Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 15
A Novella
3
There are times when you have to meet on neutral territory – and a meeting with your mother ranked high on the list. Whether you call her mother, mama, mom, maman – it is still the same: a cloak of motherhood surrounds her. Even the proletariat could not get out of this, and the bourgeois spoiled them rotten. But it had to be urbanized, and Sai said on the river side of Boston, and he gave sociological reasons – but they amounted to “don't shit where you eat”. (in the vernacular, “pardon my French” though German was far more vulgar) In short, the fare was more than sufficient around Harvard Square, but the location was sadly inappropriate.
That meant that the most logical place was outside of Back Bay - a filled-in chunk of landscape from the waning years of the 19th century, which had townhouses with some flavoring in the 20th century. They were lettered from the bottom of the Public Garden - with its non-luxurious swan boats - starting with Arlington Street and traversing down towards the Boston side of Massachusetts Avenue with Hereford St. The long streets were Beacon, Marlborough, and Commonwealth Avenue as the residential streets, and Newbury And Boylston as the 2 long commercial streets. After that, it was the land of architectural steeples, which had some people label this a little Manhattan. Very little some might suggest.
On the long commercial streets, there was an expensive end around Arlington, and a life and around Massachusetts Avenue. My best option was to be on the live end, as a subtle jab at my mother that the house would no longer find my presence adequate. The obvious place to meet therefore was Trident Booksellers and Cafe. While the food was not good, it rained a kind of adequate presence which befit the idea that the patrons were slumming it with the standard for the day murals – Sargent it was not. It was not Stephanie's or the across-the-street Sonsie, with its more upscale menu and price. Coûter les yeux de la tête. Even further from the pale dining rooms in the shadow of the Pru. Nor could one gawk at the passers by, the way one could in either of those two illustrious institutions.
They were seated at the notoriously small tables - but not quite tiny slabs masquerading as tables. Of course, we were staring into each other's eyes with that glare that only mother and daughter sharpened for the coming repartee, which both had been prepared for. Men used foils, women used the equivalent of hatpins, updated for the modern era (or should I say the contemporary era, because the modern has gone well past us.)
“Well you asked me here, and I responded in my regalia. I see your taste in food has not changed. What do you want to say to me.” Of course, this was my mother in full. Regalia was the special touch.
“I was half expecting you to say victuals.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is an older word.”
“And by now a degraded one. As wonderful as seeing the Prudential Center is, if I could recall what exact pleasure it is, and surveying the grasslands of Boston from the common to the public garden and the Commonwealth Ave. Mall, I would prefer this be held back at our home.”
“Why are you so adamant about our house? Last time you seemed more than willing for me to reside there.”
“This is not there.”
“It seems that you take take a particular displeasure, on seeing Boston and partaking of its pleasures.”
“The joy of Trident escapes me. And the cuisine certainly does nothing for the ambiance.”
“Is there a more personal reason?”
“The owner of the home resides in a building not too far away.”
“So, there is a personal reason.”
“We had an arrangement, which is now broken. Largely because of you.” So the home was safe, but Boston was not. It would have been nice to tell me on the phone, but taking such time was not my mother's greatest strength. Perhaps it was only a singleton, à la bridge.
“To get to the point.”
“Please do.”
“Who the voices are in the Nebraska papers.”
“So that is what you called, and if I declined to answer?”
“Why would you do so, I know of your life as it is.”
“But the papers are not.”
“It is a badly written 1st draft of a quarter of the novel. Which, if I may speak so bold, is enough of a document, to need no other introduction.”
“There is no such word as 'decrement' in point of fact.”
“The cooking student uses a lesson, the master creates.”
“Then you need more lessons in being master.”
“Distouché.”
“Trying for a record of mis-analyzed creations?”
Pause. This was getting me off track. With a less imperious tone - “Let us return to the question, who are the voices in the drafts I have for this creation? Why 3?”
There was a mother's pause. Neither of us was actually good at this in person, though we both engaged in l'esprit de l'escalier – a retort that comes to you in the hours after a conversation. But then that is rather c'est normal.
“Something is making me angry. And it seems that you do not care what it is. I do not even think you know the extent of my displeasure.”
“I am listening.”
“I find out where you are staying during this period.”
“I will not ask how.”
“It is not any of your concern, but what is your concern is some things about the personnel which should concern you.”
“Go on - I said I was listening.”
Square in her face – she stopped, upon a mono-syllabic caesura. A “d'uh” slunk across her forehead and up to her hairline. It was rather comical, as a medial in an afterglow in prosody. It was clear that she thought she had a juncture retort which had slipped away into never-neverland. Finally, she stuttered:
“I thought you never listened.”
“Maybe because you always repeated the same things, and therefore I did not need to respond.”
“It is hard for me to let you go.”
“You should have reasoned more thoroughly because this day was going to come - and rather soon.”
“You are going away to college is not the end of my commitment.”
“Yet is now, because there is very little that you have 2 plead with me that would make me at all interested.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“The word is positive, you should not use very less you have some reason to do so.” Which was a quote from a 9th-grade English teacher.
“What if I tell you all that I know, and point to in the direction of what has to be filled in?”
“It is a start, but I would as easily believe that you merely want out of this cafeteria-style eatery, as anything else.”
“You have me there, I do want out of the mediocre sandwiches and cold bagged tea.”
“You could be having espresso - the machine will dispense aristocratic flumes at your request.”
“What is it with you and coffee?”
“It is the coffee, it is the food of the gods - are rather the drink - which is not coffee.”
“Then I will try this, though I have never seen the attraction.”
“Start with a latte, and work your way down to the crème de la crème.”
“Where did you have time to sample this?”
“While I have had few adventures, I have had a few.” It was only a month ago at Starbucks that I had my 1st cappuccino – under Lily's direction. Even Trident was a recent attachment to my menu. À la recherche du temps perdu - how I wished that I could utter such happenstance in the novel, the way that a greater author might, but it is not to be. One needs more experience and that only comes with time and a word. The meaning of the voyage, the episode of the cookie, the love of a swan in 3rd person - all of which are beyond me. Let them eat by brioche by set.
There is a signal from a customer to a waiter, that says that something additional needs to be ordered. Now Trident, being very lazy, will get around to it eventually - so it took a few months for the waitress to trundle her way to us.
“Did you want anything else?” While not quite fat, our waitress verged on it most conspicuously.
“My daughter says that I should order a latte, can this be done?” She drew herself up by at least an inch of height, and her shoulders were slightly back and her neck was arched. This was her way of gaining an aristocratic aspect - though it largely did not work.
“Certainly, ma'am.” As she wattled off to make one, I could see the discussion on my mother's face as she was referred to as “ma'am” because it made her feel old. And it was not even madam, which soiled her sense of pride. But while wide, are waitress was young as well, so she could not help herself. Before my mother had inserted her discussion, I waved my hands toward the table as if to say it was not important. Within a few minutes, the latte arrived in a glass tumbler. Of course, my mother looked at it, rather than immediately consuming it. And so daintily that each sip was an exquisite gesture.
But, finally, she nodded her acceptance - though there was hesitation at the decision.
“I can see that your taste has evolved somewhat.”
It was also clear that we were on more conversational terms than before. Revenons à nos moutons - I relaxed into my chair - knowing that some bit of wisdom, or at least the illusion of such, was about to be expounded.
“I will tell you more bluntly than I wished, I only corrected spelling and grammar on the short novelette that is in your possession. Originally, I was not supposed to do even that. But what does it matter now? Yes, there are several voices, but the main two are the novelist and the commentator.” At this moment she plunged to The floor and finished out of her enormous handbag a piece of white lined paper, with a name and address on it. “This is the address and name of the man I used to refer to as your father, that nonsense can be dispensed with.” And she held it out with enormous aplomb, though at the length of her extended arm.
There was a minor amount of chitchat after that, but in my purse was the only thing - the bottom of things was in sight – perhaps the way school shootings would be after Florida, where the old lock to their 2nd amendment rights to slaughter innocent children – and then welcome them to parade the nubile nakedness on spring break will juuling a fistful of nicotine. Elle bourres le crâne.
Senseless to engage in this, shoring up every sinew to make that face that others saw seem bright and cheerful, even if it had in this case a furious side bodaciously with tartar sauce.
Why 3?