By Hook or by Crook

group had gone their separate ways, and my mother spent the rest of her career as a backup singer for various artists. In her own mind, though, my mother remained a star. In my father’s mind, too, I guess. He was a dermatologist with a quiet, even temperament that never threatened her center stage persona.

My brother had developed his own life early and as a kid practically lived at his various friends’ houses. He never wanted her to come for parents’ day. I could see his point after what she did at mine. Do you know what it’s like to have your mother come to a school assembly and insist on putting some attitude into “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”? Her voice rose above everybody else’s, too, which led to everyone in my class staring at me as though I were some kind of a freak.

My parents had moved to Santa Fe years ago supposedly to retire, but all that sun meant a lot of business for a dermatologist, so my father was still doctoring. My mother kept her fingers in things, too. She had joined some group that toured senior centers putting on shows.

“They’d put you on a tour with just one hit?” I asked. I detected a slight groan of annoyance in my mother’s breathing.

“We might do some covers for other groups that have passed on or can’t travel anymore,” she said.

“And how does that relate to you coming here?” When my mother got excited she often left out important details unless prompted. Now it came out that the tour wasn’t exactly set yet.

“The agent wants to see us in action. So, the girls and I need to practice before the audi—I mean, meeting. You’re all alone in that big house now. It would be ridiculous for Daddy and me to stay in a hotel.”

I wanted to suggest that it wasn’t, but of course I didn’t. I was in my late forties, and I should be able to handle a visit from my mother. We were both adults now, so it should be okay. Shouldn’t it? They say mothers never retire from their jobs, and well, I didn’t think daughters ever graduated from theirs, either.

“Honey, there are a few things I need. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind picking them up before we get there. I’ll just grab the list.” She put my father on the phone while she went to find it. I’d always wished he’d called me some sweet nickname like Princess or Bunnykins, but he was too matter-of-fact and just called me Molly.

“How’s your skin?” he asked after the basic hellos. “I’ll bring you a bunch of samples of sunblock and some new antiwrinkle cream. It’ll be good to see you and the boys,” he said, referring to my two sons, Peter and Samuel. My mother grabbed the phone back.

“Here’s the list of things I need. Do you have a pencil and paper?” she said in her upbeat voice. An uh-oh went off in my head concerning the length of the list.

But the “sure” was out of my mouth before I could stop it. You never said “sure” to Liza Aronson without knowing what you were agreeing to.

The list went on and on. A humidifier, some exotic concoction of essential oils that stimulated her voice, one hundred percent organic cotton sheets that were washed three times in lavender-scented natural laundry detergent, a purple silk meditation pillow, some exotic tea that was good to bathe her vocal cords in, a particular brand of dark chocolate with raisins and cashew nuts and a bunch of other things that were going to keep me running all over the area to find.

“Oh, and Daddy’s a vegetarian now. Won’t it be fun us all being together again? Just like old times,” my mother chirped. “And we’ll finally get to meet your boyfriend.”

What? I’d never told her about Barry Greenberg. And boyfriend wasn’t exactly what I’d call him—he was in his fifties for heaven’s sake. I hadn’t planned on mentioning anything about him ever unless we got married. I could read my mother’s breathing, but she could read mine, too.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Samuel told me all about him, including the fact that he’s some kind of cop and you picked him up in the grocery store.”

Was that story going to haunt me forever? You’d think I was some desperate woman who’d been hanging out in a singles’ bar that catered to twenty-somethings instead of someone who simply happened to strike up a conversation in the grocery checkout line. I explained to my mother that I’d already known him, slightly anyway since he taught the traffic school I’d had to attend when I’d gotten my ticket. We just fell into conversation in line at the store, and I’d invited him to the dinner party I was shopping for.

My mother’s breathing said she wasn’t impressed. “Samuel said something about a nice lawyer who helped him get some gigs. Personally, he sounds more promising than your boyfriend in blue.”

“He doesn’t wear blue. He’s a homicide detective and wears a suit, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Then what is he?”

That was a good question. Recently our relationship had gone through somewhat of a change. All along I had tried keeping it casual, while he was always pushing for something with a name like engaged or married. I’d reluctantly given in and started thinking of us as a couple. But now that we were supposedly a couple, I was beginning to wonder if I could live with his job.

Was this what I really wanted? How many times had I been left sitting alone at a restaurant because he got a call and had to go? Then with no warning, he’d show up and want to do something. The unpredictable nature of his work dictated our relationship. Sometimes days would go by and I wouldn’t even hear from him because he was so entrenched in a case he forgot about everything and everyone. But then he always made up for it when he did show up—I blushed at the thought.

While I was thinking all this, my mother had answered her own question and said she’d decide when she met him whether boyfriend described him, and then she got back on the topic of the tour and where it was going. She barely took a breath during her recitation of details, and although my call-waiting was beeping, she didn’t pause long enough for me to excuse myself to see who it was. The call ended when she was ready. Some things just never changed.

When I checked the phone for messages, I saw the call-waiting had been Barry. Short phone calls and messages had been the extent of our conversation lately. He’d bounced from one case to another with barely a night’s sleep. He sounded rushed as he explained he wasn’t going to make it to take care of Cosmo—his dog currently in residence at my house. He said something about missing me, but I could tell by his voice he was already looking away from the phone.

As I hung up, the two flying fur balls came back inside. Cosmo and Blondie—my dog—stopped short and sat down at my feet. Two sets of dogs’ eyes let me know it was time to eat.

I was relieved Samuel hadn’t told my mother about Cosmo.

The black mutt really belonged to Barry and his son. When they’d adopted him, I’d cosigned as backup care. I could personally vouch for Barry’s undependability. I could get by if he called at the last minute and canceled dinner plans. A sweet little mutt couldn’t. And, Barry’s son was almost fourteen. Need I say more? So, Cosmo started out as a visitor but quickly became a permanent resident. And erratic as Barry’s dog care was, he really loved that dog and did try, which was why I gave him the key to my house. But it was supposed to be for dog care only. I still needed my boundaries.

Actually, Cosmo was great for Blondie. My terrier mix had been in a shelter too long by the time I adopted her, and the experience had left her with a catlike, aloof personality. Cosmo had turned her back into a dog.

“Okay, guys, you’re in for a treat,” I said as I put food in their bowls. “You’re going to get to meet the parents.” The dogs didn’t look impressed.

I changed into my around-the-house outfit. It was another reason I liked living alone. No one looked askance at my gray sweatpants that felt warm and snuggly on the chilly night or my pink and green fuzzy socks. I’d topped the outfit with an ancient periwinkle blue long-sleeve tee shirt. There were a few holes in it, but it was so soft from endless washing that I didn’t care.

I popped some leftover noodle pudding in the oven, took out the paper sack and spread the contents on my dining room table. The three copper and green hanging fixtures bathed the items in bright light.

I folded out the filet crochet piece first and looked it over. It was made of two rows of loosely shaped square panels. Whoever made it was obviously an accomplished crocheter. The stitches were even and well done. A lot of time had probably gone into making it, too. But why put all that time into such an odd piece? And what was it for? Though it was sort of shaped like a scarf, I didn’t think it was meant to be worn. And if someone tried to hang it on a wall, the middle would droop. It wasn’t even that attractive, although I did like the colors of the thread, particularly the aqua.

I wondered if the panels that had nonsensical images were deliberate or mistakes. I ran my finger over the two panels with big rings. One ring looked like a donut that was all hole, and the other had a bar across the middle. Another panel depicted a cylinder on stilts attached to a trapezoid; this seemed too planned to be a mistake. Even