Blather

The phone chimed. Shit, the ex-husband's landline. But he's not in the country. Had to be her son who was living there. May as well pick up.

"Hello, mom? The kids are invited to spend the weekend with us. Would you like to come along?"

She didn't know how to reply. This call was unexpected and being unexpected, unwelcome. Her life had been about control, especially controlling the children, though the ex-husband had escaped via divorce. However, she had kept him on an uncomfortable chain through California's Never-Ending Divorce. But the issue at hand was not the divorce. "Who's on top" is the issue right now. This unexpected invitation put her on the bottom. Being bottom bitch was an unpleasant reminder of how her mother had treated all her children. Damn! I don't need this aggravation.

"What? Um, when are you inviting the kids?" That was a sufficient stall. Answering a question with a question was good because it didn't provide any information and it put the conversational burden on someone else. If we discuss something or someone else, we don't have to talk about me, at least unless I'm sure it's a positive conversation. Yeah, the invitation was for this weekend, but not hearing what was said is a selective perception thing, well within conversational perquisites.

"Well, we thought next weekend would be good. I'll barbecue and grill. And the little guy can help me with some yard chores that require a tall helper. Plus the two younger gals can see who makes a better pie. We all win, there. And they can play in the newly-done sewing room." Remaining unsaid was what she would do, she of the horizontally stately and perpetually queenly bent. She could recline in front of the TV, or she could remain on the bed, waiting for someone to bring her a sandwich, chips and a tall Coke with plenty of ice cubes. As long as she had a TV plipper and food, she was fine. What Oprah didn't tell her about real life, she'd learn from another male-bashing Lifetime movie. Maybe this time the wife-beater would get roasted in a fire; last time he got his comeuppance by drowning in his favorite muscle car, after rubbernecking a pretty girl. A bit simple, but getting even with a man needn't be complicated.

But how to respond? The conversational clock was ticking. "Next weekend? I'm not sure ...." Safe enough response. Slightly in the negative, but still leaving the option of "I'm so magnanimous that I'll juggle stuff to satisfy you." Maybe 'twould be good to underline that concept. "We might be doing something then." There, that created a world where there was something compelling, something more important than her son. And by inserting this concept into the conversation, she retained the possibility that she might change her mind. After all, he was the supplicant, not she.

"Well, it'll be good to see the brats again. Maybe I'll collect that Disney T-shirt that they promised me." A bit of intra-familial humor showed he wasn't yet angry. The reference to his siblings as brats showed he could demean them, but everyone knew it wasn't serious. And underneath the humor was the unspoken wait: the offer is still on the table.

"Oh, did they promise you a shirt?" was just a further stall. Let the conversation go to something that required no thought while the Big Issue hung in the background- to accept or not.

Accepting. What would that do? She'd have to return to the house from which she left, starting her life over, after 36 years with the same man. Sure, he was working in Iraq, but the house was there. She'd signed legal documents giving her ex her share. And she'd gotten half the serious equity before the real estate bubble burst, so she made out well. But the money she'd received had mostly evaporated in fast food meals, quarterly trips to her "happy spot," Disneyland and her yearly (and pricey) trips to Disney World. So going back to that house would only remind her of her fiscal foolishness. That much was certain. And thinking along that long and tangled road was a negative thing: reminding her of anything negative in her behavior was dangerous. Her personal event horizon was the end of the current month, so if she looked at the last few years as a financial manager, she'd have to live with the head-to-toe shame of red ink. Not good, no.

"Yeah, I usually get one from each of them. They're nice shirts. I try not to wear 'em in the yard for a year or so, till they get a bit tatty." The conversation can remain with the shirts a bit. He understood on a non-verbal level that she needed some time to think about visiting, let alone staying the night. Let's keep going with the shirts. "I dropped some tree-spray stuff on the Pirates of the Carribean one. But it came out with the second wash." Nothing but the sound of breathing. The pause drew out one more conversationally-required inanity. "Yep, it was still there after one wash, but it looks great now."

The word "ignominious" didn't come into her conscious mind. A feeling of error did. Washing over her was guilt for having wasted so much money. The money she borrowed to buy her sister's half of their inherited house, the money she took when she closed her retirement without saying anything, the money that should have gone to the mortgage three months in a row, the money she'd taken from her son because she told him it would be simpler for his money to go to their joint account, the money wasted in refusing to refinance a bad loan, the money she took from their joint account and hid, and the huge sums she got from her share of the equity. And now, she was being invited back to the house where she used to be in charge. As a guest. Yes, she could demand access to look for some of the personal property she'd left there over two years ago. But she didn't really need a broken sewing machine or a missing cake pan. And two years is ample time for personal property to move somewhere else. The missing box of photos hadn't yet turned up, but she couldn't make much of a ruckus over that, since she'd told her ex in a very sincere manner that they should go through that box together, after she got her daughter to sneak it somewhere.

She made the self-preservation decision. "No, I'm sorry. We can't make it." Stretching out the "we" implied that she was speaking for everyone. This presumed a lot. This presumed she could speak for her adult daughter and her driving-age son. But that was a simple, small step. That decision underlined her position as clan alpha. And further ratified her position as the party in the divorce who was in the right. The ex-husband had filed, therefor she was the aggrieved. With all the events that had ever happened in the marriage, some of which were genuinely not her fault, she needed constant reinforcement of her position and merit. And, like a bully who learns that bullying works, she learned that being alpha works because you are, in fact, the alpha. And you continue to be the alpha by being the alpha. And you're justified in being the alpha by continuing to be the alpha.

"Sorry to hear that. Maybe the kids can come over just for dinner one night." No use asking about the following weekend. Next month would not be easier for his mother. And tossing him a bone- letting the kids come for an hour or so- might make things easier, since no mother really wants to split her children from each other, right? Besides, some of the stuff she'd said to him and done to him still rankled. He wasn't entirely sure it would be a good thing to have his mom spend the night with him. Too many ways an adult man could find himself kow-towing to a mother who wants control.

A spark of something like love flared in her. "Yeah, maybe they can find some time soon." That was a sop for him. He could see his siblings, but not her. After all, an alpha can't back down, even to her adult son. Yet some small part of her motherhood would feel like she was doing something good for her son, letting him see his siblings. Heck, she was also letting the sibs see their older brother. That counts, too. Being magnanimous stroked her ego, making her feel better.

"OK, mom. We'll catch up another time." Seeing the sibs would be good. Now he didn't have to worry about dealing with his hard-to-deal-with mother.

"Sure thing. Thanks for the call." You're dismissed. Time to click the end button and get on with my life.

Where was that cold Coke? Let's see what's on Oprah. Where's that half-box of See's candies; they taste really good with Oprah. I need more than these eight pillows. Should I get up and see what sort of snacks are in the kitchen or should I call my daughter and get her to fix me a sandwich? I'm stressed from dealing with this call and some high-carb, high-calorie food would make me feel better.