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Authors: Matt Schiariti
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was discussed in passing,
but never came to fruition. In a way, we both had deeper reasons for the delay.
My mom was a free-spirited force of nature with a penchant for embarrassing me.
Catherine’s parents were
an altogether different breed.
Her mother was something
of a southern debutant in her youth, and her father, as relayed by Catherine,
was imposing in a militaristic way. She’d told me stories of him scaring off
boys he felt weren’t good enough for her on more than one occasion.
While we both loved our
families dearly, part of us didn’t want to deal with the drama of introductions
and the judgment that inevitably comes along with meeting the significant
other’s folks.
I took a sip of my Sprite
and let the news sink in. Outside, people from all walks of life strolled in
the sun, some smiling, some harried and frantic. Everyday people living everyday
lives. I wondered if any of them were experiencing the same thing I was.
Cat put her hand on mine.
“Ricky? You still with me?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I
smiled.
“They want to have you
over for dinner this weekend. Sunday night. Can you do it?”
Can you do it? Simple words, complex question.
Could I?
Hell yes, I could. No way
I would let her father intimidate me.
I brought her hand to my
lips and gave it a gentle kiss.
“Damn straight I can do
it.”
CHAPTER 15
Speak of the devils.
Here come Mary Jo and Patrick Maddox, my mother and father-in-law. Or is that
ex mother and father-in-law? Former mother and father-in-law? Will I figure
this shit out? My phantom money’s on “no.”
They look impeccable; pressed,
primmed, ironed, and combed.
Mary Jo is dressed elegantly,
but appropriately, in her full-length black dress and matching bag, neither of
which is cheap. Her posture is sublime, her makeup perfect. Even after all
these years she’s still a gorgeous woman. The strain on her face doesn’t lessen
her beauty, try as it might.
Close behind her, strong
hand on her shoulder, is Catherine’s father, Patrick. He’s not much taller than
his wife, but his presence is, and always has been, huge; the result of years
of military service. Colonel (Ret) Patrick Maddox is a man who commands
attention. His face is stoic, his bearing ramrod straight, hair close-cropped
and precise. His mouth is hidden behind the large mustache I’d come to know so
well over the years, but from its angle, I know he’s frowning.
They approach Catherine
and company.
“Good morning, Glen, Beth,”
says Mary Jo in her cultured southern lilt. She never did like me calling her
“Mom” or “Mrs. Maddox.” A round of hugs. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” they each say in
one form or another.
My mother begins to stand,
but The Colonel shakes his head. He grips Glen’s hand, hugs Mom.
Yes. Colonel . Like
his wife, calling him “Dad” or “Mr. Maddox” was off the table. He was always The
Colonel, and even in death the habit sticks with me.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Daddy,”
Catherine says, voice beginning to break.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Mary Jo gives my widow a fierce embrace. The pair rock back and forth, and
Catherine’s shoulders shake to the point where it pains me to watch … but it’s
more difficult to look away.
“Hey, Kit Cat,” The
Colonel whispers as he hugs his daughter.
“Do you mind if your
father and I take a look at the montage board again, Cat?” Mary Jo points to
the array of pictures set up on a table next to my casket. “We won’t be long.”
“Yes. Sure. I think Ricky
would have liked knowing people have been enjoying the photos so much. He’d
probably say that even dead he’s still the best damn looking guy in the whole
joint.” She wipes at her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile.
The Maddoxes walk over to
the remembrance board; my life told in still images. Among the family
portraits, graduation pictures, and shots of me with friends and family, one
has stood out as a favorite: a candid photo of
but never came to fruition. In a way, we both had deeper reasons for the delay.
My mom was a free-spirited force of nature with a penchant for embarrassing me.
Catherine’s parents were
an altogether different breed.
Her mother was something
of a southern debutant in her youth, and her father, as relayed by Catherine,
was imposing in a militaristic way. She’d told me stories of him scaring off
boys he felt weren’t good enough for her on more than one occasion.
While we both loved our
families dearly, part of us didn’t want to deal with the drama of introductions
and the judgment that inevitably comes along with meeting the significant
other’s folks.
I took a sip of my Sprite
and let the news sink in. Outside, people from all walks of life strolled in
the sun, some smiling, some harried and frantic. Everyday people living everyday
lives. I wondered if any of them were experiencing the same thing I was.
Cat put her hand on mine.
“Ricky? You still with me?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I
smiled.
“They want to have you
over for dinner this weekend. Sunday night. Can you do it?”
Can you do it? Simple words, complex question.
Could I?
Hell yes, I could. No way
I would let her father intimidate me.
I brought her hand to my
lips and gave it a gentle kiss.
“Damn straight I can do
it.”
CHAPTER 15
Speak of the devils.
Here come Mary Jo and Patrick Maddox, my mother and father-in-law. Or is that
ex mother and father-in-law? Former mother and father-in-law? Will I figure
this shit out? My phantom money’s on “no.”
They look impeccable; pressed,
primmed, ironed, and combed.
Mary Jo is dressed elegantly,
but appropriately, in her full-length black dress and matching bag, neither of
which is cheap. Her posture is sublime, her makeup perfect. Even after all
these years she’s still a gorgeous woman. The strain on her face doesn’t lessen
her beauty, try as it might.
Close behind her, strong
hand on her shoulder, is Catherine’s father, Patrick. He’s not much taller than
his wife, but his presence is, and always has been, huge; the result of years
of military service. Colonel (Ret) Patrick Maddox is a man who commands
attention. His face is stoic, his bearing ramrod straight, hair close-cropped
and precise. His mouth is hidden behind the large mustache I’d come to know so
well over the years, but from its angle, I know he’s frowning.
They approach Catherine
and company.
“Good morning, Glen, Beth,”
says Mary Jo in her cultured southern lilt. She never did like me calling her
“Mom” or “Mrs. Maddox.” A round of hugs. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” they each say in
one form or another.
My mother begins to stand,
but The Colonel shakes his head. He grips Glen’s hand, hugs Mom.
Yes. Colonel . Like
his wife, calling him “Dad” or “Mr. Maddox” was off the table. He was always The
Colonel, and even in death the habit sticks with me.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Daddy,”
Catherine says, voice beginning to break.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Mary Jo gives my widow a fierce embrace. The pair rock back and forth, and
Catherine’s shoulders shake to the point where it pains me to watch … but it’s
more difficult to look away.
“Hey, Kit Cat,” The
Colonel whispers as he hugs his daughter.
“Do you mind if your
father and I take a look at the montage board again, Cat?” Mary Jo points to
the array of pictures set up on a table next to my casket. “We won’t be long.”
“Yes. Sure. I think Ricky
would have liked knowing people have been enjoying the photos so much. He’d
probably say that even dead he’s still the best damn looking guy in the whole
joint.” She wipes at her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile.
The Maddoxes walk over to
the remembrance board; my life told in still images. Among the family
portraits, graduation pictures, and shots of me with friends and family, one
has stood out as a favorite: a candid photo of
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