Full of Grace (Continued)

"Big Al is digging up the front walkway again," she whispered. "Did I ask for a new walkway with a nonskid surface of some revolutionary composite material?"

"Probably not, but I'm just guessing. Why are you whispering?"

"Because I don't want Nonna to hear me! Did I ask for a team of Mexican gentlemen to show up at six this morning and start jackhammering to wake up the entire world? Because if I did ask, I have no recollection . . ."

"What do you want me to do, Mom?"

"Talk to him, Grace. He doesn't listen to me! I have my ladies' club coming here next Thursday and . . ."

The front walkway was once again experiencing some unsolicited renovation that I was sure basically left the front yard a mud hole. For the sixth time in three years. I had to agree with my mother; it was a little much.

"How are the members of my bridge club supposed to navigate the planks of wood, wobbling on sinking bricks? Should I bring them in through the garage like cases of paper towels from Sam's Club?"

"You want me to come for the Fourth?"

A deep sigh from the Grand Canyon of my mother's despair followed and I could imagine her curtains billowing and then settling from the g-force of her breath.

"You're always welcome, Grace. And your brother is coming with his family. It would be so nice to have my family all together one more time before I . . . you know . . . die."

You're always welcome, Grace. That was Connie-speak for You're welcome, not your boyfriend; it's a family weekend; he's not family.

"You're not even sixty, Ma. Bad news, you're not going anywhere for, um, I don't know, thirty or forty years?"

"You never know, Grace!" Another huge sigh. "It's in God's good hands."

So that's a snapshot of my mother and what she's like. Helpless. All my life it irritated me that my mother could never stand up to her mother or to my father. Good grief! Old Connie had been a loyal and dutiful wife for a million years and had produced three reasonably successful children who were educated and self-supporting with the tiny exception of my mortgage and my stupid brother Nicky. But even Nicky was actually doing okay—-at least he had never been in rehab or arrested for anything. Sometimes, and especially with family, it was just best to just, ah well, lower your standards of judgment.

My parents were some duo. Connie and Big Al. Big Al was my dad's well- deserved nickname. A booming voice, emphatic opinions on everything from the cost of gasoline to the amount of garlic in the shrimp scampi, Big Al gave highly quotable commentary that usually came across as, well, slightly naive and, let's spell it out, a little bit gauche. Big Al bellowed the final word, Nonna agreed with every syllable he spoke, and my poor mother cowered, sneaking to her bedroom to call me, looking for an ally or just a few moments to vent to a sympathetic ear.

I reminded myself all the time that Big Al meant well. His brand of politics and his crazy work ethic had kept us way beyond solvent, but he was never going to be the American ambassador to France, if you get my drift. Never mind that the BMW I drove, the house I lived in and the diamond studs in my ears were all spontaneous gifts from Big Al's generous heart. Okay, he still paid the mortgage and held the title, but that was how he held on to me.

On the other hand, that generosity produced another kind of emotional sand trap. You see, he bought Mom one-carat diamond studs for her birthday. That would be one-half carat for each ear—-I mean, Al's successful, but he's not Donald Trump, okay? At the same time he bought me diamond studs of the same quality that were onethird of a carat each, because I have an extra hole in my right ear. Mom's face fell when Dad slid the little velvet box toward me at Mom's birthday dinner, and it was obvious that the thrill of the moment had been diluted for her. Same thing happened when Dad bought my convertible. He bought Mom a BMW sedan. She wanted to know if he thought she was too old to drive a convertible. Big Al couldn't understand Mom's edgy resentment, but I am sure some shrink would have had a ball with it. I didn't really blame her for her ambivalence about these double-edged swords of gratuitous gifting. Anyway, there's probably a pill that could help her, but that would be the last thing I would suggest to anybody.

"I'll see you for the Fourth," I said.