propaganda!”
“Good thing my friends haven’t seen some of your book collection. We’d all be under investigation.”
“No doubt!” Amy agreed.
Evelyn turned to Guy. “Tell me, young man. You part of that group, too?”
“What group?”
“He’s not, Mother.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll start dinner.” Raising an eyebrow, Evelyn looked at Amy. “ He eating with us?”
“No, Mother. Why subject him?”
Evelyn looked at Guy appraisingly. “Seems a rather nice young man. Not like the others.”
“Thanks,” Amy said.
Mrs. Silverstein turned to leave. “Can I get you two anything?”
“No.” Amy’s impatience was about to show. “W ewere doing fine.”
Evelyn looked to Guy. “Get her to clean up this room, Guy. Tidiness is such a virtue. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes … I mean… well, I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Silverstein.”
“Who wants to marry a sloppy woman? Okay, children. Have fun. And Amy…” Evelyn smiled cheerfully.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Keep the door open!”
With a crooked grin and a further adjustment of her newly coiffed hair, Amy’s mother left the room.
Silence.
Guy looked at Amy. She looked at him, lifted the small ceramic pot into the air and politely asked, “Tea?”
He nodded, then asked, “By the way, how come you call your mother by her first name?”
“I don’t always. Sometimes it just seems more natural than Mother.”
Guy and Amy sat on the floor in a lotus position she’d quickly taught him. With small candles mystically burning about them, and a cloud of incense overwhelming all before it, they sipped the oddly named tea and nibbled on marmalade toast.
Amy twirled a spoonful of honey and let the sweetener plip-plop into her cup. “My mother goes to the beauty parlor. What’s yours do for a living?”
“Bakes.”
“Bakes what?”
“You name it. This week she’s concocting an upside-down pineapple-apricot something-or-other.”
“Sounds dreadful.” Amy licked the sticky residue from her spoon.
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. She experiments a lot. Every year she enters the Pillsbury Bake-Offs. Even got honorable mention once or twice. “
“Sounds like something out of Good Housekeeping,” said Amy. “My Mother has no interest in baking. Too busy planning my future. Believe me when I say she and my Aunt Bernice have been fighting over the wording of my engagement announcement for twelve years.”
“Well, why not? Isn’t that what mothers do best?”
“I suppose.” Amy sipped her tea. “Can I tell you my favorite Evelyn story?”
“Please.”
“Last year, for my Sweet Sixteen, I told my folks in no way did I want a party. I agreed to let them take me in to New York for a show and a fancy meal at a restaurant of my choosing. It was after West Side Story , over crepes suzette at 21, that Evelyn handed me a savings book. My birthday present. She d been putting aside ten dollars a week into a private account, for the past four years.
“Naturally I was thrilled. I mean all that money. My joy was cut short when she explained the accumulated treasure. To finance my overhaul. Bob the nose, unkink the hair, make me a beauty. Well… wasn’t I excited and grateful?”
“And you weren’t ?”
“Certainly not! I handed the savings book back. I said I’d rather use the money for a trip to Europe. Evelyn—she carries in her wallet photos of movie stars who’ve had nose jobs—accused me of deliberately sabotaging my future happiness, and I displayed what I thought was great restraint by not dumping my dessert into her lap.”
“I guess she meant well,” Guy said seriously.
“I guess. Still, who wants to look like everyone else? My dear…” Amy pretended to have a headache. “Wait ‘til Christmas recess. You return from vacation and twenty girls have new faces. Ba-ba-ba. More tea?”
Guy held out his cup. As Amy filled it with the smoky-flavored brew, he asked, “You know Debbie Wiener?”
“We have gym
“Good thing my friends haven’t seen some of your book collection. We’d all be under investigation.”
“No doubt!” Amy agreed.
Evelyn turned to Guy. “Tell me, young man. You part of that group, too?”
“What group?”
“He’s not, Mother.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I’ll start dinner.” Raising an eyebrow, Evelyn looked at Amy. “ He eating with us?”
“No, Mother. Why subject him?”
Evelyn looked at Guy appraisingly. “Seems a rather nice young man. Not like the others.”
“Thanks,” Amy said.
Mrs. Silverstein turned to leave. “Can I get you two anything?”
“No.” Amy’s impatience was about to show. “W ewere doing fine.”
Evelyn looked to Guy. “Get her to clean up this room, Guy. Tidiness is such a virtue. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes … I mean… well, I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Silverstein.”
“Who wants to marry a sloppy woman? Okay, children. Have fun. And Amy…” Evelyn smiled cheerfully.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Keep the door open!”
With a crooked grin and a further adjustment of her newly coiffed hair, Amy’s mother left the room.
Silence.
Guy looked at Amy. She looked at him, lifted the small ceramic pot into the air and politely asked, “Tea?”
He nodded, then asked, “By the way, how come you call your mother by her first name?”
“I don’t always. Sometimes it just seems more natural than Mother.”
Guy and Amy sat on the floor in a lotus position she’d quickly taught him. With small candles mystically burning about them, and a cloud of incense overwhelming all before it, they sipped the oddly named tea and nibbled on marmalade toast.
Amy twirled a spoonful of honey and let the sweetener plip-plop into her cup. “My mother goes to the beauty parlor. What’s yours do for a living?”
“Bakes.”
“Bakes what?”
“You name it. This week she’s concocting an upside-down pineapple-apricot something-or-other.”
“Sounds dreadful.” Amy licked the sticky residue from her spoon.
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. She experiments a lot. Every year she enters the Pillsbury Bake-Offs. Even got honorable mention once or twice. “
“Sounds like something out of Good Housekeeping,” said Amy. “My Mother has no interest in baking. Too busy planning my future. Believe me when I say she and my Aunt Bernice have been fighting over the wording of my engagement announcement for twelve years.”
“Well, why not? Isn’t that what mothers do best?”
“I suppose.” Amy sipped her tea. “Can I tell you my favorite Evelyn story?”
“Please.”
“Last year, for my Sweet Sixteen, I told my folks in no way did I want a party. I agreed to let them take me in to New York for a show and a fancy meal at a restaurant of my choosing. It was after West Side Story , over crepes suzette at 21, that Evelyn handed me a savings book. My birthday present. She d been putting aside ten dollars a week into a private account, for the past four years.
“Naturally I was thrilled. I mean all that money. My joy was cut short when she explained the accumulated treasure. To finance my overhaul. Bob the nose, unkink the hair, make me a beauty. Well… wasn’t I excited and grateful?”
“And you weren’t ?”
“Certainly not! I handed the savings book back. I said I’d rather use the money for a trip to Europe. Evelyn—she carries in her wallet photos of movie stars who’ve had nose jobs—accused me of deliberately sabotaging my future happiness, and I displayed what I thought was great restraint by not dumping my dessert into her lap.”
“I guess she meant well,” Guy said seriously.
“I guess. Still, who wants to look like everyone else? My dear…” Amy pretended to have a headache. “Wait ‘til Christmas recess. You return from vacation and twenty girls have new faces. Ba-ba-ba. More tea?”
Guy held out his cup. As Amy filled it with the smoky-flavored brew, he asked, “You know Debbie Wiener?”
“We have gym
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