outs of Mr. Thomas’s unwritten last book). Also, she would sometimes bring me a Matchbox car to add to my growing collection and once in awhile would get right down on the floor beside me and we’d play together. Sometimes she’d give me a hug and ruffle my hair. Sometimes she’d tickle me until I screamed for her to stop or I’d pee myself…which she called “watering my Jockeys.”
I didn’t like her because sometimes, especially after our trip to Cobblestone Cottage, I’d look up and catch her studying me like I was a bug on a slide. There was no warmth in her gray eyes then. Or she’d tell me my room was a mess, which in fairness it usually was, although my mom didn’t seem to mind. “It hurts my eyes,” Liz would say. Or, “Are you going to live that way all your life, Jamie?” She also thought I was too old for a nightlight, but my mother put an end to that discussion, just saying “Leave him alone, Liz. He’ll give it up when he’s ready.”
The biggest thing? She stole a lot of my mother’s attention and affection that I used to get. Much later, when I read some of Freud’s theories in a sophomore psych class, it occurred to me that as a kid I’d had a classic mother fixation, seeing Liz as a rival.
Well, duh.
Of course I was jealous, and I had good reason to be. I had no father, didn’t even know who the fuck he was because my mother wouldn’t talk about him. Later I found out she had good reason for that, but at the time all I knew was that it was “You and me against the world, Jamie.” Until Liz came along, that was. And remember this, I didn’t have a whole lot of Mom even before Liz, because Mom was too busy trying to save the agency after she and Uncle Harry got fucked by James Mackenzie (I hated that he and I had the same first name). Mom was always mining for gold in the slush pile, hoping to come across another Jane Reynolds.
I would have to say that liking and disliking were pretty evenly balanced on the day we went to Cobblestone Cottage, with liking slightly ahead for at least four reasons: Matchbox cars and trucks were not to be sneezed at; sitting between them on the sofa and watching The Big Bang Theory was fun and cozy; I wanted to like who my mother liked; Liz made her happy. Later (there it is again), not so much.
That Christmas was excellent. I got cool presents from both of them, and we had an early lunch at Chinese Tuxedo before Liz had to go to work. Because, she said, “Crime never takes a holiday.” So Mom and me went to the old place on Park Avenue.
Mom stayed in touch with Mr. Burkett after we moved, and sometimes the three of us hung out. “Because he’s lonely,” Mom said, “but also because why, Jamie?”
“Because we like him,” I said, and that was true.
We had Christmas dinner in his apartment (actually turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce from Zabar’s) because his daughter was on the west coast and couldn’t come back. I found out more about that later.
And yes, because we liked him.
As I may have told you, Mr. Burkett was actually Professor Burkett, now Emeritus, which I understood to mean that he was retired but still allowed to hang around NYU and teach the occasional class in his super-smart specialty, which happened to be E and E—English and European Literature. I once made this mistake of calling it Lit and he corrected me, saying lit was either for lights or being drunk.
Anyway, even with no stuffing and only carrots for veg, it was a nice little meal, and we had more presents after. I gave Mr. Burkett a snow globe for his collection. I later found out it had been his wife’s collection, but he admired it, thanked me, and put it on the mantel with the others. Mom gave him a big book called The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, because back when he was working full time, he’d taught a course called Mystery and Gothic in English Fiction.
He gave Mom a locket that he said had belonged to his wife. Mom protested and said he should save it for his daughter. Mr. Burkett said that Siobhan had gotten all the good pieces of Mona’s jewelry, and besides, “If you