grandsons. “You would like them,” Mom tells the boys. “They are the same age as you and very nice.”
Mom’s met Sid’s family? That’s news. Jeremy looks at me with raised eyebrows. I see his eyebrows and raise him a shrug.
As Mom, Sid, and I say our goodbyes, Sarah gives me a big hug, then looks at me with her big brown eyes. Quietly she says, “Are you thinking about Zadie?”
I blink a few times, then say, “Yes.”
Sarah nods. “Me, too,” she says.
On the drive back to The Garden, Mom tells me that she is—shock of shocks—spending the night at Sid’s. That’s when I remember that I forgot to talk to Mom about spending time with Allison. It’s not right to tell her now, in front of Sid. Plus Allison will be busy with her own mother.
My mother walks me to the front door of the condo. “Mimi? Thanks.”
“For what?”
Mom smiles. “Making Sid feel welcome.”
“You’re welcome.”
Collingswood
Farmer Joe calls to ask me for a date. With him working days at the farm and me working nights at Café Louis, the only time we can find is Saturday morning-ish. Joe says that he will be manning a booth at a street fair in Collingswood, and I agree to meet him there. Collingswood is between Cherry Hill and Philadelphia. It’s a ten-minute drive from either place. I drive Sally to Haddon Avenue, the town’s main drag. I have never been to Collingswood, and I’m surprised at the quaint calm of the town.
White tents canopy the street, their peaks looking like egg whites progressing down Haddon Avenue as far as I can see. Lampposts are decorated with flowers; baskets of purple and gold impatiens hang around the lampposts’ midsections, just below royal blue banners that read “Welcome to Historic Collingswood” in white letters. “Established 1883.” Red brick buildings line the street, giving Haddon Avenue the feel of a real American Main Street. Not that I would know what that looks like. I am a child of the mall generation. But I’d like to think that life was once like this, with independent, family-owned shops doing a brisk business among neighbors. It’s very Huck Finnish. I like it.
“Collingswood T-shirts,” calls a young man standing in front of a display.
Crafty art is for sale under the tents, as are decorative masks, beaded jewelry, dried flower arrangements, ceramic and glass garden ornaments, and handpainted T-shirts.
“Collingswood T-shirts. Atkins friendly,” the man calls.
Warm dough smell drifts from Joe’s Pizza Parlor. Farther down the street, a big man stirs a pot of Kettle Corn while his colleague passes out sample handfuls. Crepes are cooked under a hot griddle, and the sizzle reaches my ears. Area bakeries do a brisk business selling cookies, individually sized pies and breads. Flower merchants wrap purple lilies and pink tulips in yellow paper. Folksy rock comes from a live band on the tented grandstand.
“Collingswood T-shirts. Perfect gift for Christmas, birthdays, and Bar Mitzvahs.”
Friends greet each other warmly with hugs and handshakes. Even the teenagers have left their melancholy at home. In front of the jewelry tents, men in khaki shorts and golfing shirts wait for wives wearing cotton capri pants and scoop-necked shirts. White-haired men and women shuffle slowly along the sidewalk. A stroller brigade winds its way through the crowd.
In the middle of Haddon Avenue, I spot Joe under a sign with the state slogan: “Jersey Fresh.” Got that right. Joe greets me with a tongue kiss that tastes peppery, like arugula. Sure enough, I spot a bag of baby lettuce under the table. “Tico, you okay here for a while?” Joe asks the man wearing a Hunter Farm T-shirt.
Joe and I walk hand in hand down Haddon Avenue. “This is a nice town,” I say.
“I come here a lot,” Joe says. He points to a sign that says “Dr. Cohen.” “There’s my dentist’s office,” he says. I wave.
Joe nods and steers me down a street, away from the noise of the fair. We walk a few blocks and come to Cooper River. “Pull up a bench,” Joe says, and sits on one overlooking the river. “What’s new?”
“Well, we had a family dinner for my mom’s boyfriend.”
“Your mom is dating?” Joe seems shocked.
I give the details, then ask, “How would you feel if your mother was dating?”
Joe laughs. “My mother is in no condition to date. Sometimes she thinks my father is still alive.”
“Her memory is going?”
“The doctors say it’s early onset Alzheimer’s. She’s only sixty-three.” Joe looks out at the river. “It’s too soon.”
“You