For Money or Mayhem

{13} The Good Son

I was born and raised in Seattle—well, Ballard to be specific. My parents were Swedish immigrants. My father worked on the docks and on the fishing trawlers until he retired. My mother was an education activist in the Swedish community, establishing a kindergarten program and teaching until she was forced out at 70 years old. That had been last year, and she wasn’t taking it that well. It’s a cruel twist of fate when a couple work all their lives toward their goal of retiring and traveling together and then something like a heart attack in the middle of the night a year after retirement dashes the dreams to pieces. Mom had been alone for nine years now.

We talk several times a week and I try to visit at least once a week, but the past two weeks had been so busy that I’d missed lunch with her last Sunday. When she saw me at the door she looked quizzically at me and asked “Yes?”

“Mom, it’s me, Dag.” Is she losing it?

“What happened to your hair?” I realized she hadn’t seen me clean shaven since I got out of the Navy and I’d completely forgotten that Sinclair had dyed my hair.

“Oh. I got a job. I have to look all corporate now.”

“A job? Why?”

“Well, Mom, I work for a living.”

“But your business was doing so well.” Now that was a twist. For the past year she’d been telling me I needed to clean up and get a job while I protested that I was in school and had started a business. She hadn’t been enthusiastic about me becoming an entrepreneur and I’d downplayed the real work, choosing to tell her I repaired computers.

“Everyone has computers that need fixed. Mine never does what I tell it to,” she said. That was because she’d never really wanted one and didn’t bother to learn how to use it. But it was okay. As much as I thought I’d like to just jot off an email to her sometimes, she really didn’t need a computer. As easily as the elderly can become prey on the Internet, I was just as glad hers sat in a corner collecting dust.

I helped her on with her jacket and we went out to the waiting cab. I don’t drive my car much, and on rainy days not at all. The past four days had been beautiful but the wind and rain picked up again during the night and I nearly lost the umbrella as I opened the door for her. It was a short trip to the Fish House on the other side of Salmon Bay.

Mom always liked Salmon Bay. She could look out at the fishing boats moored at the pier. I think she liked to imagine that Dad would be getting off one of them and come to join us for brunch. I’d tried to take her to some of the other nice restaurants in town for Sunday brunch, but when asked, she always suggested the Fish House.

We talked about our lives the past week and I told her a bit about the work I was doing at EFC. I didn’t tell her I was undercover, but I did suggest that it was temporary to fill a specific need and I expected I’d be back in my own business soon.

“Maybe they’ll like you. You might be asked to stay.”

“I doubt that, Mom. These kinds of jobs don’t usually work that way.” I didn’t add that I wouldn’t go back to work for a corporation even if they did try to hire me. The taste of independence I’d had the past year-plus made it hard for me to think about returning to a corporate grind. I’d tried that, thinking it was the road to security and wealth. Then the company I’d invested fourteen years of my life in had tanked, thanks to unscrupulous management. Why would I do that all again? I might starve, but I was happy.

“Everyone wanted to hire your father,” she continued. “He was a hard worker. Of course, it wasn’t always like that.” That was news to me. I’d only known a father who worked long hard hours every day of his life.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” she lowered her voice and glanced around the room conspiratorially, “when we came to America, we were hippies. We never intended to work a day in our lives.”

“Mom! You’re kidding!”

“No, it’s true. You should know these things now that you’re grown up.” Grown up? I was 43. It seemed like I could have been told about this sometime in the past 20 years. “We got off the boat without even having a proper visa. We were just tourists on a year-long trip to see the continent like American youths went to Europe. American teens headed for Amsterdam for the drugs. We headed for San Francisco.”

“What happened?”

“We met a nice couple, a little older than us, who invited us to stay with them on a ranch in Montana. They worked us hard for little food and no money, but they were very convincing. Society was about to collapse. The only ones who would survive were those who lived communally and regained a native work ethic. They could make slave labor sound like paradise.”

“How did you manage to leave?”

“They took periodic trips to San Francisco to recruit new members of what they called their commune, even though they owned everything and worked the kids they brought in like slaves. They made the mistake of assuming they were so far out in the wilderness that we wouldn’t try to leave on our own. But we did. We set all the animals free on the range and walked away the day they went to California. We walked seventy miles to the railroad and walked along it for two days until we came to a place where a freight train was stopped at a grain elevator. We snuck on board and the next time it stopped, we were in Seattle.”

I’d never heard about this part of my parent’s life. I thought they came here straight from Sweden and went to work. My mom was full of surprises.

“We couldn’t find a place to live,” Mom continued, “but your father found work on a fishing trawler. For the month it was at sea, I lived in the warehouse and picked up odd jobs doing cleaning and cooking. His first paycheck was enough for us to get a room in a boarding house and a permanent job offer. They weren’t so particular about checking visas back then.”

“You were illegal aliens?”

“You make it sound like we came from outer space,” she laughed. “We discovered the Swedish-American Center and a legal aide there went to work getting us proper papers and eventually citizenship. I went to college and got my education degree while your father continued to work the fishing trawlers and then the docks. And you came along. We couldn’t complain about that! The next year, Pastor Lundquist at the Swedish Lutheran Church asked me to start a kindergarten. Once we got it straight that there would be no religion taught in my school, I went to work.”

I remembered that kindergarten in the basement of the Lutheran Church. I’d gone to it for three years with my mother as teacher.

“That’s an amazing story, Mom,” I said. I was too overwhelmed with the information to ask a coherent question.

“Well, it’s time you reconnected with your community, Dagget. Come with me to the Center this afternoon and meet people.”

“I kind of have… uh… an appointment this afternoon, Mom.”

I’m not sure why I wasn’t ready to tell her about Andi. It was still too new for me to be sure of what I could say. I’d really been alone now for over five years. My little black hole of an apartment wasn’t exactly conducive to having women over. It was a retreat. I’d had a few trysts over that time, but I’d avoided becoming romantically involved. They’d last a few weeks at most and we’d go our separate ways, my dates having never seen the way I live. If they had, I’m sure my time with them would have been even shorter. I wondered why I was suddenly so willing to let myself go with Andi.

“You need to get back to your roots,” my mother was saying.

“Mom, you always taught me to be a hundred percent American. You never wanted any of the kids in school to speak Swedish. You never took me to the SAC when I was growing up. Why should I now?”

“I mean your hair,” she smiled. “Your roots are showing. If you are going to color it, you need to keep it touched up.”

Damn. I couldn’t afford to go back to Sinclair every week. If this was going to be a problem, the dye job would be a one-time thing.

“Although it wouldn’t hurt to visit your cousins in Sweden,” Mom continued. “Maybe you could take me so I can visit my sister. I miss the rest of the family.” She made it sound like she missed her sister, but by the way her eyes were fixed on the fishing boats at the pier, I could tell it was Dad she was talking about.

I paid the check and our cab was waiting for us as promised. On the way to the Swedish-American Center, she turned to me very seriously.

“You are getting old, Dag.”

“Gee, thanks Mom.”

“You get up in the morning and shower and shave so you can go to work. That’s what old men do. Young men come home from work, shower, and shave so they can go to bed.”

“Mom!”

“Your father showered and shaved at night right up to the day he died.” There was a glistening in her eyes and I thought she was going to cry. I reached over and hugged her. I’d always thought Dad showered and shaved when he came home from work because he worked a dirty smelly job.

“I miss him, Dag. Sometimes I hear the clock strike six and I get up out of my chair to go greet him at the door. I forget. Don’t wait too long, dear.” We were at the SAC and I asked the driver to wait while I escorted Mom to the door for her Sunday afternoon bingo game. I could smell cookies baking inside and my mouth watered, even though I’d just eaten. I kissed her head.

“I’ll see you next week, Mom,” I said.

I returned to the taxi and asked him to take me home. I’d told Andi I’d be there about three.

I stood at Andi’s door with an umbrella in hand and she came out, pulling her jacket on. She wore her brown hair down, curling in the humid air until it was less than shoulder length. She called back into the house, “We’ll be back in an hour or so,” and smiled up at me. At five-five she was just lip-height to my six-two frame. I only had to bow my head to meet her lips in greeting.

“That’s getting to be easy,” she said happily. She took hold of my right arm with both hands and we stepped off the porch into the rain together, her left hand sliding down my arm to take my hand. There was an almost giddy energy we shared, scarcely able to believe we were letting ourselves enjoy the glow of new love.

We walked north on Boylston, an unspoken agreement between us to walk around Volunteer Park. On the way, Andi asked about my brunch with Mom and I told her some of the revelations that I’d just received. I didn’t mention the part about shaving at night, but I’d filed that away in my mind.

“I just can’t believe that I’m 43 years old and I’m still learning things about my parents. I thought I had everything figured out. I’ve lived here all my life.”

“It sounds wonderful. My folks died before I could find any interesting things out,” Andi volunteered. “It’s wonderful to have stories like that.”

“How did they die?”

“Auto accident. I was only 17. They didn’t get to see me graduate from high school or college and never met their granddaughter.”

“Where did you live?”

“Ann Arbor, Michigan. I left the state as soon as I turned 18 and never went back. I just couldn’t stand it.” I remembered Andi’s college was in Florida.

“To Florida?”

“Um. Yeah. There first. Until Jack died. Then wandering.”

“Must have been hard.”

“I was young and scared. We were well-provided for, but it’s still been lonely.”

Cali, why did you ever make me doubt this wonderful woman? I just wanted to be lost in the pleasure of holding Andi in my arms. I didn’t want to weigh every word to see if it rang true. How could I?

We walked around the west rim of the reservoir and up past the Asian Art Museum. It was still raining, but neither of us cared. We went up the steps to the water tower observatory, but the gates to both entrances were locked. When we stepped into the archway to read the sign posted inside, the wind died and we were sheltered from the rain. I wrapped my arm around Andi and brought her close to me. She raised her face and I kissed her. There was no urgency to our kiss, but a rising sense of passion. We explored each other with all our senses, the arch and umbrella blocking us from view should anyone look up our direction. When we parted, our eyes were glued to each other, seeking affirmation in what we saw and of what we had just felt. We hugged and I buried my face in her sweet smelling hair, letting my lips glide across her cheek and neck.

“We’d better get back,” she whispered. “I told Cali an hour or so.”

“I think we’re already into the ‘or so’ part of that.” We laughed and held each other closely as we walked back down the steps. When we got to Broadway, Andi directed me to a drugstore. I followed along as she led me down a row of hair color products. She paused in front of a men’s product line and started holding boxes up against my face.

“Your mother was right; we need to touch up your roots.” I paid for the hair color—considerably less than a trip to see Sinclair—and we walked on down the hill to her duplex, forgetting to put up the umbrella.

“Cali, we’re back!” she called when we went in. “How about some hot chocolate?”

Cali bounced into the room and hugged her mother. She laughed at us standing there with water dripping off our faces.

“Looks like you two stayed outside too long,” she said. “Didn’t you have an umbrella?” Andi and I just looked at each other and grinned. “I’ll make the chocolate,” Cali said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you want to change into something dry?”

“That’s a good idea. Dag, run home and put on your grungy jeans and a tee shirt, then come back here and the Marx sisters will do your roots.”

“I get to be Harpo! Honk honk.” Cali called from the kitchen.

“You couldn’t keep from talking long enough to be Harpo, brat,” Andi scolded. “You’ll have to be Chico. He’s the fast talker.”

“We could make Dag Groucho. How much of that hair color did you get? We’ll have to paint most of the mustache on him.”

“Okay, I’m going,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Before I left that evening, I’d had my roots touched up, enjoyed hot chocolate and leftover ribs from yesterday’s barbecue, and shared in a huge bowl of popcorn as the three of us sat on the sofa watching old movies. I couldn’t remember a day that I’d had more fun and I put all thought of Cali’s contract out of my mind. Maybe she’ll just forget about it. I could hope.

There was a tense moment halfway through Horsefeathers when I turned to Andi and said, “I have tickets to see Two Man Flash at SoDo Friday night. Can I convince you to go with me?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Cali smirk.

“Aren’t we too old for them?”

“Apparently there is a limited age bracket between 21 and 21-and-a-half you have to fit into, but I have a fake ID that says I’m much younger than I am.” I grinned at Cali and she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, but we can’t go hear a band Friday. It’s Cali’s opening.”

“I thought…” I stopped myself and looked a silent appeal at Cali.

“Mom, I thought you wanted Saturday night tickets.”

“And miss the gala?”

“Some gala. A glass of three-dollar wine and a Costco vegetable platter. We have three performances and one is a matinee. I got you guys tickets for closing on Saturday, not opening.”

“Are you sure, honey? I never miss one of your openings.”

“Mom, really. It’s not like this is a big musical. It’s Shakespeare. Go listen to some good music and then tell me all about it when you get home. I’m so jealous. Or better yet, you do Lady Macbeth and I’ll go with Dag. I love Two Man Flash.” Andi raised a very parental index finger at Cali and wagged it ominously up and down. “Sorry,” Cali squeaked.

“Well, if you’re sure, honey.” She turned to me and her eyes crinkled up in merriment. “It sounds like fun!” she mouthed at me. I gave her an extra squeeze.

And before I left, I shared one more lovely kiss with Andi at the door.

I’m not getting old.

I felt young and more alive than I’d been in years.

Comments

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