Olivia Goldsmith - Marrying Mom

Sharri looked at her brother. “You do? You think it’s good?”

“I think it’s superb! Sharri, it’s wonderful.”

“Honestly?”

Bruce put up a hand in a crossing-guard stop sign. “Sharon, shut up. You always go too far. No more praise. It’s good, so now let’s get to work.”

Sig called out for more coffee—she never made her own but ordered it instead from the Greek joint at the corner. Mostly in silence, together the Sibs pored through Sharon’s findings. They devoured the dish, whistling or exclaiming every now and then at the numbers of homes, numbers of ex-wives, and numerous offshore accounts.

“Sharri, this is really outstanding,” Sig finally said. “You’ve done an excellent job.” Sharon glowed from the praise.

Bruce looked at her appraisingly. “You know, Sharon, I need market research like this for my company.”

“Sharon, why don’t you get a job? Forget Barney’s downsized career,” Sig said. “You certainly need the money.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Libraries aren’t hiring.” Sharon shrugged. “Anyway, Barney is the one who needs to boost his self-esteem.”

“Just call her Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.” Bruce shrugged.

“You don’t need a librarian’s job, Sharri. You could do this.” Sig waved a sheaf of paper. “This is great market research. Really thorough.”

Sharon just shook her head. “Who’d hire me?”

“You know what I’ve got here?” Bruce asked. The two others shook their heads. “I’ve got Mr. Right.”

“I don’t remember that name,” Sharon said.

“Du-uuh! I’m not using it literally, Sharon.” Bruce opened the file. “This guy lives right here in New York, he’s loaded, he’s a widower, and he gives a lot of money to charity.”

“Who is he?” Sig wanted to know.

“Bernard E. Krinz.”

“The architect?” Sig asked.

“Yeah.” Bruce rolled his eyes upward and got what Sharon called his “movie look.” “Hey, it could be just like Patricia Neal and Gary Cooper in The Fountainhead. Except for the sex scene,” Bruce shuddered. “Boy, look at this.” Bruce held up a page from the file. “Well, maybe not exactly. The ‘E’ stands for Egbert. His mother really hated him. ”

“Phyllis Krinz. Eeuw!” Sig said.

“You won’t say that when you look at his P&L.” Bruce handed the folder to his sisters. Bom of them raised their eyebrows, deeply impressed.

“Well, what’s in a name?” Sharon shrugged.

“Plenty,” Bruce said. “Rothschild is good. Rockefeller is good. Gates is very good.”

“Names! Don’t talk to me about names! ‘Susan!’ Does it get any less original than that?” Sig asked angrily. “Is there any name more dated, more boring, more stereotypically dull than Susan?”

“Well, actually, ‘Bruce’ does seem rather like a self-fulfilling prophecy. She made me a faigela , wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

Sharon looked up. “Oh, what do you two have to complain about? I was named for a woman who stuck her hand up Lamb Chop’s ass to make a living.”

Chastened, Sharri’s sister and brother looked at one another and nodded. “She’s got a point,” Sig admitted.

“Let me see,” Bruce ruminated. He waved the file. “If we pick our mark, how do we get Mom to meet him?” Bruce asked.

“Let’s figure out what events he’s planning to be at. These people all have public lives. They attend openings, theater, they go to dinners. Especially the charitable ones,” Sig said. “I know all the events my firm helps underwrite and I think I can get access to seating arrangements. We have our target and we get next to it. Then we get a ticket for Mom to go, and make sure she meets him and he likes her.”

“Yeah. How do we manage that last part?” Bruce asked. “You can bring a horse to water, but—”

“Obviously, one of us has to take her to the event, be sure we’ve got her near the mark, and make it happen.”

“Not me,” Bruce said. “It will be bad enough getting humiliated in a department store, let alone some—”

“Oh, I’d like to go to a party,” Sharon volunteered.

“Not you ,” Bruce added. “Sig, you go with Phillip Norman.”

Sig nearly blushed. She didn’t have the strength to admit she’d been dissed by Phillip. “I don’t think so,” she said as casually as she could. “Look, this is going to be an expensive proposition,” Sig told them. “The clothes, the tickets, a limo. Bruce, I think you and I should both go and make sure that we at least get Mom in front of the target.” Sig turned to Sharon. “Sharon, we need you as the secret weapon. This was great work so far. But now you have to research the next phase.”

“What’s the next phase? I can’t do anything else.”

“Yes you can. Just find out the next big charity events in New York. I’ll see which one my firm helps to sponsor and if any of these three clowns is going to attend. Then you dig out everything extra you can on our first target.”

She handed the three folders back to Sharon. “Needless to say, Mr. Phelps, if anything goes wrong with this mission we will disavow all knowledge of—”

Bruce interrupted her. “You’re right. This is Mission Impossible.”

Sig put down the folder she held. “Well, one thing I know for sure: you can’t catch fish without bait. Sharon’s done her job and I’m doing mine. We’ll see what you can do with Mom when she gets here.”

at La Guardia airport all three Sibs waited nervously. A group of people was coming out of the jetway entrance like nothing so much as cattle moving down the slaughter chute. Then, behind them, strode Phyllis. “It’s amazing,” Bruce said sotto voce. “She’s like Keyser Söze in Usual Suspects. She limps among them without revealing her lethal talents.”

“Shut up,” Sig warned. “Here she comes. She’ll hear you.”

“Try to look happy to see her,” Sharon said, but neither Sig nor Bruce were listening. “Hi, Mom,” Sharon sang out in a falsely cheerful voice.

Phyllis walked up to the three of them. “How did you know I was coming?”

“Mrs. Katz called.”

“Figures. She can’t keep anything to herself.” Phyllis nodded. “So? No flowers?” she asked. Then she looked directly at Sharon and said, “You must have gained another twenty pounds, Sharri.” She looked her daughter over while Sharon shrank from her gaze. “I always gained weight when I was sexually frustrated. Has Barney become completely impotent?” she asked. Then she kissed her fat daughter, who recoiled.

“Let the games begin!” Bruce declared.

Phyllis turned to her son. “So, how’s the gay greeting card business? Have you gone mahula yet?” She pecked Bruce on the cheek. Then she waved her hand in the air. “My God! You’re wearing more perfume than I am!”

“At least it’s good perfume.”

Lastly Phyllis turned appraisingly to Sig. “A lot of people think red and black go together, Susan.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask me why.”

“Maybe because they’re a classic.” Sig smiled.

“Or maybe because they’re a cliché?” Phyllis responded and shrugged again. “But hey, if you want to look like a drum majorette … burr-rump-a-bum-bum.” Phyllis winked at Sig, then glanced around at the cosmopolitan bustle of the airport. Here the Christmas chazerei looked good: tinsel, wreaths, red ribbons, and white snow—well, gray snow—out the window. “Let’s get over to baggage claim before some jerk walks away with my luggage.”

Numbly, the three shell-shocked Sibs began to walk beside her. She smiled expansively. “It’s great to be in New York again! Talking to Floridians was like chewing on avocado: everyone down there is soft. Up here people are like bagels: when you chew on them your jaw gets some exercise. I had a lovely conversation on the plane.”