Folly Beach - Dorothea Benton Frank [73]
I rang the doorbell. Russ answered.
“Hi, Mom! How are you? Come on in!”
“Good, baby. How’re you?”
I stepped across the threshold and into their living room, hugged my son, and heard Alice’s footsteps coming toward us.
“Hi, Cate! Welcome home!”
I really wished she’d call me something else.
“Thanks, Alice,” I said and gave her a maternal hug, patting her shoulder. “Well, now! Don’t you both look wonderful?” I stepped back, looking at their genuinely happy, youthful, smiling faces, thinking how important parental approval was at every age.
“Thanks, Cate! And so do you, all things considered,” Alice said and Russ shot her a death-ray look. “I mean, the long drive and all the terrible things, you know, Addison’s suicide and . . .”
I was thinking, why is she bringing this up? I mean, let’s just relive it all one more time and have a nice evening, okay? When Russ was uncomfortable with a situation he rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants. I guess I was staring at her with a very furrowed brow, because Russ was rubbing his legs and his palms.
“You’re gonna start a fire,” I said.
“Right! Why don’t I get you ladies a drink? Glass of wine, Mom? Alice? You want a glass of tomato juice?” Russ said, smiling, seeing precisely why Alice compromised my sense of humor.
“Why, I’d love that, Russ! Thanks! What smells so good? Gosh, your house looks so pretty!”
No, it didn’t. It was as sterile as an operating room. Didn’t they have any tchotchkes? I forced a smile, walked by Alice, and followed my son into the kitchen. My poor son.
“I made fish sticks,” I heard her say in a tiny voice. “And a pot of grits.”
And it isn’t even Friday, the Catholic in me said to no one. Wow. Fish sticks.
We made it to the dinner table, which, for the record, was set by someone who did not share the domestic goddess’s propensity for anything that smacked of style or beauty. That would be Alice. The mismatched forks were jumbled with the knives on the right, and a bottle of ketchup was in the middle of the table along with a paper napkin holder and a bottle of Texas Pete’s Hot Sauce. There was at least one stain on every place mat. But I held my tongue. The ketchup was for the fish sticks and Texas Pete was there to enhance the collard greens from the plastic quart container that came from the Bi-Lo, reheated in the microwave and served in the same container it traveled in. Again, I held my tongue and thought, well, maybe I would teach Alice to cook. And to set an inviting table. At the same time I taught myself, that is. I mean, I was a reasonable presence in the kitchen, especially with holiday meals, and I could do some pretty interesting things to a chicken . . .
“Mom? Did you hear what I said?”
I was winding a wad of collards around my fork, thinking about the slow-cooker recipe I had for coq au vin.
“Oh! I’m sorry, sweetheart! I was just thinking that it’s been years since I had collards and grits and I love them! They’re really delicious, Alice. Just the right amount of salt and just the right consistency . . .” They were staring at me with the strangest expression. “What? What did I miss?”
“We’re having a baby, Mom. We’re pregnant!”
“You are?” WHAT? I was stunned. “Oh my God! Russ! Alice! Oh! This is wonderful news!” I shot up from my seat, I don’t know what possessed me, but I hugged Alice and kissed the top of her head. Then I ran around the table and pulled Russ up into my arms and hugged him, too, for all I was worth, I hugged my boy. All at once I was filled with a flood of joy and I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I was going to be a grandmother!
“Oh, my God! I’ll learn to knit! I’ll learn to crochet! Have you told Sara?”
“No, you’re the first person we’ve told. Well, Alice called her mom but that’s different,