Marrying Mom. Olivia Goldsmith

to somebody really old and really wealthy. Somebody who likes us—likes us a lot. He can introduce me to some rich, powerful clients. He can give Barney a job, and pay for Jessie’s and Travis’s private school. He could even bail out Bruce’s semibankrupt business.”

      “He’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind,” Bruce said.

      Sigourney nodded. “That would be good,” she agreed. She began counting off on her fingers. “Deaf, dumb, blind, old, and rich.”

      “Oh, come off it, Sig,” Sharon almost sneered. “You’re only forty-one. You’re thin, you’re successful. You have a weird first name, you’re beautiful, and you can’t get a decent date. Phillip Norman is a jerk. He doesn’t even appreciate you. Men want young, beautiful, fresh girls. How in the world are we supposed to find a rich man for Mom?”

      Sig recoiled. Phillip Norman had come to her A-list brunch and afterwards, as she cleaned up the mess and waited for Bruce and Sharon, he had told Sig that though he truly liked her he thought it was important for her to know that he didn’t believe there was a future in their relationship. Sig hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. Phillip was such a compromise for her, such a corporate drone. She’d been with him mainly because of his enthusiasm for her. To find that he wasn’t avid was almost a joke, but one that had an unpleasant irony to it. How low would she sink? Could she find another man anywhere? Next she’d be sleeping with Eldin the painter.

      “Right,” Bruce agreed. “If I haven’t found one, why should she get one? And even if we could get ahold of such a commodity, how could we possibly get Mom to date him? You know what she’s like.” He shrugged. “To know her is to be permanently irritated.”

      Sigourney pulled herself together. It was now or never. She tried to do her best Andy Hardy imitation. “Oh, come on, kids. I’m not saying it’s easy, but we’re not licked yet. You haven’t lost all your librarian skills, Sharri. You can do the research, finding the geezers. And Brucie, you still have all those dresses in your closet.” He grimaced at her. “Okay. We’ll buy costumes! But we can use your makeup. I’ll write the script and direct the rehearsals. And Barney …” She paused, momentarily losing her enthusiasm. “Well, we’ll find something you can handle. So, come on, kids. Let’s put on a show!”

      She dropped the fake energy and her tone became cold and as frightening as she could manage. “Because if we don’t, let’s face it: our lives will become even worse than they are now.”

      although it was seventy-eight degrees and sunny, the Miami airport was incongruously decked out in fake firs and Christmas tinsel. Sylvia Katz, forlornly schlepping her oversized purse, looked at Phyllis and shook her head. “First class? It’s such a bad idea. And a waste of money,” she said.

      “What the hell.” Phyllis shrugged. “I’ve never flown first class in my life. And that travel agent of my son-in-law’s looked at me with respect.”

      “For wasting money, she respects you?”

      “Oh, life can always use some embellishment. If I play my cards right, I’ll never fly again. Might as well go out with a bang, right, Sylvia?”

      “God forbid. Don’t even joke.” Sylvia paused. “You sure you won’t change your mind? I’ll give you back the magazine rack.”

      “Tempting, but no cigar.”

      “Cigars?” Sylvia said. “What do cigars have to do with this?”

      Phyllis leaned forward and kissed Sylvia on the cheek. She’d never known anyone as literal as Sylvia. Nine-tenths of what Phyllis said went right over Sylvia’s overpermed head. “You’re in a world of your own, Sylvia,” Phyllis told her friend. “That’s probably why you can stand me. I don’t get on your nerves because you don’t have any.”

      “Nerves? Who cares about nerves? I won’t have any friends now.” A tear began to run down Sylvia’s very wrinkled cheek.

      Phyllis fished into her jacket pocket and pulled out a key chain. “Keys to the Buick,” she said. “Stay off I-95 and don’t get carjacked, if you can help it.”

      “You’re giving me your car? Your car?”

      “I won’t need it in New York. No one has cars in New York. It’s a civilized place. We have taxis.”

      “Your car?”

      “Sylvia, stop repeating yourself. You sound like a demented toucan.” Phyllis reached out, took Mrs. Katz’s plump and wrinkled hand and put the keys in them. “A little Christmas present. From me to you.”

      “But you already gave me so much. The magazine rack, the plants …” Sylvia took out a crumpled handkerchief and noisily blew her nose.

      “Sylvia, who uses handkerchiefs anymore?” Phyllis asked and looked at the wet cloth distastefully. “What are you going to do with it now?”

      “Put it in my purse.”

      “Feh! You’ll get mucus all over your wallet. Get with the times and get yourself some Kleenex.”

      “Don’t you think you should call the children?” Sylvia asked. “Tell them.”

      “You mean warn them. No. Why should I? So they’ll argue with me?” She paused. “Sylvia, did you interfere?”

      Sylvia cast down her eyes guiltily. Phyllis didn’t need to ask any further and let her friend off the hook.

      “You still giving me your car?” Sylvia asked.

      “Yes. And I won’t put any of them out, Sylvia. I’ll stay at a hotel. I’ll get my own place. It will make a nice surprise.” Phyllis wasn’t altogether sure that “nice” was the word any of her three children would use, but it was a free country.

      “I’m going to miss you, Phyllis.”

      “I know.”

      “If it doesn’t work out, you can come back down and stay with me any time.”

      “I know.”

      The fat woman fumbled in her purse. “I only got you a little something. A token.” She handed Phyllis a small box.

      “I know. A woman who hasn’t picked up a check for more than seven years is not going to suddenly begin handing out Harry Winston.” Phyllis took the little package and opened it. “Oh. Handkerchiefs. What have I done without them?”

      “What will I do without you?” Sylvia sighed, the sarcasm lost on her.

      “Play a lot of canasta. The girls will let you back into the game now that I’m not around to insult them.”

      “They never should have banned you,” Mrs. Katz said with fresh indignation.

      “Sylvia. It was four years ago. Forget about it. Play canasta. Meld. May you draw many red threes. Go to Loehmann’s, schlep around the Saw Grass Mall. You’ll be fine.” Phyllis had never been good with emotions. What was the point? Most things she deflected with a wisecrack. The rest she ignored.

      Mrs. Katz mopped at her eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

      “You’re repeating yourself, Sylvia. I have to go.” The two women hugged one another briefly, and then Phyllis turned and walked with the crowd, moving toward the security checkpoint and the waiting flights.

      Phyllis passed under a big sign that said: “Come Back to Miami Soon. We’ll Miss You.” “Fat chance,” she answered out loud to herself, her voice caustic. “I’m getting out alive.”

      Sig sat at her