The Better Half(58)
Leo has convinced himself differences of race, family structure, and left coast liberal values versus heartland ideals won’t register with his parents. He’s claimed, more than once, that his mother is over-the-moon happy that, finally at forty-five, he’s dating someone age appropriate with potential to go the distance. I don’t buy it at all. Since we purchased our tickets, I’ve been digging at Leo to engage in deeper discussion concerning his family’s speculations about me. According to Leo, simply being off your parents’ auto insurance makes you eligible marriage material with the Wests.
Though Leo may not have given our relationship’s impact on his family a whole lot of thought, Marisol and I gave it plenty of air time at the Clean Slate Palisades Village, deconstructing Leo’s tidbit that only his father would be at the airport to pick us up. That was all I needed to hear from Leo to know his mother was skipping over the middleman and sending a clear message to me that Mother West is not putting out the efforts and charms for a woman she’s hoping is a passing fetish. Marisol’s take on the whole thing was maybe the woman has a life.
“Please put away all laptops and place your tray tables and seats in their upright position. We should be landing in Omaha in about twenty minutes,” announces the same flight attendant who demanded we shut down our electronics for takeoff.
By the time Leo has pulled himself out of his mile-high nap, I’ve worked myself up into a lather that not only will I be the only Black person at the West family dinner table, but for all I know, I may be the only Black person in Nebraska.
“Leo, Leo, wake up.” I’m poking my man to bring him out of hibernation under the guise of putting his seat back up. “I forgot to ask you. Do they have Black people in Nebraska?”
“No, Nina, you’re the first. Tomorrow there will be a coronation on the capitol steps. I think the governor’s going to give you a scepter or a key or something. I hope you brought a nice dress to wear,” Leo says, stretching his arms out wide then picking my hand back up for landing.
“Nina, it’s so good to meet you!” Leo’s dad, Curtis, booms, pulling me in for a bear hug before he’s finished his sentence. Leo’s face reads, I told you. “Aren’t you a lovely looking lady. Leo, how were you able to land this fine woman when you’re as funny looking as me?” Mr. West keeps me tucked under one arm as he puts his other out to shake his son’s hand and bring him in for an equally hearty embrace.
“Truck’s parked not too far away. Got a new one, Leo. Since this is probably the last car of my life, your mom let me get that midnight-blue double cab Chevy I’ve always wanted. I look good in it running your mother’s errands like coming here to fetch you.” Two identical laughs barrel out of Leo and Mr. West.
“Dad’s always the one to pick everyone up at the airport. If Mom comes, she spends the entire time complaining about how the airport gouges you at ten bucks an hour for short-term parking.” Father and son nod in agreement on a lifelong quirk about the missus.
“That woman does not part with money easily, don’t you know it. Let’s get a move on. You two have more bags other than what you’re lugging with you?” Mr. West asks, surveying our efficient rolling suitcases.
“We’re good to go.” I smile, reaching for my handle.
“Leo, grab Nina’s suitcase and be the man I taught you to be.” I’m liking Mr. West straight away. “Your mom’s so happy you’re home, she’s been fussing around the house cooking and cleaning all day. She’s making your favorite stollen cake right now. Wants me to call her when we’re about ten minutes away. If our arrival home is not perfectly timed with that stollen coming out of the oven, we may have to circle the block a couple of times.” Though Marisol wants running commentary on the trip, I’m not telling her she was right and Mother West not coming to the airport had nothing to do with her desire to immediately ship me back to California. When Marisol gloats, it’s unbearable.
“Nina, my mom’s the Fitzroy of the Midwest. Always making sure everything is as it should be and all manners are on display,” Leo says, shaking me out of my thoughts on Marisol, genuinely trying to make a connection between our two families. I refrain from pointing out one difference, Fitzroy’s never ridden in a double cab.
“MOM!” Leo throws open the door from the garage into the kitchen. Emily West is at the sink looking exactly the same as every picture I’ve ever seen of her. Dark wool pants to stave off the winter cold and a cheery-red sweater set that I bet she owns in rotating colors for changing seasons. Her bottle-blonde hair is pulled into a perfect bun that I suspect has not moved since being sprayed into place earlier this morning.
“My BOY!” Out go the arms and in goes Leo. They’re hopping around in their tight embrace, a party for two leaving me feeling self-conscious if I should enter the kitchen or wait in the garage until I’m invited inside. Mr. West is busy with a chamois cloth, wiping down dirty snow crystals that have mucked up his truck from the round trip, seemingly having forgotten about me. Leaving a guest hanging would never fly in our house. Celia raised me to know you always introduce anyone new first, a proper welcome is expected, and a feeling of comfort on behalf of the guest is the number one priority. You take care of family second. I guess that’s not common etiquette in corn country.