Wheeler-Dealer

I stood in the kitchen doorway ready to make my move.

“Everyone’s going to Sandy’s house after the game tomorrow night,” I began. “Her mom said she could have a record party. Can I go, Mother? Please? Sue’s mom will bring us home.”

Mother’s back was to me. She flitted from counter to counter in her Westinghouse dream kitchen like a nervous hummingbird, whisper-slim in a cotton shirtwaist with matching pumps, hair freshly combed and the warm scent of Shalimar trailing her movement. She focused on her task like she was being timed—cans from the left cabinet, baking dish from the right.

“Sandy?” she asked, giving me a token glance over her shoulder. “Which one is she? I can’t keep track of all your friends. Is she the fat girl with the curly hair?”

“No, that's Sandi Blake, Sandi with an 'i'. I'm talking about Sandy Winters. She’s the new girl. She moved here last month . . . two blocks over into the Ramsey’s old house, remember?”

“Oh, that one. Her mother’s the one without a husband. Shameful.” She grabbed an apron and cinched it tight around her waist—like it was a noose around the neck of Sandy Winter’s mother.

I’m surprised Louise Parks would let her Susan set foot in that woman’s house. A divorced woman moving into a family neighborhood. Heaven only knows what kind of things go on in there.”

I was lost for a response so I went back to my original question. "Sandy’s really nice and she gets really good grades. She even made Latin Honor Society. And, it’s going to be a really good party . . . the whole sophomore class. Please, please can I go?”

“Let me think about it,” she said, slowly digesting my proposal looking for loopholes. “And stop using the word ‘really’ I’ve told you a million times, you are judged by your words. Bad grammar and poor diction are inexcusable. And, for goodness sake, stand up straight. You’re going to be tall so get used to it.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.” I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head, just like they showed us in charm school.

The electric opener twirled its blade around a can of StarKist, the headline ingredient in her tuna casserole. Assembly time, ten minutes. Baking time, forty-five. I considered her mood and factored in my grammar blunder, trying to decide which way to go. She’d been grumpy at breakfast, and frazzled when I walked in from school. Submissive obedience was my best bet. I reached into the far cabinet for the plates and silverware.

“I’ll go ahead and set the table. Is Dad home tonight?”

“Five-thirty sharp,” she said. “Dinner at six.”

And there it was. That lift in her voice, like the five degree wind change only a seasoned sailor can feel. I had trained myself to recognize these subtle shifts and was learning how to adapt my behavior to each new course. That tiny slice of upbeat said she wasn’t ready to say yes, but a layer of resistance had been peeled away.

To live in our house was to live on an ever-changing obstacle course. My father spent most of his week on the road, and Mother altered the rules daily to fit her disposition. There was quicksand everywhere, and just when I discovered a reliable path, it became a dead-end.

If the Garden Club showcased one of her arrangements, we shopped all afternoon. If she argued with Aunt Helen on the phone, I had to practice piano for an extra hour to soothe her nerves. When the cleaning lady broke a vase, Mother fired her on the spot, yelled her down the front porch steps, and then retreated to her room for two days.

The phone rang and I bolted down the hall to answer it.

“Hey honey bun. How’s my favorite girl?”

“Hi Dad, I’m setting the table for Mother. Tuna casserole tonight.”

“Sounds good,” he said. It was his standard response. If I would have said, “Pot roast, potatoes, and gravy,” he would have said the same words, but he probably would have meant it.

“Let me talk to your mother.”

I turned around and Mother was already there, wiping her hands on the apron, jaw bones flexed in anticipation of the news that he would be late or maybe not home at all. It was just as possible that he was calling to see if she needed bread or milk, but Mother always anticipated the worst.

“Yes?” she said. The three letter icicle shot over the phone line.

I backed away, out of sight but still in earshot, thinking of the ways this phone call could affect my Friday night party request.

“I’d love it. I’ll make reservations at the club. Tell Ted and Tony I can’t wait to see them.”

By the time she reached the kitchen, she had a sixty watt smile. “Do you remember me telling you about our friends Ted and Tony from Wisconsin?”

“I think so,” I said, having no idea who Ted and Tony were, but knowing it really didn’t matter. What mattered was how Ted and Tony would play into my plans.

“Well, they’re coming through town this weekend on their way to Florida and your dad and I are taking them out to dinner.” Her casserole preparation went into overdrive. She slapped the mushroom soup in the baking dish, dumped the tuna on top, and gave the mixture a halfhearted stir before burying it under a heavy layer of canned onion rings. She zipped off a piece of aluminum foil, crimped it over the edges, and slid the covered dish into the fridge.

“Okay, that’s out of the way. Let’s go.” She pulled off the apron, and pushed past me down the hall. “Come on. We need to get to the Style Shoppe before they close. I need a new dress for tomorrow night.”

It was the opening I had been waiting for. “So, if you and Dad are going out tomorrow night, that means I can go to Sandy’s after the game? I have a ride home, remember? Sue’s mom said she’d come get us.”

I waited. The time between the open and close snap of her makeup case was probably no more than a minute but it seemed like forever. “Yes, sure. Go ahead. Go to your game and party. That’s perfect.”

To cover my bases I went for the double close. “I’ll give Sue a quick call. Sandy, too. Let them know I’m coming for sure.”

“Good, good. Tell Sue’s mother it’s okay with me. Just be home by eleven o’clock. That’s the latest, missy, you hear me?”

“I’m sure we’ll be home by then," and adding a super-sincere, "I promise.”

I didn’t bother to make the calls—or worry about my curfew. I was already on to my next caper. By the time she got to the car, I was waiting in the passenger seat—the garage door open—figuring out a way to get the sweater set I’d seen in the Style Shoppe window. It was just what I needed For Sandy’s party.