Page 19 of Summer Lessons

“Ideas?” He rarely heard her actively disapprove of anybody.

“Well, Michael’s wife is an environmental activist, and she was appalled to see that we’d gotten a Christmas tree from a lot. She seemed to feel that the tree had been tortured and murdered to be brought to our house, and that if we were truly good people, we would have bought a fake tree years ago.”

Mason’s eyes got big. He could not imagine… not even… oh God. Who would contradict Lillian Bradford in her own house?

“And the other wife? Chad’s wife?”

“Well, Chad’s wife is also an environmental activist, and she seemed to feel that a fake tree is pandering to the evil plastics industry, and that to buy one would be giving our capital to a heartless polluter that poisons children in developing nations and who feeds the unwilling spoonfuls of arsenic, lead, and cadmium in an effort to destroy all of the fertile soil on the planet.”

Now Mason’s mouth was hanging open. “Uhm….”

“I was, of course, in quite the quandary. I even”—her brows drew together, and she lowered her voice as though confessing a shameful secret—“grew a bit emotional.”

He could see that. She and her husband had been celebrating Christmas for the sweet sake of pagan rituals!

“I’m so sorry,” he said, almost afraid of what happened next.

“Oh, don’t be.” She nodded decisively. “My husband came home in the middle of the debate and said—and I quote him here, sir, as his language was quite salty. He spent his military time as a Marine, you know—but he said, ‘It’s a fucking Christmas tree, and you will be fucking grateful for the things we have, or your mother and I are cashing in your goddamned Christmas presents for tickets to a cruise we never had the money to take. Now you assholes get the fuck out of my living room for a couple of hours and let me and your mother look at the lights.’”

Mason wanted to cheer. “Your husband is something special, isn’t he?” His throat was all thick and everything. “That reminds me of how my mother used to stand by me through school.”

Mrs. Lillian Bradford’s face relaxed, became matronly and soft. “Your mother must be a very special woman.”

He nodded. “As are you, Mrs. Bradford. I do hope your family calmed down.”

She held out her hand and tilted it—a little yes, a little no. “The women and I reached détente, and the boys apparently went in to buy us a cruise. I’m going to call it a win.”

“Fair enough.”

“And yourself, sir?”

Mason grimaced. He was hoping to get out of this without having to make a full disclosure, but he was pretty sure Mrs. Bradford had just admitted to actual tears of frustration, and it was his turn to put out.

“Well, I met a nice young man at Schipperke’s Christmas party.”

Mrs. Bradford’s face practically lit up. He wondered if, since both her sons were occupied with strong women who clashed… erm… strongly with their mother, maybe Mrs. Bradford enjoyed hearing about his romantic attempts becausemenshe could deal with.

“You did? And what was his name, sir?”

“Jefferson. Uh, Terry Jefferson. We, uh, met to play soccer.”

The lines on her handsome face grew a little deeper. “Is that all, sir?”

Oh dear. He wasnottelling Mrs. Bradford that he’d gotten a blow job in an awful concrete bathroom at a public park.

“Well, there was… there was a hope?” Okay, he could say that. “A hope for more. But….” He let out a sigh, wondering how to phrase this. “Mrs. Bradford, you have two sons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re married.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are they?”

“Michael is twenty-seven and Chad is twenty-five. Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s young—twenty-five—but his mother… she’s sort of all over him. Where’s he going, who’s he seeing, why isn’t he home to make her happy. I think… I think rec league soccer is his only out. I mean… is that normal?”