Marrying Mom

OLIVIA GOLDSMITH

MARRYING MOM

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This edition 1998

Special overseas edition 1997

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997

First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997

Copyright © Olivia Goldsmith 1997.

Olivia Goldsmith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780006499886

Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780062424082

Version: 2015-10-28

Praise for Olivia Goldsmith:

Marrying Mom

‘What a great feeling to fall into the capable hands of Olivia Goldsmith. The author of The First Wives Club and Bestseller always serves up believable characters in slightly outlandish situations in a mixture that makes highly entertaining reading … The resulting romantic twists and turns are funny, but better still is Goldsmith’s sharp portrait of the maddening but lovable Phyllis … All pop novels ought to be as hard to put down as Marrying Mom.’

People

‘Witty … full of funny New York moments and read-for-the-big-screen charm … Perfect comic relief.’

New York Daily News

Bestseller

‘Extremely satisfying.’ The New York Times Book Review

‘Like Jane Austen dealing blackjack … you keep licking your fingers and reaching for the next page as if it were another potato chip.’

Newsweek

Dedication

To Nan, with abiding affection.

We’ll always have Paris.

Epigraph

“Old age is woman’s hell.”

—Ninon de Lenclos

Thanks to:

Paul Smith for putting up with an insane schedule, and for giving me the house of my dreams.

Jim and Christopher Robinson for their understanding and sacrifice on behalf of this book.

Linda Grady, as fine a reader as she is a friend and writer.

Barbara Turner for her love, humor, and for giving me this plot in the first place. (Don’t sue, sis.)

Paul Mahon because of all those trips to Montana, Ireland, Michigan, and the rest. Lucky I don’t depend on you.

Jerry Young for never putting me on hold. What are you wearing, Jerry?

Sherry Lansing for sharing my vision, telling me jokes, and turning this book into a film.

Aida Mora for keeping me supplied with endless Diet Cokes and making things homey.

Allen Kirstein for encouragement when I needed it the most.

John Yunis for tempting me to look better than I ever have.

Flex (a.k.a. Angelo) for the streaks and blow job.

Gail Parent, whom I can’t live without.

Chris Patusky, who tried to pick me up at a book signing. (Hope that trouble with the bar association clears up soon, Chris.)

Amy Bobrow for help with Wall Street lingo and with Matilda.

Harold Wise, the best, most caring internist in Manhattan. You were right about everything, Harold.

Diana Hellinger, the only girlfriend I have who will sing with me over the telephone.

Lorraine Kreahling for putting aside our project while this book consumed me; thanks for being my friend.

Amy Fine Collins for helping me with my ABCs. You know I’d always do it for you, girlfriend.

Mike Snyder for being one giant earlobe. You were so slow you hurt my whole family, but I love you.

John Botteri (a.k.a. Moe) for knowing exactly how many BTUs a girl writer needs.

Barry LaPoint for your artistic talent, integrity, and for knowing which of the hallway doors to change.

Laura Ziskin for kindly understanding and for giving this book up.

David Madden, even though you wouldn’t marry me.

Robert Cort for giving me the really key advice about Mom’s character. Wish this were an award, big guy.

Arlene Sorkin, girl screenwriter extraordinaire.

Andrew Fisher for his unmatchable expertise in dealing with the true professionals of the building trade.

Kelly Lange, because being Queen ain’t easy.

Anthea Disney, a real woman, a real CEO, and a real pal.

Ruth Nathan, my inspiration in so many ways.

Lynn Goldberg, because I still worship you, Lynn. And by the way, when are you going to put me up on your wall?

Dwight Currie, superb book reader, bookseller, book writer, and bookkeeper (except for that last one).

Michael Kohlmann, still “the nice one” and still my friend.

Steve Rubin and Ed Town of Gallery North Star, Grafton, Vermont, for keeping me well fed and well hung.

Edgar Fabro at Copy Quest, because no one can duplicate his amazing talents.

Jody Post, because I miss you and I missed you.

Norman Currie at the Bettmann Archives for his inspirational help in filling the album.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

Thanks to

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Keep Reading

The Switch

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

Ira, I’m leaving you.” It wasn’t easy for Phyllis to give her husband of forty-seven years the news, but she was doing it. She had always told the truth. All her life people had called her “difficult” or “tough” or “insensitive,” but actually she was just honest.

“I can’t take it, Ira,” she told him. “You know I never liked Florida. I came down here for you, because you wanted to.” She paused. She didn’t want to blame. It was a free country and Ira hadn’t forced her. “Well, you’d always supported me,” Phyllis admitted. “Let’s face it: you earned the money, so I owed it to you. But it was your retirement, Ira, not mine. I wasn’t ready to retire. But did you give me a choice?” Ira said nothing. Of course, she didn’t expect him to. The fact was that in their forty-seven years of married life he’d rarely said much. Still, by some marital osmosis, she always knew what his position was on any given subject. Now she realized that the wave of disapproval that she expected to feel had not materialized. This meant that either Ira was sulking or that he wasn’t there at all. She paused. Even for her, considered a loud mouth by everyone all her life, even for her it was hard to say this. But it had to be said. “You didn’t pay enough attention to them, Ira. You needed me at the company, and I did what I had to do. But the children needed us. And I don’t think they got enough of us, Ira. Things have gone wrong for them. Sharon with Barney … Susan unmarried … and Bruce!” Phyllis paused and bit her lip. There were some things best left unsaid. “I don’t want to criticize you, but I don’t think you were there for them, Ira. You paid for the best schools, but they didn’t learn how to live. They don’t know what’s important. And I think they need their mother. I’m going up to take care of the children, Ira. I wasn’t a good enough mother to them then, but I can try and make up for it now.”

Phyllis sighed deeply. The sun was merciless, and she thought of the skin cancer that Ira had developed on his bald head. She should wear a hat, but she couldn’t stand hats or sunglasses or any of the extra chazerai that most people schlepped around in Florida: sunscreen, lip balm, eye shades, visors. Who had the time? Florida was the place that looked like paradise but wound up deadly. “Ira, Thanksgiving was unbearable. Eating a turkey in the Rascal House yesterday and having the kids calling only out of a sense of obligation? What kind of holiday was that? It wasn’t good for them and it wasn’t good for me. It was depressing, Ira.” She lowered her voice. Phyllis wasn’t vain, but she lied about her age. “My seventieth birthday is on the twelfth, Ira. It scares me. Then there’s Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s coming, I won’t survive if I try to do it down here. Do you understand?”

Nothing. No response. Phyllis told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Always she talked, he listened. But at least at one time he had listened. In Florida, in the last several years, he seemed to have collapsed in on himself. His world was only as large as his chest cavity and the illness that resided in it. Phyllis had made sure he took his pills, watched his diet, and that he’d exercised. But conversation? A luxury. Phyllis sighed again. What did she expect?

Phyllis turned her back on Ira and wiped moisture out of her eyes. She wasn’t a crier. It was ridiculous to get all emotional. She knew that and fiercely told herself to stop it. She turned back. “You won’t be alone here,” she said. “Iris Blumberg is just over there by the willow tree, and Max Feiglebaum isn’t far away.” She paused. “I know you don’t have patience for Sylvia, but she’ll visit every week to tidy up.”

There wasn’t anything more to say. They had had a good marriage, she and Ira. There were those who saw her as pushy, as too outgoing, as egocentric. Not Ira. And he’d been wrong because she was all those things. You couldn’t reach the age of sixty-nine, she mused, without knowing a little bit about yourself. Unless you were very pigheaded, or a man. Ira, a man, had never really understood her or learned a thing about himself. But then with men, how much was there to know?

With men, either they had a job or they didn’t, they cheated or they didn’t, they charmed you or they didn’t. Ira had been an accountant before he retired, almost a decade ago. Ira was a good man. He worked and brought home his pay, didn’t cheat, and didn’t charm. But he had liked her. If he hadn’t understood her, he had at least enjoyed her. And he’d given her three beautiful babies.

Phyllis thought of Susan, Bruce, and Sharon. Each had been so perfect, so gorgeous. Funny how babies grew up and became just as imperfect as any other adults.

She shook her head, dislodging the tangential thought. As she’d aged she hadn’t, thank God, lost her memory. Instead, if anything, she remembered too much too often. “So anyway, Ira, I hope this doesn’t come as a shock. You always knew I hated this place. Nobody down here but tourists, old Jews, and rednecks. I’ve got to leave you. It’s for my mental health,” she said, though she knew that Ira would hardly accept that as a legitimate excuse. “When did you become sane?” was one of the questions he’d frequently asked her. Despite his mild joke they both knew she was the voice of reason.

“I haven’t told the children. I know they’ll be upset. But I can’t live only for them or you, Ira.” Phyllis stooped down and picked up a stone from the ground beside the grave. She walked up to his headstone and laid the pebble beside the others that still remained from previous visits she or the children had made. Who would visit the grave now? Just her friend, Sylvia Katz? The goyishe groundskeeper she always gave five dollars to when she came in? Whoever it was, she knew Ira wouldn’t like it. “Ira, I have to,” she said as she picked up her purse and prepared to go. “It’ll kill me if I stay here much longer.”

Virtually every morning for nine years and three months, Ira and Phyllis Geronomous had walked the strip of macadamized beachfront that was known throughout Dania, Florida, as “The Broadwalk.” Now, since his death almost two years ago, Phyllis continued to walk it, more out of habit than desire. Today, Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, the beautiful weather did not match her mood, though she felt better after her talk with Ira. The sea, a Caribbean azure, winked at her as she made the turn from the shaded section of the path to the straightaway that led past the band shell, the cheap bathing suit and T-shirt boutiques, the snack shops, and greasy restaurants. In stark contrast, on the other side of the tarmac was a swath of flat pristine beach that met the aqua water. No one, not even the meshuga suntanners, was on the beach side yet. The Broadwalk was already peppered with pedestrians—dozens of people over sixty-five who found sleep impossible beyond 5 a.m. and did their morning constitutionals before the heat became too oppressive.

Phyllis didn’t know why she was walking now. She had walked with Ira because he had to: with congestive heart failure you had to keep the circulation moving, the weight down, and the fluids out of your lungs. Ira wouldn’t walk without her, so every morning they’d both gotten up and she’d done the three miles down to the parking lot and the three miles back, past the Howard Johnson’s, past the palm trees and cheap motels, all the way to the California Dream Inn before quitting for the day.

Now she passed the Pinehearst and, as usual, Sylvia Katz was sitting out in front on her webbed aluminum lawn chair, waiting, with her ubiquitous huge black patent leather purse perched on her lap. Sylvia Katz was in her mid-seventies, maybe more, though she wouldn’t admit it. She was zaftig, short, and her hair had thinned. She wore it teased and colored red—the unnatural red of those poisonous maraschino cherries that they put on top of the Chinese food in the bad restaurants down here. She was from Queens—Kew Gardens—and had spent the last fifteen years of her married life living here. She was neither smart nor witty, but she was loyal and patient and the best that Phyllis could do in the friendship department right now. Here, friends had died or dispersed in the diaspora of the aging. “Can I walk with you?” Sylvia asked, as she always did.

“It’s a free country,” Phyllis answered with a shrug, completing the morning ritual in their usual way.

Sylvia Katz pushed herself up from the chair and stepped past the concrete balustrade that separated Pinehearst Gardens from The Broadwalk hoi polloi. They walked in near silence for a moment, the only sound being the noise of Sylvia’s sandals shuffling, and the swishing of her purse rubbing against her shorts. Over and over again Phyllis had begged Sylvia both to leave the purse behind and to get a pair of Reeboks just like everybody else. But Sylvia wouldn’t do it. You couldn’t tell with Sylvia whether it was that she hated change or that she couldn’t spend the money. Phyllis shrugged. What did it matter if Sylvia schlepped the purse or dragged her feet? So it made her walk more slowly. Big deal. They weren’t going anywhere.

“I told Ira,” Phyllis announced.

“Do you think he was upset?” Sylvia asked.

“How could I know?” Phyllis heard her own voice betraying the irritation that Sylvia so often made her feel. “Even when he was alive, you couldn’t tell if Ira was feeling anything. In the hospital, with his lungs filled with fluid, he didn’t complain.”

They were past the band shell, empty except for the sign that announced the swing-band concert that night. Once a week The Broadwalk was thronged with couples joined together by the lindy. Sylvia, whose husband had deserted her a few years earlier after over twenty-one years of marriage, came regularly and sat watching, her patent leather purse firmly held on her lap. But no matter how often she invited Phyllis, Phyllis abstained. Sylvia never noticed and kept asking.

It wasn’t that Phyllis didn’t like the music, except maybe this Friday evening, when the sign said “The Mistletoes,” the season’s opening band, were playing a holiday medley. She needed chestnuts roasting like she needed a melanoma. Usually she loved music. Now, though, it made her too restless and sad. Somehow Sylvia could feel comfortable sitting on the sidelines, but for Phyllis, it was too painful knowing that she’d never dance again. People did dance on The Broadwalk, and then, in a blink of time, they were dead and gone. They might as well be under The Broadwalk, buried in the sand. Phyllis repressed a sigh. Ira had never been much of a dancer. Long ago, somehow, Phyllis had given it up. It was ridiculous at her age to care, but there was something about the music that got under her skin and didn’t allow her to sit, blank and regretless, along with Sylvia.

“You comin’ tonight?” Sylvia asked, as predictable as Republican bank scandals.

“I can’t,” Phyllis told her. “I’m having dinner in Buckingham Palace.”

“Don’t kid me,” Sylvia said, but there was enough doubt in her voice that Phyllis knew she could.

“Betty is very unhappy,” Phyllis continued. “All of her children have disappointed her. I said ‘Betty, that’s what they’re for.’ We’re talking it over tonight. You know, they say that Edward is like my Bruce. ‘Gay, schmay,’ I said to her. ‘Just help him find a nice faigela and settle down.’”

“Prince Edward is like your Bruce?” Sylvia asked, her voice lowering.

“Wake up and smell the nitroglycerin,” Phyllis told her friend, who also had a heart condition.

“What a tragedy,” Sylvia tsked. “And in such a family.”

“It’s in my family, too,” Phyllis snapped. “What are we, belly lox? Nothing wrong with it.” Plenty was wrong with it, in Phyllis’s opinion, and with Susan and Sharon, too, but it was no one’s job but hers to point it out.

If Phyllis ever took Sylvia seriously she’d be offended. But, luckily, she knew how ridiculous it would be to be offended by anything Sylvia said. The woman had a strong constitution, a good heart, and a weak mind.

“I heard the Queen Mother had a colostomy,” Sylvia said in a lowered voice. “Like my Sid.” For the decade before Sid left her, Sylvia had coped with not only her own heart condition but also Sid’s colon cancer. “Can you imagine? All those garden parties.” Phyllis ignored the non sequitur. Who knew how Sylvia’s mind worked?

They had reached the end of The Broadwalk and, as always, Sylvia had to touch the post implanted in the macadam to stop vehicular traffic.

“What would happen if, just once, we walked to the end and you didn’t hit the barrier?” Phyllis asked.

“Everybody touches the post,” Sylvia said. “You have to touch the post.”

“No you don’t. I don’t.”

“You. You’re different.”

“Nu? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Phyllis sighed. Different was fine. It was lonely that was the problem. She didn’t know how long she’d been lonely. Certainly way before Ira died. After a while, it became a fact of life and you just didn’t notice it any more. That was the danger. It was like smelling gas: if you didn’t pay attention to it, it could kill you. In Florida, Phyllis hadn’t had a really good friend, one who understood her and got her jokes. Even Ira, long before he died, had stopped responding much. But nobody talked to their husbands. What was there to say after forty-seven years? “Do you still like my brisket?” “Do you think that I ought to shorten this skirt?” “Should we pull our troops out of Bosnia?”

Phyllis still had a lot to say, but who wanted to listen? And who had anything interesting to say back? Which was why she was now walking down The Broadwalk with Sylvia Katz. Sylvia was no Madame Curie, didn’t understand half of what Phyllis was talking about, but at least she wasn’t offended by Phyllis’s wisecracks.

Most of the women that Phyllis knew were offended by her. She had to face it, she had a big mouth. She always had. And if she offended most of the women she met down here, they in turn bored her. They’d talk about recipes, grandchildren, shopping, and more recipes. They bored her stiff. Sylvia was a relief. No kids, no recipes, no aggravation.

Phyllis’s own children interested her, but not just to brag about. They interested her because they were interesting, not because they were hers. Susan was brilliant, Bruce was remarkably witty, and Sharon … well, Sharon, she had to admit, favored her father’s side of the family. Still, she loved them. Like Queen Betty must love her brood. It didn’t mean she approved of their behavior, or that they approved of hers.

“This means you’ll be with the kids for the holidays. Nice for you.” She sounded wistful. “Nice for them.” Sylvia paused. “Do they know you’re going up?” she asked.

Phyllis was silent.

“You haven’t told them, have you?” Sylvia asked accusingly.

“Not yet,” Phyllis admitted.

“You have to. You have to,” Sylvia said. Her own son had both refused a Thanksgiving invitation and not extended one to her. “If you don’t tell them, I will.”

“Don’t you dare,” Phyllis warned.

“When are you going to tell them?”

“Next Purim,” Phyllis said, and opened the gate to Pinehearst for her friend.

You’re joking.”

“You wish.”

“Come on,” Sig Geronomous said cavalierly. “It’s just one of those empty threats. One of those nutty things she says that get us all jerked around for nothing. Like the time she corresponded with the Asian bride and wanted to import her for you.”

“She means this,” Sig’s brother, Bruce, told her. “Todd, get over here and tell her that it’s true.” Bruce didn’t live with Todd, but they had been spending a lot of time together. Whenever Sig asked if it was serious Bruce evaded the question.

“Bruce has the proof,” Todd shouted into the receiver.

“How do you know?”

“Because she gave Mrs. Katz the rattan magazine rack,” Bruce responded.

“The magazine rack? Oh my God!” Susan Geronomous—now known to her friends and business associates as Sigourney—accidentally dropped the telephone receiver. It crashed so hard against her granite countertop that her brother Bruce, at the other end of the phone, winced.

“What was that? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I wish.” Sigourney had gotten control of the phone; now she just had to control herself. This couldn’t really be happening … nothing was ever as bad as it seemed … absence made the heart grow fonder … too many cooks—she stopped. She was going crazy. This couldn’t be true. Christmas and her mother both coming? She might as well pull out the razor blades now. Sig looked down appraisingly at her elegant wrist. “She just casually mentioned that she gave away the rattan magazine rack?”