The
Facts of Life .
Then Quinton looks back at me, and there’s a spark that I cannot deny and which I only hope
Emily doesn’t detect. I wonder in that split-second if Quinton and I aren’t both with the wrong
people. But I can’t entertain the thought for long, because things for us are moving quickly and
taking us in separate directions. It would take something drastic to change that, and neither one
of us wants anything too drastic so early on in our lives.
“Anyway, I’m worried that I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, as they say.”
Quinton smiles. “Well, you remember what Mark Twain said: ‘Put your eggs into one
basket, and then watch that basket! ’” Another little chuckle flutters among us, but it doesn’t do
much to settle my nerves. I’m still worried about Randolph, and thinking about Quinton. And as
well as everything that’s going on, I’m still plagued by this nagging feeling that something is
about to go terribly wrong.
Something drastic.
CHAPTER FIVE
Weeks roll on, with Randolph taking periodic days off to be with his mother, whom he still
won’t introduce me to. I don’t press it, of course. It’s his private business, his family, his own
mother! And I’m his personal assistant, his fortunate pupil, (I hope) a good friend and I don’t
want to violate the confidence of those relationships.
But truth be told, I can hear my own voice echoing in the back of my brain like some crazed
rehearsal of lines that I just don’t dare deliver, things I cannot bring myself to say:
Don’t you think it’s time I met her? Now that we’re ... together?
But sooner or later it does come up; the fact that he’s given me no number there in case of
emergencies, that he visits and never speaks of it or of her or of their past. It reminds me of my
own mom; the fading memories of her pretty face receding with every year, every month, every
day.
“It’s hard when you lose parents,” I say to him over a grilled salmon and butter bean relish.
“I wish I could see my mom again, just once, tell her how much I love her.”
Randolph smiles his usual casual smile. “My mother and I are ... familiar with the way the
other feels.”
After one or two other mentions of her, I’m almost surprised when Randolph finally invites
me for an afternoon with the legendary Margaret MacLeish. She greets us at the door of her
apartment in Santa Monica, her waddling frame slow but still oddly spry. Margaret can’t move
quickly, but she ties harder and more than makes up for what time has sapped away.
Her place is dark, drapes shielding the musty rooms from the flood of sunlight, even this late
in the year when the beach areas are mostly foggy.
I try to say as little as possible; there’s too much to look at and listen to and learn from; for
me to try to contribute anything would be pointless.
She’s a short woman, about five feet; and broad, but it’s hard to tell under her shawl. And
she speaks in a kind of Celtic brogue so thick that it’s hard to follow; a steady stream of guttural
sounds, compressed vowels,slurred S’s and rolled R’s. I have to interpret her meaning by
Randolph’s reactions and by my own intuition.
“No, Mother, she’s my personal assistant ... yes, and a colleague, but not ... that’s none of
your business, Mother ... and will you show some couth, for heaven’s sake?”
She’s cantankerous and brassy and smells a bit like midday liquor, and I’m almost thinking
about setting her up with my father when I realize that I can’t decide who’d be the worse off or
why.
Margaret spends a lot of time turning and coughing, waving us away and hiding her face. At
one point, I lean over and ask, “Are you okay, Margaret? Need some water?” She nods and I
get her some, her fingers taking the glass with quivering uncertainty. We spend an hour or so
with her, then move on to the Santa Monica Pier, to watch the Ferris wheel and have a few
margaritas, the waves churning restlessly in
Facts of Life .
Then Quinton looks back at me, and there’s a spark that I cannot deny and which I only hope
Emily doesn’t detect. I wonder in that split-second if Quinton and I aren’t both with the wrong
people. But I can’t entertain the thought for long, because things for us are moving quickly and
taking us in separate directions. It would take something drastic to change that, and neither one
of us wants anything too drastic so early on in our lives.
“Anyway, I’m worried that I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, as they say.”
Quinton smiles. “Well, you remember what Mark Twain said: ‘Put your eggs into one
basket, and then watch that basket! ’” Another little chuckle flutters among us, but it doesn’t do
much to settle my nerves. I’m still worried about Randolph, and thinking about Quinton. And as
well as everything that’s going on, I’m still plagued by this nagging feeling that something is
about to go terribly wrong.
Something drastic.
CHAPTER FIVE
Weeks roll on, with Randolph taking periodic days off to be with his mother, whom he still
won’t introduce me to. I don’t press it, of course. It’s his private business, his family, his own
mother! And I’m his personal assistant, his fortunate pupil, (I hope) a good friend and I don’t
want to violate the confidence of those relationships.
But truth be told, I can hear my own voice echoing in the back of my brain like some crazed
rehearsal of lines that I just don’t dare deliver, things I cannot bring myself to say:
Don’t you think it’s time I met her? Now that we’re ... together?
But sooner or later it does come up; the fact that he’s given me no number there in case of
emergencies, that he visits and never speaks of it or of her or of their past. It reminds me of my
own mom; the fading memories of her pretty face receding with every year, every month, every
day.
“It’s hard when you lose parents,” I say to him over a grilled salmon and butter bean relish.
“I wish I could see my mom again, just once, tell her how much I love her.”
Randolph smiles his usual casual smile. “My mother and I are ... familiar with the way the
other feels.”
After one or two other mentions of her, I’m almost surprised when Randolph finally invites
me for an afternoon with the legendary Margaret MacLeish. She greets us at the door of her
apartment in Santa Monica, her waddling frame slow but still oddly spry. Margaret can’t move
quickly, but she ties harder and more than makes up for what time has sapped away.
Her place is dark, drapes shielding the musty rooms from the flood of sunlight, even this late
in the year when the beach areas are mostly foggy.
I try to say as little as possible; there’s too much to look at and listen to and learn from; for
me to try to contribute anything would be pointless.
She’s a short woman, about five feet; and broad, but it’s hard to tell under her shawl. And
she speaks in a kind of Celtic brogue so thick that it’s hard to follow; a steady stream of guttural
sounds, compressed vowels,slurred S’s and rolled R’s. I have to interpret her meaning by
Randolph’s reactions and by my own intuition.
“No, Mother, she’s my personal assistant ... yes, and a colleague, but not ... that’s none of
your business, Mother ... and will you show some couth, for heaven’s sake?”
She’s cantankerous and brassy and smells a bit like midday liquor, and I’m almost thinking
about setting her up with my father when I realize that I can’t decide who’d be the worse off or
why.
Margaret spends a lot of time turning and coughing, waving us away and hiding her face. At
one point, I lean over and ask, “Are you okay, Margaret? Need some water?” She nods and I
get her some, her fingers taking the glass with quivering uncertainty. We spend an hour or so
with her, then move on to the Santa Monica Pier, to watch the Ferris wheel and have a few
margaritas, the waves churning restlessly in
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