Helen smiled. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” Joe ignored Helen’s request. “I don’t like to be told one thing now and another later.”
Helen patted Joe’s hand. “I really have to go to the ladies’ room.” Joe got to his feet and let Helen pass in front of him. He tapped her on the bum as she left and watched her move across the room. The door of the bar opened and Mary stepped inside. She looked around and spotted Joe sitting alone. She smiled. Joe nodded. Mary turned and walked over to the bar.
I know her, Joe thought to himself. Mary climbed onto a stool beside the giant. What an ass. Recognition flashed across Joe’s face into a smile. One night in here after a ball game. She got real hammered. We danced. She could hardly keep her hands off me.
Helen stepped back into the room and walked across the room toward Joe. She noticed he was watching the blonde at the bar. Once seated, she took a sip of her drink. He can’t take his eyes off her. It’s Mary.
“I work with her,” Helen said. I hope she doesn’t see me.
“Oh, ya?” Joe turned back to his date. “How come I didn’t see her in the office?”
“Maybe you show up at the wrong time. She spends a lot of time in Mr. Brennan’s office.”
Joe laughed. “I’ll bet she does.”
“No,” Helen protested. “It’s not like that.”
“Baby, you are so naive. I like that in my women.”
The Jazz Singer
“I wish you could be a little more respectful.” Mary cleared the break-fast dishes off the table. “You hardly said a word to him this morning before he left. I can’t keep friends if you’re not going to be at least a little accommodating. Hank probably thinks you’re a real snob. That’s not the way I raised you.”
Terry did not respond and continued to fill his mouth with corn flakes.
“I like Hank,” Mary continued, lighting up a cigarette.
“I thought you’d quit.” Terry’s words came out muffled.
Mary looked at the cigarette in despair. “I forgot.”
“You forget a lot of things,” Terry muttered.
Mary ignored her son’s remark, tightening her housecoat. She filled the sink with hot water and dish detergent and began to do the dishes.
“Someday I’m going to get an automatic dishwasher.”
“Why is he always talking about dead people?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night he came out here to get a snack and I had to listen to all this shit about Al Jolson. Some dead guy who sang in the twenties. Like he expects me to go out and buy all this guy’s CDs. Who the hell is Al Jolson?”
“Before your time,” Mary said.
“And before your time too, Mom,” Terry said with a laugh.
“Thank you for that.”
“Jolson made this movie, The Jazz Singer. It was one of the first sound pictures.”
“You see,” Mary said, cleaning out the sink and placing the washcloth to one side. She dried her hands, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and tapped its ashes into the sink. “You can learn something new every day.”
“He sang this song ‘Mammy’ for me,” Terry said, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong with that guy?”
Mary shook with laughter. “He actually sang that song?”
“On one knee,” Terry added, puzzled that this gesture would bring such happiness to his mother. “I think he’s a pedophile.”
“Oh,” Mary sighed wiping the tears from her eyes, “I needed that.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I think he’s a pedophile.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t even spell the word.”
“Why would he go down on his knees in front of me?” Terry hated it when his mother didn’t take him seriously.
“That was part of his act, Jolson’s act,” Mary explained, a cloud of smoke slipping between her teeth. “Like Michael Jackson’s moonwalk.” Terry was puzzled. He was sure his mom had gone off the deep end.
“Who the hell is Michael Jackson?”
Mary turned away, thinking about the night before. It had been a long time since she had been with a man. She’d been nervous. She wondered if it showed. She hoped she could make it up to Hank in the future although she had noticed he didn’t seem disappointed. And then there had been the terrible dream she had had about lawn bowling. She was watching the American national championship in Los Angeles when one of the competitors, Edward McGee, mistaking her head for a ball, had thrown her across the lawn, with the effect that she had lacerations on her chin and a chipped tooth. She’d woken up laughing and then had been scared out of her mind when she saw Hank’s face above hers staring down at her.
“Do you think that you could turn on the radio the next time you have a guest over?” Terry suggested.
“You were listening to us?”
“Not by choice. Holy cow, who wants to listen to his mother and her lover talking about the lumber industry? Who cares that there was an increase in the production of species formerly little used or neglected?” Mary was silent for a moment, wondering if Terry had heard everything that had been said last evening.
“Hank asked about your father,” Mary said.
Terry turned and looked at his mother. “What did you tell him?” Mary shrugged. She finished the cup of coffee on the table. The coffee was cold. She dropped her cigarette in the cup.
“I told him the truth.”
Terry pushed his cereal bowl into the middle of the table.
“Why do you have to talk about Dad?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Does that guy ever stop talking?”
Mary shook her head.
“Tell him to stop asking me so many questions.”
“Okay.” Mary smiled. “I’ll tell him.”
“I never thought I’d see my mother dating a giant.” Mary broke out laughing. She stepped up behind her son, hugged him, and laughed some more.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hank leaned over the counter and looked at the various cameras. A slightly overweight teenage girl dressed in a modest blouse and skirt stepped up opposite him.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The braces that sparkled in her smile slurred her speech. Hank looked down and grinned mischievously.
“Am I speaking to the owner?” he asked, keeping his eyes riveted to the girl’s.
The girl blushed, then giggled. Was that supposed to be a joke?
“No, I’m not the owner. Mr. Leblanc is out of the shop right now but I’m sure I could help you.” Why does Mr. Leblanc always pick the worst time to leave? I think he does it on purpose.
Hank liked the girl. There was an openness and lighthearted assertive-ness that was appealing. How old was she? Sixteen maybe. She was not like his daughter who had long ago left home complaining that life there was too dull.
“What’s your name, young lady?”
“Adelle,” the girl replied, staring across the counter at the huge figure.
Look at the size of his hands! Gives me the creeps. It’s like he’s a different species. I hate it when middle- aged men think they are being charming. She wished that Mr. Leblanc would come back soon. She didn’t like being
