Wild Game My Mother, Her Lover, and Me - Adrienne Brodeur Page 0,58

on Cape Cod the following July, at her home, if possible.

“Of course,” she said. “We’ll have it on the front lawn. Keep it simple. Nauset Bay is more splendid than any chapel.” Then Malabar was silent for a moment. I assumed she was composing the menu in her head or imagining a dance with the groom’s father. “Guess what?” she said. I heard a hitch in her breathing and waited.

“I’ve made a decision.”

My mother liked dramatic moments, and she stretched this one out.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“I’m going to give you the family necklace. I always said you would wear it on your wedding day. And now you will.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

“Oh, Mom,” I said, stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. My gift to my girl on her wedding day. Your grandmother would have loved that.”

I’d waited my whole life for my mother to offer me the necklace. “Describe it to me again,” I said. I hadn’t seen it in years.

“You could actually forget?” Then Malabar recited her favorite quote about ingratitude: “‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’”

“Of course I remember it, Mom,” I said, chagrined to have already bungled this moment. And truthfully, I could picture it, all those chunky rubies and diamonds and emeralds, each set into its own panel, each rectangle framed by dozens of delicate pear-shaped diamonds and fringed with clusters of freshwater pearls. “I just want to hear you describe it again.”

Since I was a child, Malabar had always insisted that the necklace’s worth was incalculable. As a teenager, I offended her by asking why she hadn’t gotten it appraised.

“Because it’s priceless,” she’d said, her voice flat. “Un-appraisable.” End of discussion.

But the stories Malabar used to tell me about the mythic piece of jewelry captured my imagination as a girl.

“A Sikh maharaja bestowed it upon his bride during a wedding spectacle,” my mother would whisper, lingering over the foreignness of the word maharaja. “There were elephants in gold headdresses, camels festooned with intricately embroidered cloth . . .”

Her descriptions were so vivid that I almost believed she’d attended this thousand-year-old extravaganza.

On the rare occasions when she brought the necklace out, I would finger the velvet case—purple, the color of royalty—and stare at all those blinking diamonds wondering, as any little girl might, if the necklace had magical powers. I felt sure it did.

“The maharaja personally selected each gem,” my mother would insist. “Imagine . . . every topaz, sapphire, and diamond handpicked from thousands.”

The story would change a bit with each retelling, but never the great fortune of its recipients—that Mughal empress, rajmata, princess . . . and, someday, me.

More than anything, my mother loved telling how her father had hidden the necklace from her mother, who’d fallen in love with it on a trip to India. Apparently, my grandmother wanted it desperately, but my grandfather scoffed at her. Don’t be ridiculous, Vivian. It’s far too extravagant. But secretly, he’d bought it for her, telling the jeweler if he ever breathed a word to Memsahib—and here, my mother always paused for effect—he’d cut out the poor man’s tongue.

But we all know that getting what you wish for often comes at a price. Vivian’s life was upended once again by a husband who had multiple affairs and secretly fathered a child out of wedlock. When Malabar graduated from college, my grandmother gave her the necklace in an elaborate gesture. She placed the crushed-velvet box into a larger box and wrapped that box, then she put that gift-wrapped box into a larger box and wrapped that one too, going on and on until there were ten nested boxes, the final one big enough to hold a television set. As my young mother opened one box after the next, did she dare to hope about what might be inside? I imagine she did.

The old refrain from my childhood echoed in my head: Rennie, you must promise me that you’ll never, ever sell or give away this necklace, no matter what.

My reply: I never will.

I’m not sure if I can trust you with it. Another refrain.

You can, I always insisted.

I should bequeath the necklace to a museum where it will be safe and appreciated.

I’ll treasure it forever, I promised.

Always?

Always.

Well, then, my mother would say, if you’re very, very good, you shall wear it on your wedding day.

I couldn’t believe that it was finally happening.

Seventeen

The call came on a Sunday morning in late February, a month that saw no notable seasonal change