Scratch the Surface

I groaned softly. “Yes, Mother, I know.” I tried not to sound exasperated, but it was a close call. I wasn’t twelve, and she didn’t need to caution me about my love life.

“I can’t speak for everyone else, but I love him,” my sister cooed, squeaking a bit. “And he totally gets Seth. They talked for so long last night, and on the way home he couldn’t stop telling me how environmentally conscious Jeremiah is.”

I knew those two would get along. Seth got along with everyone, and so did Jeremiah. I had worried about Cody, though. A lot of men rubbed my brother the wrong way. He was a bit too alpha male, which I suppose came from being the firstborn son of an alpha-male father. Plus, he had a stunningly beautiful wife who other men hit on a lot. Earlier in the day, Jeremiah and Makayla had struck up a conversation about ceramics classes for kids who weren’t quite ready to talk about their issues, to participate in as a form of meditative therapy. They could explore their creativity in a safe, calm environment, without the stimulation of phones and apps and other external noise, and to see her passionately excited about that idea, telling Jeremiah how brilliant it was, smoothed out all of Cody’s rough edges.

Of course, the clincher was when he and Jeremiah, Seth, my father, and some of my cousins beat the crap out of the other team, made up of various family members and friends, in the football they always played at halftime of whatever Thanksgiving Day game was on. I had no idea Jeremiah could throw a football, let alone with what Cody deemed pinpoint accuracy. After the trouncing, Cody placed Jeremiah firmly in the friend category, where he would stay. He trusted my boyfriend that fast, and it was nice to see.

My father liked that Jeremiah understood construction, and that he asked smart questions. When Jeremiah saved him from yet another discussion about finances with a couple of his brothers, by explaining that one of the rock walls in the backyard looked like it was about to fall down, well, that was it. He was officially my father’s new favorite.

Everyone knew, though, the toughest nut to crack was always my mother.

Working your way into my mother’s good graces was not an easy feat. She did not suffer fools gladly, and she made quick and frighteningly spot-on judgements. It was evil, but Courtney, Seth, and I liked to watch people when she walked into a room. Conversation would come to a screeching halt. People stopped laughing and asked her how she was liking the sunny—or rainy, or cold—weather. My mother had the uncanny ability to allow silences to lapse so far into awkwardness that it became painful to watch. Worse, if she was intensely annoyed, she would simply retreat to her greenhouse with its small back deck that faced the forest. She liked to watch the wildlife.

“Jeremiah and I had tea earlier.” She declared this so abruptly that Courtney and I both turned to look at her. “He brought me chamomile with a mint leaf in it because, he assured me, chamomile tea ‘needs a little zip.’ Then we chatted about his plans.”

“I see.” I glanced at Courtney, whose jaw was hanging open, and her eyes had gone big and round in surprise.

“And he knows when to be quiet.” She proclaimed this as if it was his best and greatest attribute.

A second slow pan to my sister and she mouthed the exact words I was thinking.

Holy. Fuck.

“We had a lovely conversation about how useful it would be for kids to be able to participate in a combined counseling and workout session as an alternative to sitting in an office.”

Both my sister and I were staring at her, waiting.

“Certainly, I agree.” I watched her stare at Jeremiah, her eyes soft like they were when she looked at Seth or Makayla or me. “He went on to explain how marvelous it would be if there were a program where counselors could bring children to our fitness centers to rock climb or swim, and that he’d already talked to Makayla about a ceramics program at her studio, and how many opportunities these things would open up for the children, especially those with personalities that don’t lend themselves well to traditional therapy.”

“You liked the sound of that, didn’t you?” Courtney asked her.

“Very much,” she said, and turned to me. “We should let him rest. Let’s go back downstairs and––”

“I’m not dabbling, Mother.” I took a breath. “I plan to put a ring on his finger. A great big one so no one can miss it.”

“Oh my God,” Courtney squealed, leaning into my side. “I’m so glad I didn’t kill Troy Fortney so I won’t be in jail when you get married.”