were revealed as grocery-bag repositories.
“I presume it’s quiet, at least?” my mother said, her voice disconcertingly formal.
“Very quiet,” I said. “And Kalustyan’s is just one block away.” As if the apartment’s proximity to my mother’s favorite spice shop made it more desirable.
Malabar had arrived with cheese and crackers and the makings for power packs: bourbon, vermouth, a shaker, even a lemon to peel for garnish. The plan was to have a drink at my place and then meet Ben uptown for dinner. It was a bit early to start the cocktail hour, but we were at a loss for conversation and I could see my mother needed something to do with her hands. As she went into the kitchen to begin preparations, I itemized the ugly things she was likely to come across: peeling contact paper in the utensil drawer, a blue plastic ice tray, loose faucet handles . . .
The cocktail shaker made a crisp ka-chick-ka-chick sound.
“Martini glasses?” Malabar asked with false cheer. “A cheese board?”
“On my to-buy list,” I said, pulling out wine goblets and a dinner plate instead. Five years earlier, my mother had insisted that Jack and I register at Tiffany. We balked. The notion of all that formal barware—the very idea of a decanter—seemed preposterously old-fashioned.
“Mark my words,” Malabar had said to us at the time. “You’ll thank me when you have a complete set of Tiffany crystal instead of mismatched artsy vases that you’ll never use.”
Now I was starting over. My kitchen was bare. Guilt had made me leave everything in San Diego, every piece of china, the silverware, martini glasses, cheese boards; even family paintings and photographs. I still might go back, I thought. Or Jack might move here. We were keeping those possibilities alive.
Soon Malabar and I were sitting on my sofa swilling our power packs and subduing any strong feelings we had. I’d found that getting drunk myself was the best way to handle my mother’s drinking. Tonight, her aloofness was making me anxious and self-conscious, and the bourbon relaxed me from the inside out.
In short order, Malabar emptied a second large shaker of Manhattans into our glasses and cleared her throat. “Rennie, I have to ask: How exactly do you intend to support yourself?”
In moving to New York, I had left a stable job, a reasonable mortgage, and a partner who had a solid income. I swallowed and hesitated. I had no idea how I would manage. I had some savings, but not a lot. “Well, my hope is to break into publishing,” I said.
This elicited a laugh. “Not an entirely obvious way to make a good living,” she said.
I had an unpaid internship at the Paris Review and was working as a fact checker at a travel magazine, which paid less than half of what I needed to cover my rent.
“I know it might not look good from the outside, Mom, but I’ll land on my feet,” I said, projecting more confidence than I felt. The truth was, the thought of pursuing a creative life in whatever way I could made me happier than I’d felt in years. “At least I’m not depressed anymore.”
“That’s wonderful, darling. I’m just curious how you plan to pay your rent.” Malabar took a sip of her cocktail. “I need to make something absolutely clear: Ben and I have no intention of supporting our grown-up children.”
Suddenly, I understood the purpose of her visit.
“I haven’t asked you for money, have I?” But she and I both knew that she was my backup plan. I’d always assumed I could count on my mother if I needed help.
“Not yet,” she said, “but you’ve been making some pretty big decisions without considering the rest of the family, so just be aware that you’re on your own.” My mother cleared her throat, an indication that there was more to come. “And if you think I intend for my mother’s necklace to support your new bohemian lifestyle, think again. That piece is going straight to a museum where it belongs.”
I felt like I’d been slapped.
My mother wasn’t finished. She went on to tell me that she and Ben had decided to give Peter full use of the family guesthouse. “It’s as simple as this: we no longer want the hassle of renting, and your brother can afford the maintenance and taxes.” My brother had an MBA from Kellogg and had already amassed a fortune as a management consultant specializing in telecommunications. Malabar gestured to my apartment, evidence of my inability