What did she do with my son?!
Mrs. Margaret Whitfield bustled about the kitchen, awaiting the arrival of her son, who was about to bring his fiancée over. From the hot oven drifted the scent of her signature roast duck, the table already held steaming meat pasties, and a chilled jelly sat stiffly in the fridge.
The lady took great pride in receiving guests; the spread, prepared since the previous morning, overloaded the table. And what guests they were! Andrew had been seeing Emily for a year, and at last he had summoned the courage to introduce his beloved to his parents.
A brief ring of the doorbell sounded. Giving herself a quick onceover in the hall mirror, Margaret hurried to the front door.
Andrew, my dear, come in! Let me take your coat, she greeted warmly. Andrew offered an awkward smile, stepped aside to let his young guest forward, and hung his own coat.
Emily, this is my mother, Margaret Whitfield, he announced.
Mrs. Whitfield immediately noted the guests slightness, which she took as a sign of frailty. And on her wrist a tattoo, dear Lord. Her futureinlaws brow lifted a fraction, but she decided it was too early to comment on the illtimed ink. Besides, Andrew had spoken so highly of his sweetheart.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitfield, Im delighted to finally meet you, Emily said, her smile radiant.
The mother watched how Andrew looked at his future wifeutter adoration in his eyes.
Pleasant, courteous conversation flowed at the table. Then Mrs. Whitfield observed a troubling detail: her son ate lazily, his plate half empty, and Emily offered him no morsels. Casting a disapproving glance at the girl, Margaret rose heavily, approached Andrew, and began plating him small portions.
Mother, I can manage myself, the son protested, but years of futile resistance had taught him that arguing with his mother was pointless.
Having rescued her son from a modest hunger, Margaret turned her attention to the future daughterinlaw, silently judging her behaviour. Yet when her hand reached for Emilys plate, the girl calmly replied:
Mrs. Whitfield, your food looks marvelous, but Im afraid I dont eat such things. Your salad is wonderful; Ive already taken a third helping. Might you share the recipe? Emily reached for the bowl of mixed greens.
Emily, what nonsense? What such things? Margaret snapped, cutting off a duck leg and placing it on the plate, adding a sardine sandwich and a few spoonfuls of potato salad.
Mother, you neednt. Ive been watching my diet for years, Emily protested.
Calm down, love, this is proper nutrition! Margaret retorted.
Mind your tongue, dear, began her husband Samuel, but he fell silent under his wifes stern gaze.
Satisfied that the childrens plates were full, Margaret settled back into her seat.
We grew up on bacon, potatoes, and dairy, and we turned out healthy, she declared.
Mother, a doctor once advised you to watch what you eat. Youve complained of feeling poorly yourself, Andrew interjected.
Thats nonsense. How do you eat at home? Skipping breakfast, I presume, she retorted.
Andrew and Emily exchanged a smile.
We eat well, Mother. Lots of vegetables, and I try to avoid heavy fare, Andrew replied.
Margaret stared at her son, stunned. Her heart, long uneasy, finally saw why Andrew had slimmed down.
And what does Emily feed you? she asked.
What do you mean, feeds? We cook together, both work late, and often order in, Emily answered.
So youre actually saving money, keeping the house tidy, and freeing up time for useful things, Margaret added, bewildered by the notion of a man at the stove. In thirty years of marriage Samuel had never peeled a potato; such chores were deemed unmanly, and Margaret had once taken pride in that.
When Margaret herself married, her mother and grandmothers had taught her that a woman must keep a spotless home, prepare hearty meals, and keep her husbands clothes in order. Samuel could hardly iron a shirt, and Margaret had boasted of his shortcomings. Now she recoiled at the modern household her son lived in.
How can this be You, Andrew, cook? You have such a demanding job, you should be resting, Margaret fretted. Emily, a man shouldnt be doing that. Your marriage will suffer.
Emily also works and sometimes earns more than I do. We share duties equally, and were happy enough, Andrews tone hinted at irritation.
It surprised Margaret that her son would argue with her so sharply. He had once been a sweet lamb, now seemed a stranger. Yet she did not wish to quarrel, and tried to smooth the tension.
Fine, its your business. Ill step away. Come in, Ill keep feeding you, lest only bones remain. Emily, youre so thin, thats not right, she said.
The conversation continued. Margaret made several more attempts to serve the couple, but they ate modestly. Emily explained she worked in the media, organising concerts and travelling frequently.
That fact unsettled Margaret. Where had she seen a wife roaming the country? What of the hearth? The dissatisfaction grew.
At last she asked about the tattoo.
Emily, whats that on your wrist? A little doodle? A pretty pattern, but you can wash it off, cant you? Its not proper to mar your body, she probed.
We got matching ones half a year ago, Andrew and I. We like them, Emily replied confidently.
Margaret hoped shed misheard.
Son, how can this be Tattoos are for prisoners! Is that what you think? Samuel, will you stay silent? she demanded.
Son, honestly, Im not sure Samuel stammered.
Andrew knew his father had never taken a strong stand on anything. He feared contradicting his strict mother and always fell silent in disputes.
The world is changing, Mrs. Whitfield, Emily said gently. Its fashionable now; many find tattoos beautiful and they can be removed. Your son is twentyeight; he can make his own decisions.
Margaret nearly choked at such boldness.
Love, that crosses every line! A man should put his parents opinion above all. We never allowed our son to do such foolish things, she snapped.
Mother, calm down, please. Youre the one overstepping polite bounds. As Emily said, Im an adult now, Andrew answered with a smirk. This is my life, and I trust my choices.
The evening lost its charm and ended quickly. Andrew and Emily gathered their things and prepared to leave. Polite refusals of leftover morsels did not spare them; they took their bags anyway.
Alone, Margaret washed the dishes while her husband dozed on the sofa with the newspaper. A hundred heavy thoughts swirled in her mind.
She could not fathom how her son had ended up in such a predicament. Yes, Andrew and Emily seemed happy; he often told his mother on the phone how supportive his fiancée was. Emily was welleducated, welloff, raised in a respectable family Yet was such an egalitarian approach to a marriage normal in this day and age?
Margaret had always seen herself as the perfect housewife. For years her day began with caring for loved ones, and she never rested until the last cup was cleaned. That did not shield her marriage from small squabbles; Samuel had once had a few flirtations in his youth, which she eventually forgave, blaming herself for neglecting him after Andrews birth. Still, she believed the marriage had succeededjust a few months ago they celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Lately the couple spoke rarely. Samuel spent evenings hypnotised by the telly, while Margaret knit, tended the garden, and chatted with a friend on the phone. What more could be said when everything had already been repeated countless times?
Would her son be happy with such a girl? Was he making a mistake? Andrew had changed; his voice now held a new firmness, and at work he claimed things were booming thanks to Emilys advice. He called less often, but always rushed to help when his mother needed himprovided his plans with Emily allowed it. He declined trips to the country cottage, saying it was cheaper to shop in stores, and that his health was not ironstrong. Yet Margaret saw less and less of the old ways.
It was, after all, his decision but a mothers word should still matter in this world. Time would tell who would prevail.
Andrew and Emily drove home. Andrew had already apologised a few times, but Emily waved it off with a smile:
I expected it might be like this. No worries, I can understand little hiccups. Just stay on my side, Andrew, alright? Thats the most important thing, she said.
Of course, Andrew replied, kissing her on the temple.
Family life promised to be interesting.
—
Emily wandered through a massive department store. Its aisles, like a maze, could easily lose a shoppershrewd marketers had arranged everything so that customers could never escape the bounty displayed in the windows.
Anything you desire for the soul! What will it be? Fruit? Certainly!
In wicker baskets, glistening like jewels, ripe cherries beckoned. Delicate peaches, their soft skin reminiscent of a newborns cheek, were artfully turned toward the buyer. Pears displayed a rainbow of varieties. Exotic bananas, from green to bright yellow, sat beside richly coloured, almost burgundy apples. Clusters of honeygold grapes dangled from polished trays, whispering, Buy, buy, just buy us!
Emily admired the southernsweet juices and berries, then slipped past the refrigerators, where spotless glass doors revealed rows of milk, yoghurts, cream, and cottage cheesedozens of brands, impossible to sort at a glance.
She imagined buying a pot of curdled cottage cheese, spooning in cherry jam, and savoring it. Or perhaps a goat cheese, touted as healthy, or a milkshake flavored like plum custarda treat she once bought for her son at the local café Little Red Riding Hood. Now she would simply grab a readymade bottle and drink her fill, no queue required.
Thoughts of her son Sam drifted to her heart, a pang of sorrow. How long ago was it? Eightyearold Sam, sitting at a café table, laughing as he sucked a straw through a nearempty glass, the straw squeaking. He giggled loudly, oblivious to his mothers embarrassment. Where was Sam now? He was gone, and the café Little Red Riding Hood no longer existedreplaced by a sleek sushi bar on Victoria Street. Emily had never set foot inside, nor understood its purpose.
Near the frozen food aisles a couple argued:
Just take them whole, theres less ice! a middleaged woman in short hair declared, wearing quirky corduroy trousers.
Her husband, a man about Sams age, ignored her, scooping a bag of bright red beetlesor perhaps crabsinto a sack with a special tongs.
The man was stocky, his hair a soft silver, his eyes bright. He smiled warmly. Emily could not hold back:
What are you taking?
Shrimps, the woman answered, glancing at Emily and adding, But you probably wont like them.
Why not?
The crablike ones, you know? Cook them with dill and theyre perfect with a pint, the man interjected.
Emily confessed shed never tried crabs.
Come on, any lad can catch them! the man laughed.
My family have only women left. Father died in the war. Its just Mum and us three. Crabs? No, the woman said.
The strangers sympathetic gaze drew Emily closer, as if a locked door had opened and an unseen hand beckoned her into warmth.
The dam of silence finally burst. Emily spoke of her husbands death a year prior, of her sons passing three months later, of being alone, of a granddaughter who might not even know if her grandmother was still alive. She mentioned her eightyseven birthday, her roots in the village of Dymy, where German pilots once bombed houses and her mother chased her away from the window. She lamented missing Sam, haunted nightly by the memory of a pestering neighbour who ate everything, while Sam never returned.
She just wanted someone to listen, for she had not spoken to anyone in ages.
