“She's divorced.”
“Yes, she is. Jane is five.”
His mother searched his eyes, wanting to know what the hitch was. “How long have you known her?”
“Since I moved to San Francisco,” he lied, feeling ten years old again, and fumbling for the photographs he had brought. They were pictures of Liz and Jane at Stinson Beach, and they were very endearing. He handed them to his mother, who passed them on to his father, who admired the pretty young woman and the little girl, as Ruth Fine stared at her son, wanting to know the truth.
“Why didn't you introduce her to us in June?” Obviously, that meant she had a limp, a cleft palate, or a husband she still lived with.
“I didn't know her then.”
“You mean you've only known her a few weeks, and you're getting married?” She made it impossible to explain anything to her and then she moved in for the coup de grace. She went straight to the heart of the matter. And maybe it was just as well. “Is she Jewish?”
“No, she's not.” He thought she was going to faint, and he couldn't suppress a smile at the look on her face. “Don't look like that for chrissake. Not everyone is, you know.”
“Enough people are so you could find one. What is she?” Not that it mattered. She was just torturing herself now, but he decided to get it all over with at once.
“She's Catholic. Her name is O'Reilly.”
“Oh my God.” She closed her eyes and slumped in her chair, and for a moment he thought she had really fainted. In sudden fright he turned to his father, who calmly waved a hand, indicating that it was nothing. She opened her eyes a moment later and looked at her husband. “Did you hear what he said? Do you know what he's doing? He's killing me. And does he care? No, he doesn't care.” She started to cry, and made a great show of opening her bag, taking out her handkerchief, and dabbing at her eyes, while the people at the next table watched and the waiter hovered, wondering if they were going to order dinner.
“I think we should order.” Bernie spoke in a calm voice and she snapped at him.
“You …you can eat. Me, I would have a heart attack at the table.”
“Order some soup,” her husband suggested.
“It would choke me.” Bernie would have liked to choke her himself.
“She is a wonderful girl, Mom. You're going to love her.”
“You've made up your mind?” He nodded. “When is the wedding?”
“December twenty-ninth.” He purposely didn't say the words “after Christmas.” But she began to cry again anyway.
“Everything is planned, everything is arranged …the date …the girl …nobody tells me anything. When did you decide all this? Is this why you went to California?” It was endless. It was going to be a very long evening.
“I met her once I moved out there.”
“How? Who introduced you? Who did this to me?” She was dabbing at her eyes again as the soup arrived.
“I met her through the store.”
“How? On the escalator?”
“For chrissake, Mom, stop it!” He pounded the table and his mother jumped, as did the people at the tables next to them. “I'm getting married. Period. I am thirty-five years old. I am marrying a lovely woman. And frankly, I don't give a damn if she's Buddhist. She's a good woman, a good person, and a good mother, and that is good enough for me.” He dug into his own soup with a vengeance as his mother stared at him.
“Is she pregnant?”
“No.”
“Then why do you have to get married so soon? Wait a while.”
“I've waited thirty-five years, that's long enough.”
She sighed, and looked at him mournfully. “Have you met her parents?”
“No. They're dead.” For a moment, Ruth almost looked sorry for her, but she would never have admitted it to Bernie. Instead, she sat and suffered in silence, and it was only when coffee was served that he remembered the gift he had brought her. He handed it across the table, and she shook her head and refused to take it.
“This is not a night I want to remember.”
“Take it anyway. You'll like it.” He felt like throwing it at her, and reluctantly she took the box and put it on the seat next to her, like a bomb rigged to go off within the hour.
“I don't understand how you can do this.”
“Because it's the best thing I've ever done.” It suddenly depressed him to think of how difficult his mother was. It would have been so much simpler if she could be happy for him, and congratulate him. He sighed and sat back against the banquette after he took a sip of coffee. “I take it you don't want to come to the wedding.”
She started to cry again, using her napkin to dab at her eyes instead of her hankie. She looked at her husband as though Bernie weren't there. “He doesn't even want us at his wedding.” She cried harder and louder and Bernie thought he had never been as exhausted.
“Mom, I didn't say that. I just assumed …”
“Don't assume anything!” she snapped at him, recovering momentarily and then lapsing back into playing Camille for her husband. “I just can't believe this has happened.” Lou patted her hand and looked at his son.
“It's difficult for her, but she'll get used to it eventually.”
“What about you, Dad?” Bernie looked at him directly. “Is it all right with you?” It was crazy, but in a way he wanted his father's blessing. “She's a wonderful girl.”
“I hope she makes you happy.” His father smiled at him, and patted Ruth's hand again. “I think I'll take your mother home now. She's had a hard night.” She glared at both of them, and began to open the package Bernie had brought her. She had the box open and the handbag out of the tissue paper a moment later.
“It's very nice.” Her lack of enthusiasm was easily discerned as she looked at her son, attempting to convey the extent of the emotional damage he had caused her. If she could have sued him, she would have. “I never wear beige.” Except every other day, but Bernie did not point that out to her. He knew that the next time he saw her she would be wearing the bag.
“I'm sorry. I thought you'd like it.”
She nodded, as though humoring him, and Bernie insisted on picking up the check, and as they all walked out of the restaurant, she grabbed his arm. “When are you coming back to New York?”
“Not until spring. I leave for Europe tomorrow, and I'm flying back to San Francisco from Paris.” He felt less than pleased with her after what she had just put him through, and he was not warm toward her.
“You can't stop in New York for one night?” She looked crushed.
“I don't have time. I have to be back at the store for an important meeting. I'll see you at the wedding, if you come.”
She didn't answer at first, and then she looked at him just before she entered the revolving door. “I want you to come home for Thanksgiving. This will be the last time.” And with those words, she passed through the revolving door and emerged again on the street, where she waited for Bernie.
“I'm not going to prison, Mother. I'm getting married, so this is not the last anything. And hopefully, next year, I'll be living in New York again, and we can all have Thanksgiving together.”
“You and that girl? What's her name again?” She looked at him mournfully, pretending to have a memory lapse, when he knew perfectly well that she could have recited every single detail she'd heard about “that girl,” and probably described the photographs in detail too.
“Her name is Liz. And she's going to be my wife. Try to remember that.” He kissed her and hailed a cab. He didn't want to delay their departure a moment longer. And they had to pick up their car, which they'd parked near his father's office.