Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,8
park on an abandoned freight railway, with its lush greenery, historic buildings and quaint overlooks, never fails to calm my nerves and soothe my senses.
The feeling doesn’t last long. At least not for me. I can’t speak for Roscoe, who doesn’t seem to be phased by much of anything.
“You’re late.” My mother purses her perfectly painted lips—Casablanca by Tom Ford, her day shade—and crosses her legs, not bothering to do anything so drastic as to, say, get up and give her own flesh and blood a hug.
“I’m right on time.” I pull out the chair opposite her and sit, not needing to check my phone since I’ve kept meticulous track of the time throughout our walk, doing my level best not to upset Mommy Dearest. Like I stood a chance of that happening. I think my mere existence pisses her off. She swears I wasn’t an “oops” baby, but it sure seems that way sometimes.
“On time is late.” She takes of sip of her sidecar—all she ever drinks, and only after noon—and gestures to Roscoe, who’s made himself comfortable at my feet under the table. “What is this monstrosity? And why are you so sweaty?”
I flag a waiter. I don’t usually drink on the job, but one beer won’t hurt. There’s no way I’m getting through this meal without a little liquid courage, especially with my mother already well into her first drink. “It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”
She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a judgmental stare over the rim of her glass. Eventually, I give in. Like I always do.
Well, almost always. I’m not going back to my old way of life, no matter how much she and my father guilt trip me.
“This is Roscoe.” I reach down to scratch the top of his big ole head. “He’s a who, not a what. I’m helping take care of him for the next few months. Or Odds & Errands is. And if I’m sweaty, it’s because we walked here from Midtown on the High Line.”
“Ah, yes. Your father and I donated to that project when it was first getting started.” Guaranteed that was the closest she’d ever get to it. My mother and the great outdoors did not mix well. Her idea of roughing it was staying in a hotel with fewer than five stars. “You couldn’t have left him at home?”
Yeah, I could have. I had time to get him back to Tribeca. But a little, rebellious part of me wanted to bring him to our lunch date, knowing it would get under my mother’s skin. Not that I’m admitting any of this to the woman sitting across the table from me, her judgey stare still intact. “You know how it is. Busy morning. I had a to multitask.”
The waiter finally makes his way over to us. I order a craft beer I’ve never tried—I like to experiment—and we both order our meals, kale and quinoa salad for Mom, naturally, and a thick, juicy burger with a side of fries for me. Her lips form an all-too familiar pout, making her disapproval evident. I ignore it and take a slice of warm, crusty bread from the basket in the middle of the table, dipping it liberally in their signature basil-infused olive oil. If I’m feeling really rebellious, maybe I’ll even order dessert. The crème brûlée cheesecake here is fantastic.
“Your little gopher business is going well, then?” my mother asks.
It’s the same conversation we’ve had hundreds of times. I tell her—for the hundredth time—that Odds & Errands is doing just swell, thank you, fend off the rest of her questions with the most banal, general answers I can give and make the expected polite inquiries about my father, aunts, uncles and cousins—all doing heaps better than me, of course—until our meals arrive and we eat in silence.
“So,” I say, sneaking the last bite of my burger to Roscoe, who thumps his tail in appreciation. “Was there a reason you summoned me here?”
“I did not summon you.” My mother sets her fork down, leaving half her salad uneaten, and dabs her mouth with her napkin. “I merely thought it would be nice if we spent some time together.”
Right. My mother never does anything without some sort of ulterior motive.
“It’s just that Martin Fletcher—you know Martin, he’s the president of our co-op board—well, he thought you might want to come to one of our tenant meetings,” she continues. “Talk up your services. I know you say you’re doing fine, but