It’s Good to be King
Jared
“You plate this up, and I’ll go see who’s at the door.”
My mother nods as she pulls the paper cartons of Chinese food out of the bags I set on the counter. She insisted she wanted to order in for her birthday lunch, which worked out for me, considering the painting has arrived right on schedule.
Taking the painting from the delivery guy and passing him a hundred dollar bill as a tip, I kick the door closed behind me and carry it quickly into the dining room.
“Who was it, Jared?” she calls out from the kitchen.
“Someone selling solar panels,” I call back as I quickly tear at the paper protecting the Pollock.
Smiling with the thrill of success, I look up at the ornate hook still attached to the wall. A grim reminder of the painting’s absence for nearly a year. Lifting the frame, I hang the painting, my eyes burning with emotion as I anticipate my mother’s reaction. Stepping back, I look up at it for a moment before reaching out to straighten it.
Something settles in my gut, leaving me more relaxed than I’ve felt in ages. A grievous wrong has been righted here today.
And now it’s time to show Mom.
Grabbing the paper from the floor, I ball it up as quietly as possible and shove it into the trash can in the bathroom before heading back to the kitchen. Being a small bungalow-style home, it doesn’t take long to reach my destination.
Dad tried to buy Mom a bigger place when the casino became profitable, but she’d refused. She always said this home is where her heart is, and no big mansion could replace the memories the three of us had made here.
“I’ll get that,” I say as she starts to lift two plates piled high with rice, mandarin chicken, sweet-and-sour pork bits, and Lo Mein. “You head on into the dining room.”
“Oh, I thought we could eat on the patio. It’s such a nice day,” she says, heading in that direction.
“It’s hot outside,” I say quickly. “And I saw a few flies buzzing around out there earlier.”
She looks from me to the back patio, then shrugs before heading for the dining room. I follow behind her with the plates of food, careful not to slam into her when she grinds to a halt just inside the room. Her back stiffens, and one hand flies up to cover her mouth.
Sliding around her to set the plates on the table, I turn back with a smile.
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
A sound croaks out of her, something between a sob and a laugh as tears roll down her cheeks. She skirts the table slowly, then reaches out with a trembling hand to touch the corner of the frame. Pulling her hand back after confirming it’s really there, she turns to me.
“How?”
I shake my head. I’m not going to bring up douche-face today. I refuse to let that man taint a moment of this for her.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s yours, and it will never come down again.”
“Oh, Jared,” she whispers, then bends her head to cry in earnest.
I rush around the table and pull her gently into my arms. Her tears soak my t-shirt as she sobs against my chest. My hand rubs light circles on her back as I whisper words of comfort against her silvery-white hair. When she finally pulls out of my embrace with a watery smile, I grin back at her.
“You know, you’re not supposed to cry on your birthday,” I say, gently drying her cheeks with my thumbs.
“I’m just so happy,” she says, turning back to the painting. “I miss him so much.”
“I do, too,” I whisper, curling an arm around her shoulder.
My dad was the best. And he loved my mother with his whole being, doing everything in his power to make her happy. Another shoe of his I’ve tried to fill since his passing. I know it’s not the same, but still, I try. She’s always been a wonderful, devoted mother, and I do what I can to make her feel loved and appreciated.
We sit and eat, reminiscing about Dad and all the good times we had together. It’s a bittersweet collection of moments, but Mom is happy and smiling, so that’s all that matters.
By the time I leave her house, I’m feeling…restless. Sharing memories of Dad with my mother has my emotions tied in knots, so I head to the one place that brings me peace—The Black Hart.