“I wish I had a can of each in front of me right now,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “I’d show you.”
“Do you have something behind your back?”
“Yes, that’s my lovely surprise.” She revealed a box with a smiling woman pictured on the front. “It’s something for us to do while you tell me your wonderful stories. You’re going to help me frost my hair.”
“Really?” said Tom. “I’m not sure that sounds feasible.”
“I’ve been meaning to take care of it. I have a high school reunion coming up, as I was saying. Not a formal one. Just a group of us girls. But I’d like to look presentable.”
“I’m not sure what frosting entails.”
Tom’s cell phone went off, a ringtone Sam had installed for him, some hip hop that embarrassed him in front of his mother.
“Jazzy,” said Mrs. Wellingham.
Tom looked. Caller ID said it was one of Sam’s friends. Unusual for him to be calling this number.
“Do you mind if I get this?”
“Why would I mind? I’m your mother!”
Tom answered the call.
“Tom? This is Barry Wick.”
“Of course, Barry. Is everything all right?”
Barry was the director and sometime costar of Sam’s films, in which Tom was often the principle investor.
“Don’t worry, sir,” said Barry. “There’s no emergency or anything like that.”
“Is Sam okay?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Don’t worry. I just had a quick question, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I’ll give the best answer I can. What’s on your mind this evening, Barry?”
“I want to sleep in the same bed with Sam tonight. Fully clothed. It’s nothing sexual.”
“I’m not sure I follow you, Barry. I think you’re going to have to clarify this one for me.”
“Sam and I are collaborators, you know that. We really draw a lot from one another. There’s a certain energy between us.”
“Right…”
“That’s it, really. I’d just like to hold her tenderly. All through the night.”
Tom saw his mother looking at him. She had taken a seat and was holding the box of frosting in her lap. Tom turned away and faced the dim foyer.
“Uh-huh…” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not one hundred percent sold on this idea, Barry. It seems a tad intrusive.”
“It’s just the opposite, sir. We’d be fully clothed. I want to emphasize that. Look, I’m not going to do it without your permission. Sam didn’t even want me to call.”
“I see.”
“But I thought it was important to get your input. To make you aware.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate the thought.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” said Barry.
“I’m just not sure that holds true for me here at this moment,” said Tom.
“So what I’m hearing is, you’re resistant.”
“I believe that would be an accurate assessment,” said Tom.
“I want you to know I’m going to take that into consideration as the night moves forward,” said Barry.
“Thank you,” said Tom. “I hope you will.”
“I will.”
“Terrific, then.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
“Sounds good, Barry.”
Barry was gone.
“What was that about?” said Mrs. Wellingham.
“Business,” said Tom.
“You seem upset.”
“I’m not,” said Tom. “Where’s that flatscreen TV I bought for you?”
“I put it in the guest bedroom.”
“That’s a funny place to put it,” said Tom.
“I thought it would be nice to have this room just for sitting and talking.”
“Sure, that’s nice,” said Tom.
“Come on and help me frost my hair. I want to involve you. You’re home. My son’s home. Althea used to do it.”
“That seems more appropriate,” said Tom.
“I’ll put on my special poncho,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “You’ll love it!”
Mrs. Wellingham went into the other room again. When she came back she was wearing her special poncho. It was white, with bright dots on it that made Tom almost remember a picture book of his youth. Something about a shaggy creature with colorful spots. When he shook himself his spots got flung about. Something like that. It was hard to remember.
“We should go in the kitchen, over the linoleum, in case there’s a mess,” said Mrs. Wellingham.
They did so.
Tom’s mother opened the box and laid out all the frosting equipment on the burnt-orange kitchen counter. It had come with the house, the counter had. Its color was of the 1970s. It should have been replaced.
“Noisome,” said Tom.
“This is going to be a real ball,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Aren’t we having fun?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Wellingham sat on a high kitchen stool. She put on a strange silver cap with holes in it. She tied a string under her chin to hold the cap in place.
“Do I look like a bathing beauty?” she said.
“Yes,” said Tom.
She told him how to use the white plastic hook that came with the kit to pull strands of her hair through the holes in the cap.
“Just the holes with circles around them,” she said. “I want an overall frosted look.”
“It seems to me,” said Tom, “that if you sincerely want an overall frosted look, you’d want your hair pulled through all these little holes, not just the ones with circles around them.”
“I’ve been frosting my hair for many years,” said Mrs. Wellingham.
“Very well. I’ll defer.”
Tom pulled some of his mother’s hair through various holes.
“Just the ones with circles!” said Mrs. Wellingham.
“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” said Tom. “What makes you think I’m doing otherwise?”
“I raised you.”
“Well, what on earth is that supposed to mean?” Tom put down the hook.
“Are you mad at me?” said Mrs. Wellingham.
“No. This happens to be exhausting. My wrist hurts. I believe the cap is defective.”
“They wouldn’t put a defective cap in the box.”
“Is the cap supposed to have two layers?” said Tom. “It seems to have two layers. I don’t believe the holes have been properly punched through the bottom layer.”
“That’s an illusion,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “They have to make it hard for the gunk to soak through. Otherwise, there would be no precision. Your hair would be one big mess.”
She picked up the hook and started pulling strands of her hair through the holes.
“What are you doing?” said Tom.
“I don’t mind. It’s not something you’re used to. I understand. You’ve never frosted Sam’s hair? I think she’d look darling with frosted hair. She and I could be twins!”
“Do you want a mirror? You’re getting some of the holes without circles around them,” said Tom.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Your new job is to tell me stories.”
Tom told how he got his job almost by accident. Then he did the one about the day of orientation. They had been working right through lunch when one poor fellow brought a bottle of King Kevin into the auditorium with his sandwich. The instructor stopped in her tracks. The guy had purchased it from a vending machine on the very floor. Mugsy was leasing the building at the time, and they shared it with another corporation. In those days, the stocking of vending machines had been a lax industry. Mugsy had pioneered the stricter requirements that led to the advent of modern automated retail distribution branding. You wouldn’t dream of finding a Pepsi casually stocked in the same machine with a Coca-Cola product, would you? Mugsy’s innovation in that area had led the way, and it was probably all thanks to that poor dumb boob who had brought the King Kevin into orientation.