The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (3 page)

This horrific and sorry situation was as bad as it sounded. While other kids were able to party and enjoy their first sexual fumbling, I spent my weekday nights with Mother. Some weekends we would drive home to Father, much to his dismay; many was the time we would return on a Friday afternoon, unannounced, to catch Dad smoking his pipe in the den. I missed so much of college life. I was a laughing stock and the butt of many jokes. I never dated; I never had the chance to join a fraternity; I never experienced the joys of spring break, and once again, I found it almost impossible to make friends out of class thanks to Mother’s continual insistence on being with me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Again, though, like high school, thanks to Mother’s ensuring that I kept out of trouble and concentrated on studying, I did graduate with full honors and top of my course. On graduating, I was headhunted by all the big firms. When Henry Peel offered me a position with his company the day I graduated, I jumped at the opportunity, and I have never looked back.

Fortunately, Mother also knew it was time for her to let me go. It was she who helped me find my first apartment, not the one I am in now, but a smaller place in Turtle Bay. In a way, I supposed that was why I am the man I am today. I missed so much at college that I guess I was making up for it, but with money in my pocket. My relationship with Mother had definitely put me off commitment and marriage, and her championing of me as the great prodigy was why I insisted on being so run-of-the-mill and bland. Maybe what she did for me and the way she treated me as a kid was why, as a man, I had such a great time and why I loved my life. Who would not be enjoying life after spending their first twenty-four years living in close proximity to their mother and then suddenly becoming free of her?

I kept Mother at a distance. I did occasionally visit my parents on a Sunday, but only on special occasions. When I did, she overfed me and asked the same question a million times: “When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down?” and the obligatory “When you going to make me a grandmother?” and the inevitable “Why don’t you visit more, call more, and invite us into the city for lunch sometime?” Anyway, she had her space, and I had mine, and Dad plodded along, trying to keep her happy— which, I suspected, he did to a certain degree. Therefore, I attempted to limit my contact with Mother to phone calls. Usually once a week was more than sufficient, so it wasn’t a shock that she had called. No, it was the events after the call that shocked me.

“Hello, Mother, how are you?”

“Hello, dear, is this a good time? I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“No, Mom, I am really not that busy. How’s Dad? How are you? Is everything ok?”

“Yes, dear, everything is fine.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I replied whilst reading an incoming e-mail. “You don’t usually call me at the office; are you sure everything is ok?” I inquired, trying to sound at least a little concerned, when in truth, I suspected she was calling to berate me for not calling more often.

“Well, you could call more often. It’s not like its long distance,” she said in her most whiny voice. But something was different. She sounded different; kind of subdued, and I suppose a little muted.

“Listen, honey, I, well, I mean, we, your father and I, need to discuss something with you, something rather delicate and personal.”

She often called me “honey,” and I hated it. “Honey” was a term men in the sixties called their wives. I always felt there was something horrifically incestuous about Mother calling me “honey.” When I was at Yale, she would sometimes go grocery shopping without me to allow me the opportunity to study quietly on my own, and on her return from the store, laden with a bag of groceries, she would yell, “Honey, I’m home!” when entering the apartment. It made me cringe just thinking about it. It was like a perverted, incestuous episode of
I Love Lucy,
her favorite show, which she always insisted I sat through and watch with her, despite the fact that I found it not the least bit amusing. She would refer to me as Ricky and call herself Lucy as she laughed aloud at the crazy antics of the Cuban bandleader and his daffy wife. Believe me, it was the closest thing to Hell I had ever encountered.

“Well, that’s fine, go ahead; I am all ears,” I said with the phone tucked under my chin whilst I inspected a set of plans and drawings sprawled on my desk.

“Not over the phone dear. I, I mean, we, think it would be better if you came over to the house this evening after work, and we could all sit down and discuss it. I don’t like talking on the phone, you know that,” replied Mother, and again her voice sounded muted almost subdued. There was something obviously not right. I could tell. Mother was never this way; she was demanding, obnoxious, loud, and brash.

I must point out that I did not know my mother did not like to talk on the phone. She seemed to be an expert at talking on the phone. Indeed, I had always considered talking on the phone was one of her hobbies, as she did it often, and her comment about not liking to talk on the phone was a veiled attempt to try and cajole me into something we both knew I wouldn’t want to do. Secondly, the mere thought of traveling across the city to visit my parents that evening was out of the question. I was a man of routine, and whilst I did not wish to sound callous, I did have more important things planned, mostly revolving around an evening of watching television, probably having a quick drink at Milligan’s, my local neighborhood bar, and maybe doing some late work at the office. Anything would be better than visiting my parents’ midweek. It was unheard of and quite out of the question. She continued to speak before I had a chance to rebuke her.

“…and anyway, we haven’t seen you in such a long while; it’s been nearly two weeks, and that’s too long, Seth, you know that.”

I didn’t.

“You don’t want to spend any time with your old Mother and Father now that you live in the big city? Don't you have the time for us? You know, I should be a grandmother by now, don’t you? When are you going to meet a sweet girl and bring her over to meet me?” Before I could even muster a response or deliver my objections, she resumed speaking “Good, and then that’s settled. I, I mean, we, will expect you at seven,” and with that, she hung up.

I tried calling her back immediately, but she didn’t answer. That was the power she had. I did not want to go to Brooklyn, and she knew it. I should have been strong enough not to show up, but I knew if I didn’t, I wouldn’t hear the last of it. There was also something bothering me. Whilst the ending of the conversation with the rapid-fire questions leaving no pauses for me to reply to any of them was vintage Mother, her whole demeanor seemed different. I felt compelled to go, against my better judgment, to satisfy my curiosity.

So that was
the call
that changed my whole life. Not because it was an inconvenience for me to take a cab out to Brooklyn and rearrange my evening, even though I had nothing to rearrange. Not because the last thing I wanted to do on a pleasant Wednesday night in June was break bread and eat chicken adobo, kosher style with my parents. No, that call changed my life because of what was to occur that evening. Oh boy,
THAT
evening!

CHAPTER

FOR ME TO ARRIVE AT
my parents’ home by seven o’clock that evening would mean traveling in peak hour New York traffic. A journey which should, in any normal dimension, take about twenty minutes. However, at that time of day, it would probably take at least an hour. I suppose to some people an hour is not a long time, especially if visiting loved ones or relatives, especially elderly parents. But an hour stuck in slow-moving traffic to spend an evening with Mother was simply a disaster. I was not neurotic, as I hope I have already established, however, the mere fact that she had compromised my usual weekday routine made me feel nauseous. My day was ruined.

Repeated attempts to call Mother and postpone my visit were all futile. She was not answering the phone and rather conveniently for her; the answering machine was either broken or not switched on. Therefore, I could not even leave a message explaining my feigned disappointed that something entirely bogus had come up, preventing me from making the trip. I knew she was probably sitting, watching the phone ring, well aware it was I trying to cancel or come up with an excuse as to why I could not travel the twelve miles and one hour to Brooklyn. I gave up after the eighth attempt. My concentration was broken, and my earlier enthusiasm for work tainted, I decided I would stop work and leave early.

Before departing my office, I checked in with Henry and handed him the costing figures I had managed to complete for Project Hyomoko, Henry was good like that; he didn’t demand that his senior architects be chained to their desks nine to five, and, as the senior and probably the best architect he had, I had a lot of leeways when it came to my working practices. Not that I took advantage of Henry’s trust and flexible attitude. I worked just as hard as the rest of his employees, but I rarely over exerted myself.

A visit to my parents warranted a change of clothing. There was no way I was going to spend the rest of the day in a tie, and there was equally no way I was prepared to sit in a cab in the heat of the day dressed that way either. I needed to return to my apartment, shower, and change into my usual attire: the far more relaxed uniform of jeans and a T-shirt.

I arrived at my apartment just before four, leaving plenty of time to change and prepare for the hour-long journey to Brooklyn. Harvey, the apartment building’s doorman, greeted me in the lobby.

“The man is back in the crib,” said Harvey, a broad smile spread on his face. He looked at his watch. “And the man is early.” He slapped my hand, which was his usual greeting. I often messed up our greetings by moving my hand too quickly, but today I got it just right.

“I know. I’ve got dinner in Brooklyn,” I said as I removed my tie in an attempt to look casual and to confirm, probably symbolically, that my working day was over.

“Oh shit, man,” said Harvey concerned. “Your momma? Hell no!”

Harvey and I had a unique relationship. We were near enough the same age, and we had the same interests: sport, mainly baseball, though he was a Braves fan, watching women, and generally, we talked about the same things. Harvey was originally from Atlanta, and he arrived in New York around the same time I did. He took up his position in the apartment block the same day I moved in. As newcomers, we hit it off immediately, kindred spirits in our early battles with the residents association, who weren’t initially too happy to have a single guy in the building. As the majority of the residents were elderly and retired, I was privileged to have secured my apartment. I suspected, though, that the arrival of Harvey coinciding with my arrival might have also played a part. I had a feeling that many of the residents in my apartment building were not too comfortable with Harvey’s appearance. Unfortunately for them, they had no say in who the building’s owners could hire or not hire. Not that there was anything wrong with Harvey, he just looked, well, like a rapper.

The elderly and staid members of the residents association probably wanted me to keep an eye on Harvey for them. That maybe by having me around, I could watch out for them. Being young, they probably thought I could be a friend to Harvey and maybe be their spokesperson in any dealings with him. It was possible that swayed the vote to secure my apartment. Of course, I had no evidence of this; it was my own take on the situation, especially as I rarely saw Harvey converse with any of my neighbors.

Harvey was probably the only African-American some of my neighbors ever spoke to, and I suppose to them he may have looked intimidating, but the truth was that he was studying to be an actor. Harvey had never told anyone apart from me. He rented a small apartment in Harlem with his sister, and his job at the apartment building was just a stopgap, temporary until he got the part that would catapult him to fame.

Though I had no real social dealings with Harvey, we did talk regularly whenever I was in the lobby. Admittedly, Harvey did seem to take a little too close an interest in my comings and goings, so much so that I once joked he should become my personal assistant, as he knew more about me than I did. He would pass knowing glances each time I brought home a girl, which I tried to hide from my dates. It must have been quite discerning for my dates to have a doorman wink at them knowingly and flash a gold-tooth-encrusted smile when they entered my apartment block for the first time. Of course, I never said anything to Harvey. I knew he had my best interests at heart, and I liked him. If I needed a cab, Harvey would be there at the ready with his whistle. I could put up with Harvey and his familiarity because I liked him.

“Yes, my Mother,” I confirmed.

Harvey’s smile seemed to cover his whole face. I often pondered how much his mouth was worth. I wasn’t even sure Mother had as much gold as Harvey did in place of teeth. The man was a walking safety deposited box. I was sure if the Federal Reserve knew there was another Fort Knox walking around Manhattan, then maybe we would all get some tax relief. Gold and diamond-encrusted rings adorned every one of Harvey’s fingers, and I was sure the gold chain he wore around his neck weighed half a ton.

“Man, that lady sure knows how to jack your day,” laughed Harvey as he sucked his teeth. Harvey called the elevator for me and returned to his desk, chuckling and muttering to himself. I was sure dinner with my parents was not that funny, but I supposed if you spent your whole day whistling for cabs, opening and closing doors, and calling elevators, then he probably pounced upon and milked any slight deviation to the day’s normal events for all it was worth. As I was probably the only resident that likely passed any sort of time of day with Harvey, I supposed my life was the highlight of his day.

Walter greeted me when I entered the apartment with a faint meow as he looked up from the chair where he snoozed. I guessed he had probably been on the same chair all day and may not have moved since I had left that morning. I threw my keys onto the coffee table and nodded at Walter, who looked away in apparent disgust, as he always did.

I took an extended and luxurious shower. One of the many benefits of living alone was that I did not have to worry about anyone else wishing to use my bathroom. I shaved, dried, and inspected my wardrobe, as I had already decided it would be a T-shirt and jeans type of evening, it didn’t take long to dress. I had time to watch a bit of cable TV, so I grabbed a Bud Lite from the refrigerator and lay out on the couch in front of some syndicated sitcom. At five to six, before locking up, I attended to Walter’s litter tray and ensured he had food and water. Not that he cared; the whole time I had been in the apartment he had hardly moved.

Harvey hailed me a cab after pointing out I had shaving foam behind my ear. He was indeed an excellent unofficial personal assistant, and I reminded myself that I would increase last year’s Christmas tip. One thing about Harvey that continually impressed me was his ability to hail down a cab. In all my years of knowing Harvey, he had never failed to hail a cab for me in less than twenty seconds. It was unbelievable; even at night, it was as if he had a sixth sense. The guy was truly a cab-hailing wizard.

The cab ride to my parents was the expected hour duration. The main bottleneck of traffic materialized on the Queen’s Expressway, where I had joined the throng of commuters filing out of the city and back to their Brooklyn homes. My parents’ home in Borough Park was the same house I had grown up in. It was, of course, now far too big for the both of them, but they would never move, and I, for one, was not going to suggest it. One of my biggest fears was that Mother would move to the city. God forbid she ever moved into my building. So it was good in a way that they had never moved and had no intention of doing so. I suddenly had a horrific thought. Maybe that was why they had summoned me? Maybe they were selling up and moving to the city. I pushed the thought from my mind as the cab entered their neighborhood.

The neighborhood, though not exclusive, was affluent, which was apparent by the manicured lawns, the tree-lined streets, and the top-end cars parked in driveways and on the sidewalk. Borough Park was a traditionally Jewish area, and as the cab approached my parents’ house, it seemed every second person I saw wore either a skullcap or a felt-brimmed hat. My father tended his lawn religiously, mainly because it was the only place he could smoke his pipe. I had to agree with Mother when she claimed they had the best lawn in the neighborhood. I instructed my driver to stop when Dad’s impressive lawn came into view. I saw no “for sale” or any “sold” signs, and I breathed a sigh of temporary relief. I paid the cab, took a deep breath, and walked to the front door. With a hint of trepidation and not a little dread, I rang the doorbell.

Father opened the door, dressed in his cardigan, his unlit pipe hanging from his mouth. He greeted me with a smile, and then he did something very odd: he shook my hand. I could only recall my father shaking my hand on special occasions; one time being my bar mitzvah, another when I graduated from Yale, and the other time that sprang immediately to mind was when I secured my first job. Dad never usually shook my hand. There was something afoot. I could sense it.

Dad led me into the living room where Mother waited. She was resplendently dressed in her temple-best clothes, adorned with her jewelry, and her hair and makeup immaculate. I could see her nails had been freshly manicured and polished. I guessed she had spent the whole afternoon preparing for my visit. This confirmed my suspicions that there was definitely something not quite right. In public and out of the house I could accept her fully made up and bejeweled appearance, but just Dad and me? Come on.

Mother grabbed my hand with both hers and kissed my cheek. I could smell wine on her breath; I had noticed my Dad had also smelled as if he had been on the sauce too. While they were by no means teetotalers, my parents rarely drank at home, and if they did, it was never during the week. I noticed Mother was definitely acting out of character. She appeared unnervingly normal. There were none of the usual repetitive questions that usually accompanied my visits and the first half of the evening went well.

We all advanced into the dining room and sat down to dinner, making general chit chat. The food was excellent. Despite her other flaws, Mother was an excellent cook. I decided against bringing up the “delicate and personal issue” my parents needed to discuss with me. I thought it best to leave it up to them. I suspected that maybe there was no issue to discuss anyway. It was possible it had been a ruse, a smokescreen to get me over for dinner. After homemade apple pie for dessert and more casual conversation, Dad cleared the table, and we retreated back into the living room. I took the big easy chair in the corner, and Mother and Father sat facing me on the sectional sofa. I glanced at my watch. It was eight thirty. I estimated that at this time of night, it would take me no more than twenty minutes to get back into the city. I smiled at my parents. They smiled back. It was odd, both of them staring at me, smiling, holding hands. It felt like a job interview, and it became apparent they had something to say. It was an uneasy feeling, and I felt uncomfortable with them staring and smiling. Granted, I was staring and smiling back, but they started it. In front of my parents, on the coffee table, that acted as a type of barrier between us in the center of the room, sat two mugs. I suspected those mugs contained alcohol. As none was offered at dinner, I guessed they were secretly drinking, unwittingly unaware that I had already rumbled their veiled attempts to disguise their clandestine wine. I decided I would play along.

“Good coffee?” I asked, gesturing toward the two mugs. They both nodded, still smiling, still staring. Once again, I looked at my watch and sighed. It was my attempt to show them it was late. Unfortunately, even though I would had loved to stay and have them stare at me some more, I really had to be going. I was about to rise and explain all that when at last, Dad spoke.

“That was a lovely dinner, Irma,” he said to Mother. “Wasn’t that a nice dinner, Seth?” he repeated, smiling at me. Before either Mother or I could respond, he spoke again. “It was one of the best I’ve ever had.”

I doubted it was one of the best he ever had, and it was obvious my Dad was trying to make small talk. Mother and I could play the staring, smiling game all night, but Dad, it seemed, was cracking. Mother ignored my father’s compliment and continued to smile at me pleasantly. For a fleeting second, it looked like she was about to break her silence. Though her mouth began to open, she did not speak; it was as if she was thinking of the right words to use, a first for her. I felt I needed to take control of the situation, not just to ease the tension. Though I was slightly perturbed, I was not overly concerned with their behavior; it was more that I wanted to get back to my apartment so I could watch TV.