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WHEN CHELSEA arrived at the train station, the macadam was still giving off wisps of moisture from last night’s deluge. After slipping into the second-to-last parking spot, she stepped out into the damp sunlight. With rainwater leeching into her sneakers she made her way to the nearest kiosk and inserted her credit card with trembling fingers. Marilyn Alcott would be here in ten minutes or less.
Since meeting a train was nothing Chelsea did on a regular basis, she had nothing to do but wait on the platform with her purse dangling in front of her. Nearby, a woman urged her toddler to say the word “locomotive,” again and again. An elderly gentleman huddled on the metal bench inside the glass windbreak reading the Daily News. Pacing to Chelsea's right, another man tried to convince somebody to buy imported truck beds over the phone. Chelsea pondered how she was going to entertain her new mother-in-law.
The silver commuter train arrived at last. With clatters and thumps and the squeak of brakes it stopped four feet in front of Chelsea's face, enveloping her in its hot-metal stink. Two men in light summer suits exited like rabbits released from a trap. Next came two teenage boys with skateboards, which they rode down the wheelchair ramp to the parking lot. A pair of women chatting about arthritis, and finally Marilyn Alcott.
Red faced from struggling with her suitcase, her eyebrows peaked with dismay. She was a petite, strawberry blonde with wiry-thin arms and apple cheeks. Despite the rigors of travel, her grooming remained perfect.
"Mrs. A," Chelsea called up the steps. "Let me help you."
The conductor stepped forward to grasp his passenger’s delicate hand, so Chelsea squeezed by to wrestle with the suitcase, an ordinary black thing that seemed to weigh a ton.
After the train moved on, Marilyn raised her arms for a hug. "Darling!" she trilled.
"Welcome," Chelsea croaked into the woman's ear. They had met so infrequently before—a couple of holidays, a dinner and a show in New York for her father-in-law's fiftieth birthday, a weekend visit to plan the rehearsal dinner, and, most recently, the wedding. Kissing seemed presumptuous.
Marilyn presumed. She bussed Chelsea loudly on the cheek with her hand behind her head and hugged her a second time. "Sweetheart," she said. "It's so good to see you."
Chelsea felt her shoulders inch down from their fortress position. "You, too," she agreed, as she realized it was actually true.
Following the teenagers' example, they used the wheelchair ramp down to the car, which made pulling the suitcase a breeze.
"We're going out to dinner with my mom tonight," Chelsea reported. Let somebody else cook, had been the original thought. Include someone from Marilyn's age group was the second.
"Sounds lovely."
The suitcase snugly stuffed into the trunk and her houseguest snugly belted in, Chelsea turned the ignition key.
The radio blasted "Don't Touch My Hat" into their faces.
"Whoa, there." Chelsea swiftly lowered the volume. "Sorry.” She'd been thinking of her own mother and had subconsciously put on some of Gin’s music.
"That's Lyle Lovett, isn't it?" Marilyn exclaimed. "Love him. Never could see him with Julia Roberts, though. How did you get hooked on him?”
"Mom put me onto him years ago.”
"Oh, darling. We're going to get along, aren't we?"
Did that mean Marilyn and Gin, or her and me?
Chelsea answered yes.
***
THE CLOVERS, as the restaurant was called, was a known commodity—white linen, a broad range of food choices, a no-rush policy, and prices the young couple could afford now and then. They held hands and beamed at each other like Cheshire cats.
For the occasion Gin had donned a silk, moss-green sweater so bland you were drawn to her mischievous eyes by default. In contrast, Marilyn Alcott wore an impeccable peach-colored dress and gold flats. White purse, discreet pearl earrings.
As the two older women scooted to the middle of their semi-circular booth, something about Gin’s demeanor put Chelsea on edge. When her mother ordered a certain cabernet before checking the price, she felt certain hell was about to freeze over.
Then it happened. Gin asked if Marilyn liked to cook. It was her mother’s favorite trick question, the one she used to take measure of another woman no matter what the answer.
Chelsea couldn’t help it; she groaned out loud.
Marilyn’s reply was remarkably prompt. “I cook to eat."
Gin laughed and tapped a knuckle against Mrs. Alcott's bicep. "Good one," she said. Then she scouted around for their server, probably longing for the bread basket.
Marilyn appeared to have detected something, but she wasn’t sure what. She simply stared blankly into the middle distance.
“My mother doesn’t cook,” Chelsea tried to explain. “She makes food.”
“Ah,” Marilyn responded, but a silence ensued.
Everyone made a show of consulting their menu. Orders were placed, and the bread arrived.
Gin’s cheeks were now brighter than her eyes, and Chelsea worried that her mother might require a ride home.
“What are your interests?” Gin inquired next, and Chelsea allowed herself to breathe.
Feet finally back on firm ground, Marilyn confided, "Gardening is my passion. Did you know you can plant bulbs with an electric drill?"
Gin reared back with delight; a power tool had been mentioned. "No kidding. What happens if you hit a rock?"
Marilyn drew in her lips to suppress a giggle. "You’ll break the bit, which I must say, makes my husband very, very mad."
"Over a drill bit?"
"Oh, yes. Lawrence loves his tools. You should see our garage." She leaned Pisa style toward her son's mother-in-law. "Sometimes I call him ‘Lug Wrench,’ or just plain ‘Lug.’ He hates it, of course, but it lets out some of the wind, you know?"
The food came, and they all applied themselves.
A small skirmish occurred when the check arrived—Gin and Marilyn both risking their water goblets to grab for it. Bobby was younger and quicker, however, so the mothers exchanged tight-lipped grins and put their hands back on their laps.
In short order they were settled into the backseat of Bobby’s car. Pierced ears were being discussed, which Gin labeled, “Barbaric,” although hers were pierced. "Like contact lenses," Marilyn agreed, but she used them, too.
Back in the newlywed’s driveway, they hugged their farewells. Chelsea reached for Bobby's hand and got a warm squeeze in return.
Then a sound no one ever wanted to hear ruined the soft summer twilight.
Gin was the first to move. She ran along the hedge between the kids' house and the Voights until she could see into the next backyard.
Abruptly stopping beside her mother, Chelsea recognized the figure in a white shirt and light slacks sitting on the Voight’s kitchen steps.
“Cissie, is that you?” Gin whispered through the hedge.
Cissie startled at her name and gasped back a sob.
Gin pushed through a gap in the hedge with Chelsea right behind.
With a gentle hand, Gin lifted Cissie’s chin for a good look at her face. A swollen red area on her cheek would shortly become black and blue, and the way the young mother clutched her stomach made it horribly clear that her cheek was not her only injury.
"Ronald?" Gin guessed.
Cissie scrambled back against her kitchen door. “It was my fault,” she claimed. “He didn't mean to do it."
"Anything broken? Do you need a hospital?”
"No! No hospital."
"What about Caroline? Is she okay?’
An emphatic nod.
Gin glanced up at the house.
“Your husband still here?"
“Ronnie’ll be right back. He just needed to calm down."
"Get Caroline and come with me."
"No! Really, Ms. B. I'm fine. You can go home. I don't need any help."
Trying to diffuse her mother’s intensity, Chelsea tapped Gin's arm.
“We'll go,” Chelsea assured Cissie, “but if you need help anytime, you come running, okay? Bobby and I are right here. Grab Caroline and come get us. Promise?"
Cissie released a ragged breath. “Sure. Sure, thanks.”
"Come on, Mom," Chelsea tugged at her mother. "Bobby and I can take it from here."
Gin was close to tears herself, but she got it. Cissie couldn't be forced to do anything she didn't want to do. It was also possible outside interference would make the situation worse.
"You should get out," the mother in Gin implored anyway. "Go somewhere safe."
Hiding her face behind one hand, Cissie waved them away with the other.