouts. “And, yes, I would like to change the subject.”
“You little devil,” said Little Hank, pitching a roll across the table.
“Don’t interrupt—my point is that I do not, I repeat, do not, want you saving the placenta to fertilize the roses. I’ve heard of that happening. I will absolutely not have your placenta decomposing, or whatever it does, under my “Billy Graham” or “Melodie Parfumee.” Mrs. Eldon’s daughter-in-law froze her placenta, then when it was time to use it to plant under a tree or something, it wouldn’t come out of the Tupperware—”
“Mother! You’ve made your point!”
“And she had to microwave it. Ward, I’m just trying to show you I’m modern, and that I support you.”
“We understand, Mrs. Baron,” said Mary Rose, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Please, call me Audra!”
Mary Rose looked at Ward, who was busily smearing whipped rutabaga on a pile of curling meat. He smiled a weak, closed-mouth smile, gave his shoulders a little shrug. “The answer is: a liberal. To the question, Who is someone who’s never been mugged?”
Mary Rose cleared her throat. “I know you’re family and have every right to know, Audra, but we had originally planned on keeping it to ourselves. Until we’ve had time to adjust.”
Audra giggled, clapped her hands together under her chin. This was easily the most amusing thing she’d heard in ages. “Mary Rose, you are so adorable. There’s no adjusting. Don’t you know that? I still look at these boys and say to myself, ‘I can’t believe you came out of me.’”
FOR A WOMAN, THE TRUE ADVANTAGE OF MARRIAGE IS not having regular sex, but having an on-site partner with whom to debrief. In this day and age anyone can get laid; try finding someone who’ll listen to dish at midnight. Before Lyle discovered Realm of the Elf, he was just such a man.
I was eager to get home after Thanksgiving dinner. Wait until Lyle heard about Ward Baron and The Last Living Valkyrie. Lyle does a great improvisational chromosomal analysis, wherein he imagines both the best baby and the worst baby two people could possibly produce. Of the offspring of a software mogul and a runway model he might say: What if the baby gets his height and her math skills! His lips and hips and her sense of the absurd! We entertained ourselves for hours with this when Stella was gestating, and haven’t laughed so hard since. Then she was born, and was completely herself, and made fools of us both.
I managed to successfully transfer a sleeping Stella from her car seat to her crib without waking her, then tromped down to the basement stairs to Lyle’s Lair. A previous owner had had a Space Odyssey decor in mind: The basement walls and unfinished ceiling were spray-painted silver. Lyle had his computer set up against one of the silver walls, on a big square of old dog-brown shag. Next to the computer was a futon, one that has been passed from soon-to-be-married friend to soon-to-be-married friend,
