Concrete Angel (34 page)

Mother: “Do you think that girl’s attractive?” She was looking out the window at a friend who was waiting for me. “Hang around with someone who’s not good-looking and they’ll pull you right down to their level.”

Me: “What do her looks have to do with it? She’s nice and we both like the same books and movies. We can talk.”

Mother: “Talk? She looks sort of sneaky. Like the kind of person who’d tell your deepest secrets to anyone who asked.” (This meant Mother’s deepest secrets.)

Me: “I never tell her any of our secrets. I’d be too embarrassed. Do you think you’re our only topic of conversation?”

This was what it was about: the possibility I might squeal. Tell someone that she’d killed, stolen, and lied her way through life.

And that’s how it went, the sort of conversation we had about anyone I mentioned. Better just to keep them away. Keep everything from her.

And it went the other way too. I couldn’t depend on Mother to be discreet or appear sane around friends. Nor could I count on which activity she might allude to. Driving outsiders away with a few choice tidbits, true or false, but doled out in some warped way was worth it to her. She was not above mentioning shock therapy or the tactics for catching shoplifters stores employed. I’d already come in on her rolling out a description of The Terraces and the reactions she’d had to various drugs—some poor girl backed against the wall or being spoon fed marshmallow fluff as she regaled her with the story of her strong-arming at Wanamakers when she was a girl, as she put it. She always took a few years off her age, making it appear as if she were a teenager on a bad-hair day who’d run amok. After stories like these, the girl would look at me warily or, on one occasion, with too much interest.

It was all calculated to control me. And the atmosphere she presented to guests generally led to brief relationships. I couldn’t be relied on by friends to show up where and when I’d promised. Getting past Mother required more fortitude and imagination than I had, and she wasn’t above using Ryan in whatever way she needed.

“I guess he’ll be okay over with old Hattie next door. Go ahead with your plans.”

Our neighbor was eighty-six, nearly blind, and totally deaf.

But, like any girl of eighteen, I was not impervious to the advances of a male and at Penn I finally, yes, finally, met a boy I really liked: Jason Dobbs. He was pre-med, reasonably goodlooking, and interested in me. And although I’d never be anywhere near as pretty as my mother, I was okay.

“Did you get what Professor Paulson said about Shylock?” Jason asked me one day after class. Having grown up around money borrowers and lenders, I was able to shed some light on it.

“Literature isn’t my strong suit,” he added. His eyes were a crazy mix of blue, green, and gray. “If I read novels, I like plain talkers—like Hemingway or Graham Greene. Mysteries or spy stories. Jack London’s great too.”

Eventually, even I could see Jason was interested in me. Sorting out the reason for his interest was harder. He must want something, I reasoned. Was it my tutoring? Was it sex? Could he spot a potential felon?

He began to wait for me after class, walking with me to the library or to a place to eat lunch. I went home with him a couple of times too—to his parents’ house in the Frankfort section of Philly. Their house was chaotic with various half-finished projects, half-finished books, food, lots of food, and a fair share of squabbling, but the Dobbs’ were fun to be with. They asked me more questions about my courses and my family than I was used to and, at first, I thought they were overly curious. Did they know about Mother?

But when they asked Jason questions too—I realized this behavior was normal. It was normal for children to take center stage some of the time. It was customary for a mother to want to feed her family, dote on them.

And so that autumn, my life became about me some of the time. I got a taste of counting for something with someone my age. I liked my classes—the work was challenging—and despite Mother’s insistence on a business major, I was taking an art history class, a psychology class, and a course on Shakespeare. And actually, I
was
good at math, especially the more esoteric aspects of it. I immersed myself in my classes, and when I had a free moment during the day, I spent it with Jason. It took me eighteen years to discover I had talents, tastes, and needs of my own. Often hours would pass when I didn’t give my mother a thought.

Her influence over me continued to decline, growing more strained, more tenuous. I suddenly saw flashes of something I had only vaguely understood before—I had a mother who was greedy, a narcissist, coarse, selfish. In psychology class, I learned the words to describe her.

Few students come home from college and view even the most normal parents in the same light. In my case, my enhanced vision was blinding. The unease I’d begun to experience a year or two earlier with Ryan’s birth and Mickey’s defection, came careening back at me. Daddy’s blunt words, Grandmother’s expressed worries, and Aunt Linda’s veiled warnings began to take hold.

Spending any extended time with Mother allowed a new seduction to begin. When she put her mind to it, she was hard to resist. She was funny, sharp, still a bright star in the sky. But being away from her shone a spotlight on her flaws.

Although I could’ve chosen to live in a dorm, an expense Daddy would have paid for, I continued to live with Mother and Ryan. Would she line up my brother as the patsy in her next big scam if I wasn’t there? Would he alibi her in some evil activity? Would he be left alone for hours if some opportunity arose? Would he be asked to lie for her in court? To sully his name in order to clear hers? I raced home sooner than I wanted more than once, overcome with fear, asking worriedly,

“What did you two do today?”

“Nothing special,” she’d say.

I never believed her and was always looking for signs of criminal activity.

Mother’s expectations were I would babysit Ryan weekend nights so she could spend time with Bud Pelgrave, staying overnight at his place, and only returning home if necessity required it. She considered it a fair trade for my unavailability on weeknights when I was studying, writing papers, or taking classes—selfish activities in her mind—anything not centering on her needs was viewed as self-indulgent.

“If you’re going to be an accountant, I don’t know why you needed to go to Penn,” she told me bluntly. “Temple would’ve done. How can you stand hanging around with those snots? Or those math nerds with the pen protectors in their pockets?”

“It was your idea to be an accountant, not mine.”

“But you’re so good at math,” she said in a wheedling tone.

“Maybe I’ll be a math professor.”

She looked puzzled. “Why would you want to teach when you can make more money in business? Professors don’t make a dime.”

At this point our conversation always broke down. She only understood financial goals. Luckily, Jason didn’t mind the weekend limitations on our romance. He was a scholarship student and short on cash most of the time, taking part-time jobs wherever he found them. Hanging out at my house was better than sitting in his dorm room, or getting drunk with his dorm-mates, all of whom were younger than he was and consequently not terribly interesting. His parents’ house was crowded, boisterous, and he claimed he could get nothing done there. Mother knew he came over but what could she say. She was unwilling to make an issue of it if it meant I might move out.

They met once or twice on her way in or his way in, circling each other apprehensively.

“So you like this Justin, do you? Looks as poor as a church mouse to me.”

“He’s going to be a doctor,” I told her for the tenth time. I didn’t bother to correct his name, knowing she’d get it wrong again only to irk me. She trivialized people by forgetting their name, I thought, thinking back to Jerry Santini. She never remembered his name either.

“What is he, a sophomore? Early days yet. Who’s gonna cough up the money for med school?”

“He’s a vet.”

“A dog doctor?”

“A veteran, Mother. Served four years in Germany.”

“That war’s been over for years,” she said, thinking she was shrewd. “I think he’s conning you. And the G.I. bill buys him a doctor’s degree? How old is he, anyway?”

“Twenty-four.”

“A little old for you, isn’t he?” I rolled my eyes. Long ago, my mother made it certain any boy my own age would seem immature.

Most of the kids at Penn had money—lots of it—which separated me from them. Daddy paid for my tuition and bought me some nice clothes, but hadn’t thought to give me much spending money and certainly not a car. He wasn’t used to being generous with us, knowing where any money was likely to go. A job would’ve helped out, but my real job waited at home—unpaid servitude. Jason led a similarly frugal life.

“You don’t want to get too involved with someone who finds poverty and the lifestyle that comes with it so much to his liking,” Mother said, after he refused two free tickets to a concert Bud Pelgrave offered us. “Too much pride isn’t a good thing.”

“He’s nice. I like him.”

It was always better to speak in simplistic terms with my mother. I didn’t want her to think of me as a worthy adversary until I was.

“Nice! Sleeping with him yet?”

When I gave no indication I was going to answer her question, she added, “Make sure you’re taking precautions, Christine. You don’t want to get knocked up. You’re too smart to let that happen.”

She saw no irony in the fact she’d gotten knocked up a few years earlier. And maybe earlier still with me. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t imagine her choosing to have a baby. I couldn’t imagine my mother wanting a kid—only finding a use for one when I came along.

“I’
ve managed to get along fine without getting tangled up with Wanamaker’s again,” Eve told Bud. “So I don’t like this idea at all.” She stretched. “Department stores are pretty sharp at catching shoplifters.”

They were at Bud’s place, his last client had left minutes earlier. He was wiping the massage table, disposing of the various tools of his trade.

“Must be expensive tossing out all those needles after one use,” she said, watching him. “Can’t you autoclave them?”

“I did until a friend of mine passed TB on to two patients and got sued for a bundle. Now I get rid of them.” He put down the towel. “Look Eve, this little plan has nothing to do with shoplifting. Do you understand the way it works or do I need to go over it again?”

“Forget it. I got a kid at home who needs his mother. I’m not gonna get thrown in the clink. I messed with department stores one time too many.”

“Like you’re home with Ryan now?” Bud paused a second. “Hey, forget I said that, baby.” He walked over and massaged her neck. “I’m just cranky. Must’ve walked ten miles with my fingers today.” He examined his hands and shook his head. “Can you hand me the moisturizer?” He gestured with his head toward the cabinet, his ponytail slapping his neck. “Washing my hands a dozen times a day is taking the skin off.” He held them out and she nodded. She felt them on her body often enough.

“You probably need some subscription stuff for those mitts.” She handed him the cream, sighing. “Okay. Explain it to me again.”

T
he plan or scam was simple, provided you had a guy who could make counterfeit IDs, counterfeit checks, counterfeit handicap permits, licenses.

Bud had such a guy: Willie Bishop. “We’ll have to give Willie a bundle, but it’ll be worth it. I’ve stolen checks from mailboxes once or twice, but you have to be too damn quick. Passing a check from a fictitious person is much easier than passing off a stolen one. You’re never sure how quickly someone will discover one’s missing. So you have another adversary to deal with.”

Eve looked blank.

“Beside the store. That’s what I mean, Eve.” He shook his head. “Now I know you’re going to understand this once we put it into play. You’re too damned smart to let a simple little job like this one trip you up. It’s going to be easy-peasy. You’ll see.”

It turned out he was right. She was adept at it within days. Her favorite stores to hit quickly became Bloomingdales and Lord and Taylor. The ones from twenty years earlier were disappearing, one after the other. She preferred those two stores to JC Penney or Sterns or any of the smaller or more modest stores because looking like the customer that store personnel expected to find at the counter was more than half the challenge. It was hard for her to dress like a Penney’s patron. It made her feel bad about herself to put on a polyester pantsuit and cheap shoes. If she stormed into Lord and Taylor’s dressed like a rich woman in a hurry, the clerks accommodated her. They scrambled to serve her.