Read Online Tales From the Crib by Jennifer Coburn - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Coburn
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they didn’t deliver, but for Anjoli they made an exception. Everyone did. Even her auditor from the IRS had a little crush on her and helped her fix her many careless errors on her tax returns. Most of the time, she cheated herself out of money, so there was no question that Anjoli was simply scatterbrained.
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I said. “I really appreciate it.” I sat in front of the Christmas tree and inhaled the evergreen scent and eucalyptus candles burning on the mantel. I sank into a chair and pulled a silver chenille lap blanket over myself. She brought a cup of Fortune Delight tea for herself and sat next to me.
“That’s what mothers are for. I am rather concerned, though, that you seem to be in no hurry to return to New Jersey. God knows I can’t blame you for avoiding suburbia, darling, but seeing how you and Jack chose to make your home there, I’m curious why you’re not there with your husband.”
Now would be a good time to mention that, in addition to being a Manhattan snob, Anjoli was raised in New Jersey. So while she never has a kind word to say about the “other” boroughs, Westchester County, or Long Island, she has a special place in her arsenal for New Jersey. She says she never fit in to the Newark Catholic social scene, but the breaking point was when she was disqualified from a beauty contest for a talent entry of a performance art piece far too radical for the 1950s. “They are all such small-minded bigots in New Jersey,” she says, missing the irony of the fact that she’s made a sweeping generalization about an entire state. “Twenty years later, Yoko Ono did the same damn thing and everyone said she was a genius. That’s why I ran away to the Village. Why bother putting a state so close to New York if everyone’s going to act as though they’re in Iowa?” Mother’s a bit snooty about the Midwest as well. I attended several writing conferences at the University of Iowa and fell in love with the area. Anjoli once looked out from her airplane window and concluded that there was “nothing” in the Midwest. I reminded her that she was above the clouds at 30,000 feet, but she was convinced that it was snow. Two more things. Anjoli loves to talk about her “running away” to Greenwich Village, but she didn’t exactly tie a hobo bag to a stick and hitchhike through the tunnel. She left New Jersey at nineteen to attend NYU and lived in a very cozy apartment paid for by her parents. Anjoli was actually born Margaret Mary DeFelice. When she was thirty-three, she went to a weekend workshop on “finding your true name.” A guru looked deep into her eyes and saw that she really and truly could bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever, ever let you forget you’re a man.
“I still can’t believe you decided to move there,” Anjoli shook her head.
“We live in an excellent school district,” I reminded her for the zillionth time. “It’s a great place for kids, which I’m thrilled to say is exactly what we need right now.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
“The baby isn’t here yet,” I said.
“The husband is, though. Tell me, darling. You can tell Mommy what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Darling, I know what a troubled marriage looks like,” she said, reaching over to brush my hair from my eyes. Except there was no hair in my eyes. I think she saw the gesture in a script note once and thought it seemed like a maternal thing to do, so she adopted the move.
I had a dozen bitchy comebacks about how she was familiar with unhappy marriages because she’d caused so many of them, but I refrained. I knew it would be too cruel a lob. I knew she hadn’t really caused any troubled marriages as much as she’d capitalized on them. But most of all I knew I was just being harsh because she was coming so close to finding out that Jack pretty much regarded me as his friend and incubator. Another part of me wanted to tell
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I said. “I really appreciate it.” I sat in front of the Christmas tree and inhaled the evergreen scent and eucalyptus candles burning on the mantel. I sank into a chair and pulled a silver chenille lap blanket over myself. She brought a cup of Fortune Delight tea for herself and sat next to me.
“That’s what mothers are for. I am rather concerned, though, that you seem to be in no hurry to return to New Jersey. God knows I can’t blame you for avoiding suburbia, darling, but seeing how you and Jack chose to make your home there, I’m curious why you’re not there with your husband.”
Now would be a good time to mention that, in addition to being a Manhattan snob, Anjoli was raised in New Jersey. So while she never has a kind word to say about the “other” boroughs, Westchester County, or Long Island, she has a special place in her arsenal for New Jersey. She says she never fit in to the Newark Catholic social scene, but the breaking point was when she was disqualified from a beauty contest for a talent entry of a performance art piece far too radical for the 1950s. “They are all such small-minded bigots in New Jersey,” she says, missing the irony of the fact that she’s made a sweeping generalization about an entire state. “Twenty years later, Yoko Ono did the same damn thing and everyone said she was a genius. That’s why I ran away to the Village. Why bother putting a state so close to New York if everyone’s going to act as though they’re in Iowa?” Mother’s a bit snooty about the Midwest as well. I attended several writing conferences at the University of Iowa and fell in love with the area. Anjoli once looked out from her airplane window and concluded that there was “nothing” in the Midwest. I reminded her that she was above the clouds at 30,000 feet, but she was convinced that it was snow. Two more things. Anjoli loves to talk about her “running away” to Greenwich Village, but she didn’t exactly tie a hobo bag to a stick and hitchhike through the tunnel. She left New Jersey at nineteen to attend NYU and lived in a very cozy apartment paid for by her parents. Anjoli was actually born Margaret Mary DeFelice. When she was thirty-three, she went to a weekend workshop on “finding your true name.” A guru looked deep into her eyes and saw that she really and truly could bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever, ever let you forget you’re a man.
“I still can’t believe you decided to move there,” Anjoli shook her head.
“We live in an excellent school district,” I reminded her for the zillionth time. “It’s a great place for kids, which I’m thrilled to say is exactly what we need right now.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
“The baby isn’t here yet,” I said.
“The husband is, though. Tell me, darling. You can tell Mommy what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Darling, I know what a troubled marriage looks like,” she said, reaching over to brush my hair from my eyes. Except there was no hair in my eyes. I think she saw the gesture in a script note once and thought it seemed like a maternal thing to do, so she adopted the move.
I had a dozen bitchy comebacks about how she was familiar with unhappy marriages because she’d caused so many of them, but I refrained. I knew it would be too cruel a lob. I knew she hadn’t really caused any troubled marriages as much as she’d capitalized on them. But most of all I knew I was just being harsh because she was coming so close to finding out that Jack pretty much regarded me as his friend and incubator. Another part of me wanted to tell
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