The Better Half(59)
“Leo, are you going to introduce me to your friend?” I blink in surprise. I’m carrying your grandchild and your son has been begging me to live with him, and the most you consider me is a friend?
“Nina, this is my mom, Emily West. Mom, this is the fabulous Nina Morgan Clarke.” Leo flashes a proud smile that makes me feel welcomed in his boyhood home and thaws my concerns just a bit. The tension in my neck releases slightly and my shoulders drop back into place as I put my hand out to greet the matriarch.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. West. Leo talks about you all so much.” I can hear myself slip into my practiced administrator voice. Leo looks at me, not recognizing the formal tone coming out of his friend’s mouth.
“Oh Nina, please, call me Emily. And I hope that old fuddy duddy out in the garage invited you to call him Curtis. Sometimes he’s a stickler for old-school ways.”
I relax my smile a bit. “I have a father who would see eye to eye with Curtis,” I offer, keeping the conversation light.
“Oh yes, does he spend too much time hunting and watching golf on TV, too?” Emily laughs as she gestures to Leo to take my jacket. Not in a million years, I think to myself.
“Sounds like tonight’s going to be a lot of fun. Leo says things can get a little rowdy when all his cousins come around.”
“Oh, they certainly can, but I think this evening everyone will be on their best behavior with you as the guest of honor. We can’t remember a time since law school that Leo’s brought a girl home, so I think curiosity has the best of all of us. Nancy’s called me twice asking what she should wear.” Emily smiles, and I can tell she thinks she’s paid me a compliment, but the former science teacher in me recognizes the setup for dissecting a specimen. I’m the frog in tonight’s lab.
Marisol 6:12 PM
You landed three hours ago, no text, WTF?! I stopped by your house to check on Fitzroy. You’ll be happy to know he’s not pining over your absence. House was dark. Speaking of dark, how’s Operation Mixed Baby going?
Nina 6:13 PM
I rode in a truck for the first time in my life. And Emily, Leo’s mom, offered me one of those chunky wool sweaters that looks like there might be twigs in it. She said it was to keep me warm, but I’m thinking it’s to hide my baby bump so there’s no evidence Leo and I had sex out of wedlock.
Marisol 6:15 PM
Well, that’s two Wests who wish you were married.
Nina 6:16 PM
Gotta go, I was just summoned for the first Nina viewing.
Marisol 6:18 PM
Leo put up with your people over Christmas. You do him right by embracing his midwestern brand of crazy. Hear me?!??!
Nina 6:19 PM
Don’t want to but I hear you. You LOUD as hell.
“Let me grab that tray for you,” I offer and jump up as Emily tries to balance an oversize plate of sliced flank steak in one hand and serve her nephews with the other. The cousins are occupied recounting stories of West family adventures from their shared past while keeping eyes peeled for spills as the assembled youngest generation grabs for cheese slices and baby carrots. Even Leo is lost in tales of failed childhood fort building and holiday fireworks with Karl. Apparently, it’s still hilarious, thirty years later, the time they almost burned down the neighbor’s house with homemade bottle rockets.
“Oh no, Nina, you sit down and relax. You’re the guest of honor, and I’ve been feeding this family most of my life now. I can do it with my eyes closed.” It’s not my intention to disregard my hostess, but I am used to contributing with both hands. Besides, my movement is automatic since the scene is a familiar one. My mother prepared Jamaican dishes from scratch for every celebration, whether she was the host or not. Jerk pork, rice and peas, and oxtails were her specialties, and I was often her sous chef and junior waitress. At a later age I found myself chafing at the unfairness of the men and boys seated around a feast as the women and girls bustled around them. I hope to raise Xandra with the same interest in caring for her own family one day, minus the generational chauvinism. Back in Pasadena, Leo is a champ at busting suds when I prepare dinner.
“Leo and I can carry the rest,” I insist.
“Nina, don’t you let any of those boys in my kitchen, ruining my dinner. I worked all day on this. I don’t need any dirty thumbs getting in my side dishes. Please, please go sit down with Leo. Enjoy yourself,” Emily says with a warmth I can feel is genuine if not enhanced by a few gin and tonics and taking multiple items out of the oven.
“Okay. But let me know if you need help,” I concede, turning back to the table. My mother would have had the same response to an offer of men mucking up her kitchen.
“Your hair reminds me of pipe cleaners. Does it hurt to sleep on pipe cleaners?” my five-year-old dinner companion asks, with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I’ve had similar questions before about my braids. It’s usually followed by asking if I got the pipe cleaners or straws or extensions from the prize box at the pediatrician’s office.
Jake nervously jumps in before I can respond to his son’s inquiry. “Why would you ask that? Are you trying to make silly conversation?” A parent frantically attempting to cover up an honest question coming from a curious kid is also something I’m used to. Twenty years in schools prepares you for every possible social interaction with a child and their parent. This is where I shine.