answered it. Good news: She’s not in a kimono. Less good news: She’s in a low-cut black cocktail dress that might be the same one she wore the night of the Rainbow Room. She holds a pair of strappy black heels in her hand.
For a split second, I think about going to my room to change back into my dress, but that will only make things worse. Who can compete with my mother?
Max wears a dark gray suit with a black shirt and—my breath catches—a cobalt-blue pocket square, with shiny black shoes that I’m guessing he bought with the money I gave him. I don’t mind. He looks amazing.
“Well, don’t you look handsome!” Mom exclaims, opening the door wide for him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Max in anything but jeans, a T-shirt, and work boots, so he seems a little stiff as he walks in. Hot as heck, but uncomfortable.
“Mrs. Markham,” he says, “these are for you.” He holds out cellophane-wrapped flowers. Red roses with white baby’s breath.
She drops her shoes on the floor to take them and says, “Aren’t you the charmer? My word,” then moves toward the kitchen, calling, “Let me get some water for these!”
I give Max a shy peck on the cheek, and he hands me a plastic container with two white roses and a blue flower of some sort in between. “That’s for you. I think the blue one is an orchid. It goes on your wrist.”
“Thank you, Max. It’s beautiful.”
“I wanted blue for the dress, but white for you. ‘A cream-white rosebud/With a flush on its petal tips;/For the love that is purest and sweetest/Has a kiss of desire on the lips.’” He bows deeply and says, “Courtesy John Boyle O’Reilly.”
“Who?”
He laughs, but leave it to Max to be reciting some sonnet I’ve never heard of. When he straightens, he gives me a once-over and says, “So, you decided on wearing that?”
I laugh now. “No, goofball, I just didn’t want to get anything on my dress. I’ll change after dinner. Come on.” I pull his arm and lead him into the living room, and we sit awkwardly on the couch, the dumb Kerouac book staring up at us from the table. I get up, and carry it to the audio cabinet and shove it away.
“What are you doing, Jailbait? You know I love Kerouac,” he says, as Mom returns, carting hors d’oeuvres that clearly came from the freezer section of Costco, but that she has presented on a fancy white ceramic platter of Nana’s we use only on good occasions. As if she’s slaved over them. She places it on the coffee table and sits on the other side of Max, and spends the next several minutes fawning over him, and regaling him with pointless stories about her college days before she met Dad, like anyone cares. Once, she gets up and sashays back into the kitchen in her slinky dress and bare feet, for more food.
Anytime Max—who is clearly dazzled—says anything the slightest bit funny, she tosses her head back and laughs like it’s the most brilliant, hilarious thing in the world. The whole display reeks of crazy, not that Max seems to care.
“You didn’t tell me how smart he is, Jean Louise.”
“I did, actually,” I say, cringing at her use of my first and middle name. “Mom, where’s Nana?”
“She was running late. Said something about a stomachache.” Mom frowns, and I wonder if she remembered to invite her. But none of this is the worst of it, because when we move to the dining room for dinner, Mom pours us all wine in her fancy crystal glasses, quickly refilling Max’s, which he finishes off in barely three sips, even though I remind her we’re both underage.
“You can’t always be so careful, Jean Louise,” she says, dismissing me with some ass-backward wave of her hand. “Sometimes, you have to live a little. In Europe, kids drink wine at dinner every night, even when they’re ten, twelve years old.”
Max raises his eyebrows, and smiles. As if he agrees, but also like he’s starting to realize my mother is at least teetering near, if not slipped off into, the deep end.
“Well, funny that, we’re not in Europe, Mother,” I say, sounding as snarky and petulant as I feel. But she simply waves me off with another flick of her hand.
“Red wine is good for you. It keeps you young.”
“Well, you sure don’t need that, Mrs. Markham.” Max holds his glass up to her.