Chasing Stanley (10 page)

Eric snorted as he walked away. “Keep tellin' yourself that.”

 

 

“Your mother's here.”

The doorman's voice was cheerful as it crackled over the intercom, a stark contrast to Delilah's own mood. For weeks, Mitzi Gould had been hounding her daughter to get together, completely ignoring Delilah's busy schedule. Finally, unable to take the endless dramatic messages left on her answering machine (“You have time to train dogs to sit, but you can't make time for your own mother?” “You haven't called in three days. I could be dead for all you know.”), Delilah broke down and invited her mother into the city for lunch. The closer the date drew near, the more tense Delilah grew. She hadn't slept at all the night before, which meant only one thing: within five minutes of letting her mother in the door, she'd tell Delilah how awful she looked.

“Send her up.”

Maddening as Mitzi could be, Delilah was hopeful lunch would her take her mind off Jason. Did she really act “twittery” when he asked her out for coffee? She knew she'd hesitated a bit, but overall, she thought she was doing well. If they hadn't been interrupted by that jerk who didn't pick up after his dog, she probably would have gone for coffee with him. And Stan. No, not probably. She would have. Especially after that kiss.

Running into his brother had thrown her a bit, too. Not only because Jason had never mentioned having a brother, but because Eric was so flirty with her, so fast. Delilah might be more attuned to animals than people, but even she could tell Eric was trying to get Jason's goat by asking her to join them for pizza. She didn't appreciate being a toy in the competition between the two.

“Helloooo.” The voice on the other side of Delilah's door was quiet yet imperious, the knock accompanying it coming later than Delilah expected. Her mother must have taken the stairs rather than the elevator in her never-ending quest to “burn extra calories”—as if she were even in need of such thing. Mitzi Gould weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, if that.

Delilah took a good look around her apartment before opening the door. She'd dusted and vacuumed, transforming disarray into order as best she could, no easy task when you owned three dogs and boarded others. She'd gone out of her way to get all her mother's favorite foods for lunch: bagels, lox, smoked whitefish, even herring in cream sauce, which Delilah found revolting. If her mother saw she'd made an effort to please, she might think twice about criticizing. The odds were slim, but it was worth a shot.

Squaring her shoulders, Delilah finally opened the door. There stood her platinum-blonde mother in a full-length raincoat.

“Hi, Mom.” Delilah leaned over to kiss the powdered cheek, having learned as a little girl never to kiss her on the mouth, since it might mess up her lipstick.

“Hello.” Her mother stepped over the threshold. “You've put on weight.”

“Thanks, Mom. Nice to see you, too.” Delilah glanced quickly at the window. “Why do you have that raincoat on? It's not raining.”

Her mother's disdainful glance zeroed in on Delilah's three dogs, all of whom were sleeping peacefully on the living room rug. They were so well-trained they didn't even stir when someone entered the apartment. “I don't want to go home covered in dog hair and drool.”

“None of them drool,” Delilah felt compelled to point out.

“Well, they shed,” her mother replied tersely. “I'm keeping the coat on.”

“Suit yourself.”

Delilah had sworn she wouldn't let her mother rattle her. But less than two minutes into their lunch, Delilah was losing the battle. “How was the train?” Delilah asked in an effort to shift the topic from the dogs to her mother's favorite subject: herself.

Her mother clucked her tongue. “Eck, disgusting. I should have driven. I remember when the LIRR used to clean their carriages. Now they're just petri dishes on wheels.” She peered into Delilah's face. “You look terrible. Aren't you sleeping?”

“I had some trouble falling asleep last night.”

“Poor baby. You should get a prescription for Ambien. Works like a charm.” Her mother seemed genuinely sympathetic as she reached out to cradle Delilah's cheek. “You know, a little makeup would help cover up those dark circles under your eyes.”

“It's fine, Mom. Really.” Delilah signaled for her mother to follow her into the kitchen. “Come on. I've made lunch.” Her mother made a face as she sidestepped one of Sherman's squeaky toys.

Delilah could feel her mother's deliberate gaze scouring every surface as she put up the coffee and pulled the lunch items out of the fridge. If there was a flaw in the room, no matter how small, her mother would find it. Stomach in knots, Delilah awaited the inevitable critique, shocked when it was semi-positive.

“You've done a nice job in here. I wouldn't have painted the cabinets that light a shade of blue—in fact I think dusty rose might have worked better—but it's your apartment. You have to do what works for you.”

“Thank you.” Thrilled to have gotten off so lightly, Delilah gestured toward the kitchen table, where the food was now spread out. “See? I got all your favorites.”

Her mother looked horrified. “Do you have any idea how fattening all that is?”

“I thought you loved this stuff!”

“That doesn't mean I allow myself to eat it.”

“Fine.” Annoyed, Delilah began loading food back into the refrigerator. “We'll go out.”

“No, no, don't be silly,” her mother insisted. “Half a bagel won't kill me. I guess.”

Delilah rested her forehead against the refrigerator door. “Are you
sure
? Because if you're going to sit here making comments, I'd rather go out.”

“This is fine,” her mother assured her. “Wonderful.”

“You're sure.”

“Put out the food, Delilah.”

“If you say so.” Delilah began unloading the food.

“So,” her mother began coyly, “have you talked to your father lately?”

“Not lately.”

“I heard he's got some new little tootsie. I was wondering if you knew anything.”

“No, but why should you care?”

After twenty-eight years of acrimonious wedlock, her parents had finally divorced. The final straw had been her father's supposed affair with his longtime secretary, Junie. Delilah believed him when he denied it, but not her mother.

Her mother appeared insulted. “I
don't
care,” she insisted. “I'm just curious.” She took the plates Delilah handed her. “Is he still
schtupping
Junie?”

Delilah put the silverware in her hand down with a clatter. “I don't know, Mom. Why don't you call him yourself and ask him?”

“The day I call that prick is the day hell freezes over.” Her mother's lips puckered sourly as she folded a paper napkin in half and put it under one of the forks. “He can screw whoever he wants now. I've got my own love life to keep me busy.”

“Really?” Delilah was surprised. What man could deal with her mother's unique blend of criticism and bitterness?

“Uh-huh.” Her mother's perfectly made-up face glowed. “His name is Bruce Holstein. I met him at the temple's mixer for singles. He's smart, rich—a widower.”

“How long has he been widowed?”

“About six months. Cancer. You know men: the wife dies, and before you know it, they're on the prowl. They can't stand being alone.”

“Can't stand doing their own laundry is more like it.”

“Sweetheart, Bruce has no interest in my doing his laundry. He much prefers I do
him.
”

“Mom!”

“What, that shocks you? I'm just in it for the sex, Leelee. And let me tell you, it's been fantastic. He's a great lover. Much better than your father ever was, and that's saying something, because your father was an absolute tiger in the sack. Bruce does this thing with his toes—”

“Ma!” Delilah's hands flew to her ears. “I don't need to hear this, okay?!”

Her mother looked wounded. “Fine. We can talk all about you, if you'd like. Forget about me.”

“We can talk about you without talking about your sex life, can't we?”

Her mother shrugged. “I guess. Though where you get this prudishness from is beyond me. I certainly didn't raise you to be that way.” She looked at the stove with longing. “Is that coffee almost done?”

“Just sit down and relax, Mom. It'll be done in a minute.” Delilah put two cups down on the table and went to fetch the coffee. “I wish you'd take off that raincoat. You look ridiculous.”

“Some women don't mind being covered in dog hair. Others do.” She held her coffee cup up for Delilah to fill. “Is this decaf?”

“No.”

“I thought I told you I only drink decaf now.”

“No, Mom, you didn't.”

“It must have been your cousin Dory. She calls me all the time just to talk.”

Delilah chose to ignore the implicit barb. “Do you want the coffee or not?”

Her mother sighed. “Half a cup won't kill me. I guess.”

No, but I might,
Delilah thought.

“That's enough!” her mother commanded when Delilah had filled the cup halfway. “You have skim milk, right?” She sounded nervous.

“No, only cream. I'm going to tie you to the chair and make you drink it while watching your hips expand. Of course I have skim milk. That's what I drink.”

“Thank God.”

Delilah fetched the milk from the fridge as she and her mother finally sat at the table. Only ten minutes had passed, and already Delilah felt exhausted. She'd have no problem falling asleep tonight.

“How's work?” Delilah asked.

“Busy. I could use an assistant, if you ever decide you want a real job.”

Delilah's mother was an interior designer in Roslyn on Long Island. She catered to clients much like herself: wealthy North Shore residents who turned their homes into showpieces. Their willingness to spare no expense had made Delilah's mother a rich woman.

Delilah's voice was even as she buttered her bagel. “I have a real job, Mom. I run my own business, just like you.”

“You call cleaning up dog poop a business?” Her mother shook her head sadly. “I worry about you, Leelee. Truly.”

Here it comes,
Delilah thought. “Why's that?” she made herself ask.

“You're not getting any younger.”

“I'm not even thirty, Mom.”

“You do nothing to capitalize on your assets.” Her mother reached across the table. Delilah swore she could see herself reflected in the high gloss of her mother's red nails. “A little makeup wouldn't kill you, you know. You have such beautiful eyes.”

“I don't like makeup. You know that. Besides, I don't want anything chemical on my face in case one of the dogs licks me.”

Delilah's mother shuddered. “Don't tell me any more, or I won't be able to eat.” She ran her thumb back and forth over the top of Delilah's hand. “If you wanted, I could pay to send you to a professional, someone who could show you the right makeup to buy and how to apply it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Delilah was incredulous. “I don't like makeup.”

Her mother sighed. “How about you let me take you shopping, then? We could get some nice clothes for you.”

“I have nice clothes, thank you.”

“How come I never see them?”

“Because no matter what I wear or say or do, it's never good enough for you.”

“That's not true. I just want the best for you.”

“Then leave me alone about this stuff, okay?”

Her mother withdrew her hand. “Fine. I will.”

“Good.”

Desperate to salvage what little chance of decent conversation was left, Delilah turned the subject back to her mother's life. She got to hear all about her mother's mahjongg group (the longest-running group in Roslyn!), her mother's best friend Edie, her mother's new white carpet, and her mother's bid for the presidency of the temple board. But midway through her mother's recitation, it dawned on Delilah that their conversation, if you could call it that, was strictly one-way. Not once did her mother ask about her business, her dogs, her friends, or even if Delilah was seeing anyone. Did she think Delilah was such a loser there was no point in asking?

“You know, things are going really well for me,” Delilah interrupted in the middle of her mother's story about how Sandi Mintz's son-in-law had made partner. (Delilah had no idea who Sandi Mintz was).

“Mmm?” Her mother sounded unconvinced as she spread a thin layer of whitefish salad on a hollowed-out bagel half.

“My business is thriving.”

“That's nice, sweetheart.”

“And I'm seeing someone.”

Delilah knew she was digging a hole for herself, but she couldn't help it. She wanted her mother's attention. And judging by the expression of wide-eyed delight on her mother's face, she had it.

“Oh, Leelee! Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

“I was waiting for the right time,” Delilah mumbled. It was the worst possible thing she could have said.

“Oh my God.” Her mother clutched the lip of the table. “Is it serious?”

Delilah could feel her feet beginning to sweat in her sneakers. “No. Not yet. I mean, it could be. In time. But not yet. I mean, we've only just started seeing each other.”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago,” Delilah fibbed.