“That’s easy for you to say. You and Dad were married forty years.”
“And we were in marriage counseling four times. Neither of us are, were, shy about speaking our mind. It wasn’t easy, but we’d be married yet if the old goat hadn’t died on me.” Elspeth turned away and pretended to examine a portrait hanging above her on the wall. “God, how I miss him.”
The drinks arrived, and Elspeth sampled her Manhattan. “Ahh . . . they always made wonderful drinks here. Did I ever tell you what your father did on our honeymoon?”
“Mom, I don’t need—”
“It was at a table over there.” Elspeth pointed to a secluded corner of the restaurant. “It was our regular table that week. He ordered a drink with an orange rind in it, brandy old fashioned, I think. Several old fashioneds, actually. He was tipsy, bored, and punching little holes in the orange rind with a cocktail straw. Made a mess, orange rind and shreds of wet cocktail napkin all over the table, worse than a toddler. The barmaid looked at the mess and told him he should have better things to do on his honeymoon. Without missing a beat, he held up the straw and said, ‘Yeah, but this stays stiff.’ I could have killed him. The poor girl never came back to our table.”
“Mother!”
“Knock off the Southern belle delicacy, dear. We were both raised in Wisconsin on a farm. We know too much about biology, and you have a master’s in genetics, for gosh sakes.” Elspeth sipped her drink and looked at Linda. “If you and Mark have a problem, and I don’t think you do, it probably stems from what I call ‘Dick’s Law of Biology’.”
“What is—?”
“Give a male of any species too much food, wealth, power, or free time at any age between puberty and death, and the damned fool will do something stupid with his dick. Poor devils can’t help themselves. You’re Mark’s wife, and it’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“How?”
“The same way women have done it for the last ten thousand years. Keep him busy. If you can’t do that, use your credit cards to make sure you look good, and there isn’t money to fund such nonsense.”
“But, but . . . how do I keep him busy?”
“Have him paint the living room, wallpaper the bedrooms, landscape, rearrange furniture. You belong to a church, don’t you?”
“Yes. A large one. How will that—”
“There you go. Every church I’ve known has programs during the Christmas season, and they can never find enough people to run them. Volunteer him. There’s no way he’ll be able to back out gracefully, and he’ll know it.” Elspeth tapped her fingers on the table, thoughtfully. “Look for something with high school kids and men, though. Men work better with teenagers, and you don’t want to throw him in with a gaggle of women.”
“There’s the ‘Living Nativity.’ They need a director.”
“What’s that?”
“The church has a Nativity program every year before Christmas. They rent the amphitheater in the park, dress kids in costumes, and have them walk through the Nativity story. It’s cute, and the kids don’t get stage fright, because there aren’t any speaking parts. They’ve changed it this year, though.”
“How?”
“They’ve put adults in all the roles and contracted with an animal park to provide calves, donkeys, and lambs. The Three Wise Men will ride in on camels.”
Elspeth scowled. “Bad move. Christmas pageants are for kids.”
“A lot of parents agree. Many are angry about the way the kids were excluded.”
“It’s a complex project with a good chance of crashing, and half the church is already unhappy. It’s the perfect job to keep Mark busy. He’ll have his hands full, and you’ll have a chance to work with him: hem costumes, make phone calls, and help coordinate. Spend time with him.”
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