My opinion of Duane hasn’t changed.
I have to sit at a Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant, watching the two of them and pretending to listen.
I can’t believe that she’s picked him, that he’s so important to her.
He is though. I can tell. My mother acts like Sunshine Anderson when she’s around Duane. Sunshine is this kid in my homeroom who is really good at lots of things, sports and schoolwork. But when she’s around her boyfriend, Ray, she acts like she can’t do anything. That’s what my mother’s doing. I know that she can do lots of stuff by herself, but when she’s with Duane, she lets him make all the decisions. And he treats her like a precious china doll.
Maybe it’s the difference in their ages. She’s thirty-six. He’s forty-eight, almost half a century old.
I just don’t understand it.
The waiter brings dessert: pumpkin pie.
Duane starts talking to me about his children. “For a while Duane junior wanted to be a musician, but now he’s found himself and he’s in business with me.”
“If he’d stayed a musician, would you have said that he’d found himself or would he have been lost?” I ask, taking my fork and stabbing it into my pumpkin pie.
The pie’s lousy, not half as good as the piece I had on the bus. I’m beginning to think that everything about Woodstock is better.
My mother flashes me a warning look.
I’ve gotten to him. I can tell.
He frowns and says, “No. The arts are all right if you can make big money, but most people can’t. Let Duane junior’s music be a hobby. People have responsibilities to meet.”
I think about the wonderful painting my father’s doing. Doesn’t he have a responsibility to pursue that talent? He thinks so. So do I. I stab my pie again, pretending that it’s Duane senior.
He continues. “My daughter, Beatrice, is very happy. She’s married to an orthopedic surgeon and has a beautiful daughter, with another baby on the way.”
Two thoughts enter my brain at the same time. Duane’s a grandfather. My mother is going out with a grandfather who wants to stay overnight with her. I didn’t even think that grandfathers had sex anymore. I also think how much I want to tell him that my father goes to a chiropractor, that he’s nervous about the traditional medical profession.
Looking at my mother, I can see how tense she is getting, so I decide not to say anything.
Sometimes I think that I spend more time protecting my mother’s feelings than she does protecting mine.
Duane turns to her and says, “Honey. Don’t forget. Sometime this weekend, I want you to go for your fitting.”
My mother nods, smiles, and then explains to me. “Duane’s already picked out my Christmas present. It’s a mink coat.”
She just bought herself a sable coat. How many creatures have to die for my mother? That does it.
I say, “My father and I think that killing animals for fashion is barbaric and unnecessary.”
“Dreamers. Idealists.” Duane pats me on the hand. “Don’t you wear shoes with leather?”
I can see that my mother’s really upset.
I hope that every time she wears that stupid coat, she thinks of this talk, so she can never totally enjoy it.
Duane pays for the meal and we leave the restaurant. The doorman gets us a taxi.
As we head toward home I hear Duane say, “Don’t worry, dear. We can work this problem out.”
So now I’m a problem.
What makes me angriest is that my mother doesn’t even defend me.
When we get back to the apartment, Duane says good night to me. I go into my room and shut the door. They’re mumbling out there.
My mother walks in a few minutes later and says, “We’ve got to talk.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Yes, there is.” She’s very upset. “I want you and Duane to get along. It’s very important to me. You are both very important parts of my life.”
“Why do you have to act that way with him . . . like he’s right about things?”
“Because I think he is most of the time. Just because he doesn’t agree with your views doesn’t make him wrong.”
“Why choose him?” I want to know.
“Look, Phoebe. When I married your father, I thought he had the same views I did, that he wanted the same things out of life that I did. Well, he didn’t . . . but Duane does. I’m sure of that. If you don’t like a lot of what Duane thinks, then you don’t like a lot of what I think.”
“I don’t understand how you can like him,” I say.
“Well, I do. I love him. And you don’t have to understand. You just have to accept it.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then you’ve got a real problem.”
“So do you.” I try to stare her down.
She stares back. “I seem to have a problem no matter what. All day long I’m in charge of a lot of people. I make important decisions. It’s a lot of responsibility, which I like. However, when I come home, I don’t like to walk into an empty house. I want someone to care about me, hear about my day, go out to dinner. You’re not here to do that . . . and anyway, even if you were, Duane would still be important to me. He’s a nice man. He respects my opinions. We go out and have fun.”
“You also like his money.” I sneer at her.
She looks like I’ve slapped her. Then she gets angry. “You selfish little brat. You certainly like having money, too, and the things it can buy . . . . Let me tell you something—I make enough to support myself well. A good thing too—since your father certainly isn’t in any position to help . . . . Yes, Duane does have a lot of money. That’s nice, but it’s not everything. He offers me love and caring and companionship. He also wants things to be good with you. But you refuse to see that. Since you’ve moved to Woodstock, you’ve changed so much, I hardly know you. It’s like you’re always judging me and everything and everyone about me. And there’s no way for me to win.”
Her saying that makes me feel bad. I don’t know whether I was right or wrong about what I said about the money. All I know is that I don’t like Duane, and she’s choosing him instead of me. And why does everything with her have to be either winning or losing? I hope that I’m not like her.
My parents are so different, and yet I’m a part of both of them. It’s so hard to know what I want, what I think.
She looks at me. “I care about you a lot, Phoebe. You’re not fair. Give this a chance.”
She says I’m not fair. What about her?
As she walks out the door she says, “Duane will be staying here tonight. I don’t want to hear one unpleasant word out of your mouth.”
I stare as she leaves.
Maybe she’s right . . . . I have changed since I moved. But I’m not so sure it’s as bad as she thinks.
This is definitely a Thanksgiving Day that I’m not going to forget.
It could be worse.
I could be a turkey.