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Lesson5HowLongDoesItTaketoSayI’mGettingMarried?IhadtakenmymotherouttolunchatmyfavoriteChineserestaurantinthehopeofputtingherinagoodmood,butitwasadisaster.WhenwemetattheFourDirectionsRestaurant,sheeyedmewithimmediatedisapproval.“Ai-ya!What’sthematterwithyourhair?”shesaidinChinese.“Whatdoyoumean,‘What’sthematter,’”Isaid.“Ihaditcut.”Mr.Roryhadstyledmyhairdifferentlythistime,anasymmetricalblunt-linefringethatwasshorterontheleftside.Itwasfashionable,yetnotradicallyso.“Lookschoppedoff,”shesaid.“Youmustaskforyourmoneyback.”Isighed.“Let’sjusthaveanicelunchtogether,okay?”Sheworehertight-lipped,pinched-noselookasshescannedthemenu,muttering,“Nottoomanygoodthings,thismenu.”Thenshetappedthewaiter’sarm,wipedthelengthofherchopstickswithherfinger,andsniffed:“Thisgreasything,doyouexpectmetoeatwithit?”Shemadeashowofwashingoutherricebowlwithhottea,andthenwarnedotherrestaurantpatronsseatednearustodothesame.Shetoldthewaitertomakesurethesoupwasveryhot,and,ofcourse,itwasbyhertongue’sexpertestimate“notevenlukewarm”.“Youshouldn’tgetsoupset,”Isaidtomymotheraftershedisputedachargeoftwoextradollarsbecauseshehadspecifiedchrysanthemumteainsteadoftheregulargreentea.“Besides,unnecessarystressisn’tgoodforyourheart.”“Nothingiswrongwithmyheart,”shehuffedasshekeptadisparagingeyeonthewaiter.Andshewasright.Despiteallthetensionsheplacesonherself—andothers—thedoctorshaveproclaimedthatmymother,atagesixty-nine,hasthebloodpressureofasixteen-year-oldandthestrengthofahorse.Afterourmiserablelunch,Igaveuptheideathattherewouldeverbeagoodtimetotellherthenews:thatRichSchieldsandIweregettingmarried.MymotherhadnevermetRich.Infact,everytimeIbroughtuphisname—whenIsaid,forinstance,thatRichandIhadgonetothesymphony,thatRichhadtakenmyfour-year-olddaughter,Shoshana,tothezoo—mymotherfoundawaytochangethesubject.“DidItellyou,”Isaidas.wewaitedforthelunchbill.,“whatagreattimeShoshanahadwithRich?He—““Oh,”interruptedmymother,.“Ididn’ttellyou.Yourfather,doctorssaymaybeneedsurgery.Butno,nowtheysayeverythingnormal.”Igaveup.Andthenwedidtheusualroutine.Ipaidforthebill,withatenandthreeones.Mymotherpulledbackthedollarbillsandcountedoutexactchange,thirteencents,andputthatonthetrayinstead,explainingfirmly:“Notip!”Shetossedherheadbackwithatriumphantsmile.Andwhilemymotherusedtherestroom,Islippedthewaiterafive-dollarbill.Henoddedtomewithdeepunderstanding.Whileshewasgone,Idevisedanotherplan.Whenshereturned,Isaid,“ButbeforeIdropyouoff,let’sstopatmyplacerealquick.There’ssomethingIwanttoshowyou.”Mymotherhadnotbeentomyapartmentinmonths.WhenIwasfirstmarried,sheusedtodropbyunannounced,untilonedayIsuggestedsheshouldcallaheadoftime.Eversincethen,shehasrefusedtocomeunlessIissueanofficialinvitation.AndsoIwatchedher,seeingherreactiontothechangesinmyapartment—fromthepristinehabitatImaintainedafterthedivorce,whenallofasuddenIhadtoomuchtimetokeepmylifeinordertothispresentchaos,ahomefulloflifeandlove.ThehallwayfloorwaslitteredwithShoshana’stoys,allbrightplasticthingswithscatteredparts.TherewasasetofRich’sbarbellsinthelivingroom,twodirtysniftersonthecoffeetable,thedisemboweledremainsofaphonethatShoshanaandRichhadtakenaparttheotherdaytoseewherethevoicescamefrom.“It’sbackhere,”Isaid.Wekeptwalking,allthewaytothebackbedroom.Thebedwasunmade,dresserdrawerswerehangingoutwithsocksandtiesspillingover.Mymothersteppedoverrunningshoes,moreofShoshana’stoys,Rich’sblackloafers,myscarves,astackofwhiteshirtsjustbackfromthecleaner’s.Herlookwasoneofpainfuldenial,remindingmeofatimelongagowhenshetookmybrothersandmedowntoaclinictogetourpolioboostershots.Astheneedlewentintomybrother’sarmandhescreamed,mymotherlookedatmewithagonywrittenalloverherfaceandassuredme,“Nextonedoesn’thurt.”Butnow,howcouldmymothernotnoticethatwewerelivingtogether,thatthiswasseriousandwouldnotgoawayevenifshedidn’ttalkaboutit?Shehadtosaysomething.IwenttotheclosetandthencamebackwithaminkjacketthatRichhadgivenmeforChristmas.ItwasthemostextravantgiftIhadeverreceived.Iputthejacketon.“It’ssortofasillypresent,“Isaidnervously.“It’shardlyevercoldenoughinSanFranciscotowearmink.Butitseemstobeafad,whatpeoplearebuyingtheirwivesandgirlfriendsthesedays.”Mymotherwasquiet.Shewaslookingtowardmyopencloset,bulgingwithracksofshoes,ties,mydresses,andRich’ssuits.Sheranherfingersoverthemink.“Thisisnotsogood,”shesaidatlast.“Itisjustleftoverstrips.Andthefuristooshort,nolonghairs.”“Howcanyoucriticizeagift!”Iprotested.Iwasdeeplywounded.“Hegavemethisfromhisheart.”“ThatiswhyIworry,”shesaid.Andlookingatthecoatinthemirror,Icouldn’tfendoffthestrengthofherwillanymore,herabilitytomakemeseeblackwheretherewasoncewhite,whitewheretherewasonceblack.Thecoatlookedshabby,animitationofromance.“Aren’tyougoingtosayanythingelse?”Iaskedsoftly.“WhatshouldIsay?”“Abouttheapartment?Aboutthis?”IgesturedtoallthesignsofRichlyingabout.Shelookedaroundtheroom,towardthehail,andfinallyshesaid.,“Youhavecareer.Youarebusy.Youwanttolivelikemess,whatcanIsay?”Aftermuchthought,Icameupwithabrilliantplan.IconcoctedwayforRichtomeetmymotherandWinherover.Infact,Iarrangeditsomymotherwouldwanttocookamealespeciallyforhim.Ih