by Marcie Roman
The Story
Jeffrey pauses at the entrance to the living room. He seems reluctant to enter, surprised perhaps to find us waiting there. A tribunal. A coven.
He’s overdue for a haircut and wears a t-shirt emblazoned with a guitar, even though we know he hasn’t picked up a musical instrument since he played percussion in ninth grade band. (Our ears still ring from the cymbals.) He holds the hand of a smiling young lady. Her thick hair is pulled into a ponytail. She’s dressed in a cotton skirt and those tennis shoes all the kids wear; the ones that look like they don’t offer any arch support. He walks his companion over to Esther and in his soft voice says, “Mother, I’d like you to meet Gabriela.”
Show some spine, we want to shout at him. Be strong. But it turns out the young lady has enough spine for both of them.
She drops Jeffrey’s hand and steps forward. We imagine her planting herself at Esther’s feet, the way Fraulein Maria does with Mother Superior in Sound of Music. (Our favorite movie!) Instead, she sits next to Esther and offers her hand to shake.
“Hello, Mrs. Kogelman. It’s very nice to meet you.”
She doesn’t sound like a recent immigrant. She sounds like she’s from the Bronx.
Born and bred, it turns out. Had it been a bad cell connection? Or a case of selective hearing? Jeffery hadn’t said he’d married an undocumented immigrant. What he’d said was that he’d married the daughter of one. And this was no fly-by-night affair. They’d been dating secretly for almost a year, having met in the research lab where they both worked. Gabriela knew it would give her mother peace of mind to see her married. There were still plans for a regular wedding with a rabbi and a priest and a three-layer carrot cake.
“We’d been talking about it,” Jeffrey says to his mother. “Our plans just got sped up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first.”
We shake our heads, not for Esther, but for how awful it is for mothers everywhere who’ve had to face a similar uncertainty. But ah, this generation. Such problem solvers they are!
Esther’s head is tilted down, as if the tissues require constant surveillance. We imagine her weighing her response, putting her decision-making scales to use. We have them too, although these days ours are used for less significant matters. Red grapes or green? A walk or a nap? Today, we wish we could pile the weight of our opinion on one side. To tip the scale with our mound of pleather purses, sagging breasts, thinning hair, and open hearts. Or is Esther thinking only of her husband’s response? Would that be enough to catapult us off?
Lois clears her throat three times, the way she does when she gets nervous. Esther looks up. She seems to be awaiting our chorus.
We sing, “Congratulations!” And then because we know the restaurant had planned for us to remain for the afternoon, we add, “To lunch. So we can celebrate!”
Esther stands. She reaches for Jeffrey. He steps forward with a questioning smile, as if wondering whether she’ll punish him for the plaster volcano he’s erupted on the kitchen table. Instead, she pulls him into a hug and presses her face to his shirt. We know that gesture. The deep sniff where you try to get one last smell of the child: the peanut butter sandwiches and playground dirt, the chalk and sweat, the dried tears from scraped knees and early disappointments. A smell to hold onto along with the report cards and gluey camp art as the child finishes their metamorphosis into an adult.
We flock to Gabriela and envelop her in our circle. “Welcome, welcome!” we chant. “We’re so happy to meet you.”
Of course, Esther will still have to share the news with Stanley, but we’ll be with her. If not in person, then as the voice inside her head, the one we all hear.
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