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CALVIN BIGALOW

Silver Springs, Maryland

C alvin Bigalow entered his Silver Springs home and hung the keys on the designated hook beside the door.

After setting his satchel on the spare chair at the kitchen table, he caught the familiar dialogue from the movie playing on the television.

He peeked into the living room and found his mother asleep, sitting up on the couch.

As usual, she was dressed for a garden party or some fictitious lunch with her little clutch purse beside her on the sofa.

On the screen, Richard Gere was giving Julia Roberts a ruby necklace and snapping the jewelry case shut to scare her. Calvin tip-toed back into the kitchen.

He was already blue. Sofria had left for her embassy assignment in Jordan. While he was happy for her—she was an analyst who desperately wanted to be in the field—the office was a little dimmer without her ray of sunshine.

Calvin didn’t love Sofria or anything. She was a friend.

He’d never really had one before. More than that, her kindness spread among the other analysts.

Darnell invited Calvin to join his trivia team, and Sasha, who sat in the cubicle next to Sofria, offered him one of the cookies she made.

Calvin may have only been a lowly mailroom clerk, but Sofria made him feel like part of the gang. He was going to miss her.

His mother’s grating voice interrupted his thoughts. “I hope you went to the grocery store. I was expecting to go out, but my plans fell through, and there’s nothing to eat.”

“Hi, Mom,” Calvin replied as his mother swept into the room.

Cordelia Bigalow loved to make an entrance.

Her dress was bold and bright—lime green with giant daisies.

Her hair was pulled into a tight blonde bun, and her makeup was extensive.

She was only forty-seven, but life and liquor had taken their toll.

Cordelia’s days consisted of old rom-coms, gossip rags, online wrinkle cream purchases, and white wine in a coffee mug.

Nevertheless, she woke at six every day and readied herself as if she were lunching with royalty.

Her imaginary plans always fell through.

His mother hadn’t left the house in years.

Despite her long list of issues, Cordelia Bigalow always managed to find time to criticize Calvin. “This is what you wear to work?” his mother asked, running a hand up and down his thin frame.

Calvin examined his checked button-down and khakis. “Yes.”

She brushed by him and switched out her coffee mug for a wine glass—it was after five. “It’s no wonder you’re stuck in the mailroom. Look at yourself. She tipped the drink toward him. “You need to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

Duly shamed, Calvin retucked his shirt. George in IT had complimented his outfit today. Looking sharp, Cal , he’d said.

Fortunately, his mother didn’t like to be out of the spotlight for long. “Now, what to do about my dinner.”

“I made a lasagna last night. It’s in the fridge; I just need to heat it up.”

Cordelia wrinkled her nose. “Lasagna? Ugh, the calories, the carbs.”

Calvin soothed, “I’ll cut you a small portion. There’s a salad, too.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Cordelia stared out the window.

He knew this shift in mood. The story was coming. When she was young, Cordelia had dreamed of being a movie star. As a boy, Calvin had been mesmerized by her romantic tales. That is until he realized they were just that—fiction.

Cordelia stared at the pattern on her dress and sighed wistfully.

“Reminds me of my wedding—I carried daisies.” She had told the lie so often that it had become her truth.

She continued, “Your father in his uniform, me in a white eyelet sundress. Oh, I wanted a gown like Princess Di, with the big sleeves and the grandeur, but he was headed off to war.”

Calvin had heard the story a thousand times. Hiding the eye roll, he walked to the fridge to prepare dinner.

“His Captain married us with all his shipmates standing by. And, of course, the paparazzi were sneaking all about, trying to get a picture of yours truly. We hadn’t even started filming, and word of Tom Cruise’s stunning costar had spread like wildfire.”

His mother had run away from her Iowa home with dreams of Hollywood.

As far as Calvin could discover, she had worked as a cocktail waitress at a trendy nightclub, gone on a handful of cattle-call auditions, and ended up homeless and pregnant before returning to the family farm.

In Cordelia’s version, she was the original actress cast as the love interest in a late-nineties blockbuster, but she was forced to relinquish the part because of her pregnancy.

Calvin had long ago stopped wondering why his mother would create an alternate reality where he was to blame for all her woes. He’d never know.

According to her, Cordelia had willingly sacrificed stardom, fame, and fortune to care for him.

Calvin resisted the urge to lip- synch along with the story.

Nights like these were unbearable. Calvin had put up with them for too long.

His friendship with Sofria and the gang at work had boosted his confidence—not enough to confront his mother, but enough to extricate himself.

Pulling the phone from his pocket, Calvin looked at the blank screen. “Shoot. There’s an emergency at work. I need to go back.”

“What? At this hour? Who’s going to fix dinner?”

Calvin removed the plate from the microwave and set it on the kitchen island. He grabbed the salad and bottled dressing from the fridge and said, “It’s all ready.”

His mother looked at the dishes. “I suppose I’ll have to make do. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your mailroom emergency.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Calvin grabbed his keys and rushed out the front door.

“Calvin!” His neighbor flagged him down, her little dachshund pulling the leash.

Bottling his frustration, he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Gleeb?”

“Someone needs to bring your cans in after the trash pick up. They can’t sit out on the street all day. It’s an eyesore.”

It was an ongoing issue. Calvin had to take the bins to the curb before he left for work.

His mother would never consider wheeling them back to the garage, so they had to sit in the street all day—as was the case with working residents in every other house on the block.

Meanwhile, he never said a word about her dog pooping all over their lawn.

Avoiding confrontation at all costs, Calvin dragged the receptacles to the back, then continued to the driveway, keys in hand. “Have a good night, Mrs. Gleeb.” While Mrs. Gleeb stood sputtering, probably trying to think of more complaints, Calvin climbed into his Camry.

Most of the time, he could endure his mother’s rants or retreat to the quiet of his bedroom.

Tonight, he needed to get away. The drive to Baltimore was an hour-long respite.

He could listen to his favorite podcast about spycraft and enjoy the solitude.

Then he’d walk around the Inner Harbor and grab a bite at his go-to burger joint.

He hated to admit it, but Calvin was stuck.

He was twenty-five and working at the CIA on a path to his dream job—a non-official cover or “NOC” officer.

He was perfect for the job; he’d gone unnoticed his whole life.

Calvin could easily gather information without being memorable.

For the first time, he had friends and a social life, but he could never move out of that house.

His mother might be cruel, but she was still his mother, and Calvin would never abandon her.

Choosing to focus on the positive, Calvin started the new episode of the podcast and drove toward the highway. He was looking forward to a relaxing, drama-free night.