Short Story

Mother-in-Law

"You sure you don't want a piece of this candy, dear?" Mother Ruth asked.

"No, thanks. Two is my limit. Really." Somehow the Toyota seemed extremely small. God, the idea of Easter candy on a blazing hot August afternoon. Yuck. The orange half-price sticker matched the color of the melting candy eggs. They looked like a bag of fish bait.

"Well, then maybe the baby would like this one." Mother Ruth heaved herself around and held it up in front of Mac, who fortunately was sound asleep in his car seat. Jeez, he only has two little teeth. How much red dye does she plan to pump him with before she leaves?

"I just love spoiling that baby. Grammies are allowed, you know. And who knows when I'll get down here next? At my age, this could be my last visit." The heat was melting Mother Ruth's pancake make-up into greasy lines over the deep creases above her top lip. Her thick mouth fluoresced a slick red-orange and had little globs of marshmallow stuck in each corner.

Last visit? Oh God, please don't let me smile!

"I just don't see how you people can stand this traffic. Lord, it's taken us over an hour to go just a couple of miles. And this heat. . . why, it's a good thing I thought to bring this jar of iced coffee."

Mother Ruth was always thinking.

"Looks great, Ruth." It had to be half cream and had a layer of oil floating on top. I wondered how long before she offered to fill Mac's bottle. Maybe it would wash away those marshmallow globs. "I'd have a little myself if it was decaf; besides, that cream is pretty fattening."

"You worry too much, dear. Weight comes with age. It happens to all of us. Just because you've gotten a bit chubby—I mean, after all, having your first baby at thirty-six? Well? Maybe a more flattering clothing style could help. You have to accept change gracefully, dear. It's part of growing older."

Gracefully? Did Mother Ruth really believe that wearing an elephant-sized caftan printed with a complete map of the Sahara desert in purple, pink, and orange was graceful? Mother Ruth surrounded herself in Day-Glo colors. Even her hair phosphoresced an acid orange shade right down to the one-inch stripe of snow-white roots. The color, combined with her usual bad perm, made it look like a cotton ball dipped in Mercurochrome.

"I am so hungry. When we get home, I'll make that Dilly Dip I make so well. Do you have any Beau Monde seasoning? Dickie has always loved my Dilly Dip. He had me make it for all his teenage parties. He was such a popular, outgoing boy back then—so happy. Now he just seems so serious. I guess supporting a family by himself is hard on him. Of course, you should stay home with the baby, dear. I did with all my babies. Although I did take in ironing to help out a little," said Mother Ruth.

"Yes," I said. The car behind me honked to clue me in to the fact that the light had finally changed.

"Yes what?" Mother Ruth asked.

"Yes I have a whole bottle of Beau Monde seasoning left over from the last time you were here." Rick completely hates Dilly Dip and made me swear that I would never make it or mention it—not ever. "I'm sure Rick would really like that, Ruth."

"What are you going to throw together for dinner tonight? Please, dear, no more spicy Mexican food with all those beans—you know I have a long train ride home tomorrow."

"Maybe we should eat out to celebrate. Your visit, I mean," I said.

"I want everyone up bright and early so I can snap a few photos before I leave. Seems that's the only way I get any these days. I know how you hate to write, but a few photos every now and then would mean so much to me, dear. Especially of the baby. I get so lonely in my apartment wondering what my little bumbee looks like," Mother Ruth said.

Traffic was finally beginning to move. I turned on the radio. I pictured Mother Ruth home all alone. Just sitting in front of the TV watching game shows with her white roots in a circus-tent-sized kimono. The sleeves fluttering around those thick wrists while she played endless games of solitaire to the tune of "The Price Is Right."

"Ruth, I promise I will try to send you more pictures," I said. And I meant it this time. Mother Ruth turned off the radio. Max was waking up and softly whimpering. It was so hot.

"There's Grammie's little special bumbee boy," Mother Ruth crooned. "Do you want your bah bah? Here's a sip of Grammies num-num coffee. Mmmmm, this will make you feel all better."

"Tomorrow!" I blurted.

"What, dear? Did you say something?" Mother Ruth asked.

"Uh, yeah, uh. . . . Tempura!" I stuttered. "Maybe for dinner we could have tempura!" Close call. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow—just one more day. Tomorrow is my favorite word today.

"That would be nice, dear. Have you seen my cigarette case? I am dying for a smoke."

Peggi Swan is a poet, writer, and artist who lives in the Northwest. Besides writing poetry, she works as a freelance writer. She produces the Backyard Art page for mybackyard.com