Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

Elizabeth pulled back first, surveying her daughter up and down. “Brittany, you are a total mess, and soaking wet.”

“And before you are, we’d better get you to the house. Everything will be fine, Mom, I promise you.”

“You’re so busy, you and Zach. I’m so terribly afraid I’m going to be in your way…”

“You’re not going to be in our way. We both want you here, very much. Now, just follow the truck in.”

Bett kept an eye on her mother in the rearview mirror as they drove toward the farmyard. At fifty-four, Elizabeth still had a relatively unlined face, brown hair worn in a short mass of curls and a trim figure a little on the buxom side. Her smooth skin and doelike brown eyes reflected the life she had lived, that of a sheltered homemaker who wanted nothing more from life than to be a sheltered homemaker.

The circles under Elizabeth’s eyes made Bett ache for her mother. Elizabeth hadn’t known how to even begin coping when Chet died. After more than a year, she still didn’t. If the constant tears had finally eased a little, Elizabeth was still at sea over balancing checkbooks and caring for the yard, taxes, what to do with her time. The smallest decisions still overwhelmed her, not because she lacked ability or intelligence, but simply because she really didn’t want to change her lifestyle.

Nurturing was her specialty. Babies knew it; babies were capable of spotting Elizabeth in a crowded room and holding out their arms to be picked up. Bett couldn’t remember a time when her mother had ever raised her voice.

Bett had raised her own voice quite often in adolescence. She remembered that period of her life with utter misery. Elizabeth had so badly wanted a daughter created in exactly her own image. She had traditional values concerning home and hearth and women’s roles, all of which she’d tried desperately to ingrain in her daughter. It hadn’t worked. The failures began with her name. Early on her father had nicknamed her “Bett,” thank goodness. “Elizabeth” was intended to evoke the genteel grandeur of the Old World and a buxom lass with rosy cheeks who needlepointed and raised babies as her mother had. She hadn’t developed into anything remotely resembling “buxom,” didn’t sew and had yet to produce offspring. Her list of failures to fit the mold was ongoing. None of these “faults” was really so terrible; it was just that mothers and daughters were supposed to be close. Elizabeth and Bett weren’t, though they both tried very hard. Bett believed herself at fault, yet with all her efforts had never been able to bridge the distance between them.

At the moment, though, old memories weren’t in her mind. Protective feelings swamped her as she glanced once more in the rearview mirror before braking the truck in the farmyard. This time, Bett was determined she would come through for her mother. There would be no hurt feelings, no arguments, no impatience. Her mom needed help, and Bett had every intention of being there for her.

Still, her eyes settled uneasily on the U-Haul behind the Lincoln. How literally had Elizabeth taken Zach’s invitation to “stay as long as you like”?

The moment Bett opened the back door of her mother’s car, Sniper leaped into the car in a flurry of Persian fur, discovering her mother’s canary cage instantly as if he’d sensed the birds from half a mile away. “Behave yourself for once,” Bett hissed. The cat sprang to the top of the felt-covered cage, purring. Bett batted the animal down, and tried to work the cage out over a lopsided suitcase.

“Brittany?”

“Coming!” The canaries twittered; Sniper snaked out a paw and playfully clawed Bett’s wrist, then tried to leap on top of the cage again as Bett finally maneuvered it out of the car.

Elizabeth was waiting at the door to remove the wrap and coo at the two yellow birds. “I should have asked you if I could bring them. If you mind, darling-”

“Of course not.” Bett pushed her damp hair back from her forehead. “Tell me what you need to bring in immediately, Mom; the rest we’ll get after the rain stops.”

“I really think you should get out of those wet clothes first.”

Bett shook her head, smiling. “It’s warm-wet, not cold-wet. Really, it’s okay.”

“Well, as far as just the essentials go…”

The seven plants had to come in-they could catch cold in the rain. The base for the canary cage. Four suitcases. Elizabeth never traveled without her own reading lamp and pillow, nor the box of china that had been a wedding gift when she’d married Chet. Four shoeboxes full of coupons; Elizabeth planned to go shopping. Three afghans; it was no fun at all to work on just one at a time. Her rocker with the yellow velvet cushion. She always sat in that rocker before dinner. “You’re irritated with me, aren’t you, Brittany?” Elizabeth said hesitantly.

Panting and dripping, Bett dropped the next load of boxes on the floor. The couches were filled. “Of course not, Mom.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind just bringing in the presents, then. Brittany, you’re already so very wet, but I could hardly come without presents, now could I? It’s not every son-in-law who would be willing to put up with his wife’s mother for any period of time. I don’t want him to think I don’t appreciate it; you know I love Zach.”

Bett soon discovered that Elizabeth loved Zach worth a purple tie, three issues of Penthouse, a bottle of Johnny Walker, one package of fresh-frozen crab from Alaska, a tie clasp adorned with brass golf balls and four dress shirts in various pastels. “You think he won’t wear the powder-pink?” Elizabeth fretted.

“He’ll love it,” Bett lied without a qualm. Zach would wear a pink shirt when mainland China became a democracy-sort of a better-not-hold-your-breath kind of proposition. But Elizabeth was so pathetically eager to please… “Anything else we need this minute?”

“Just a few things,” Elizabeth beamed delightedly as Bett brought in the last stack of boxes. “You can open them all later, Brittany, but just peek at that first one.”

Bett dutifully opened the first box. A bright green blouse with zigzaggy stripes and ruffles. She stared blankly.

“I thought it would make you look a little bustier, darling, no offense-you do like it?”

“It’s lovely.” Bett tried to sound enthusiastic.

“You don’t like it.” Elizabeth sounded hurt.

“Honestly, Mom, I love it.” Bett swept back her hair again, swallowing a sigh. She tugged off the sopping yellow slicker. “Let’s get you a cup of tea, now, shall we?” Quickly, she whisked the cat away from the birds again, nervously aware that her mother’s critical eye was sweeping over the house. “Mom, since we weren’t expecting you for another couple of days-”

“You think I’ve never seen a little dirt in my life?” Elizabeth naturally migrated toward the kitchen, Bett following. “This way I have something to do right off the bat. If I’d come later you’d have had the house spotless, now wouldn’t you have?”

“Um, yes.” If one didn’t look in corners-which Elizabeth always did. “Mom, since you are early, I wasn’t really sure which room you’d rather stay in. I know you usually stay in the spare room for a weekend, but for a longer stay I think you’d really be more comfortable on the main floor. Zach’s study has a couch that opens into a really comfortable bed; there’s a good closet, and it would be quieter for you…” And more private for everyone, though Bett would never have said it.

“Brittany. I wouldn’t take Zach’s study in a thousand years.” Elizabeth bent down to reach under the sink. “You just go get out of those wet clothes, honey. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me for a minute!”