Page 3 of Unwrapped

“You see how he treats me, Miranda?” she asks. “Find yourself a man who treats you better than this one treats me.” She jerks her thumb in his direction, turns back to me, and scowls. “Don’t be like me. And find one soon, baby girl, because I want grandchildren.”

“Don’t worry about that, Mom. You don’t paint a good picture of marriage. Why would I want to get on that train?” I look up and smile at her, happy at my clever retort, but she frowns at me. I look at my dad, expecting him to wink in approval of my comeback, but he only purses his lips and creases his forehead. I shake my head and wave them off as I remind myself never to joke about not giving my parents grandchildren. If there is one thing they agree on, it’s their need for grandchildren. Well, they agree on a lot more than that, but that’s the one they are most united on lately.

“I treat you just fine,” my dad says, thankfully ignoring me. “I just had surgery, and I’m not up to it this year. Have fun with Miranda.” He leans over and kisses my cheek. Then he looks at me and says, “I want grandchildren, too. Listen to your mother.” I roll my eyes at him, but he finally winks. Nigel and Mona Moore may be opposites. They might bicker daily, but they make it a point to mention their desire for grandchildren at every opportunity.

“This is the same man who begged me to go out with him thirty-one years ago,” my mother continues. Dad twists his mouth, but he decides not to argue with her. “Begged me,” she says again. “He’d bring me flowers, and we’d dance to Luther Vandross. He even took me to a concert once. Now, what do I get? He sits around in his robe and underwear all weekend watching ESPN. And he lies. You had your gallbladder removed six months ago. There is no reason why you can’t take me to this party.”

“And please make use of that robe I got you for your birthday, Daddy.”

“I already have you, woman,” my dad says, ignoring my comment about the robe. “What the hell do I need to do all that stuff for? Why pay for flowers when I plant you a garden every spring. I cook dinner for you every night. Stop complaining because we all know you ain’t going nowhere. If I want to relax on the weekend, it’s my right. I go to work every damn day, don’t I?”

Mom shakes her head at him, but Daddy blows her a kiss before turning back to his food. I’d kill for some of the red beans and rice both of my parents are eating, but unlike my brother, I wasn’t blessed with our dad’s ability to eat anything and not gain weight. I’m built more like Mom, short, and able to gain weight quickly if I give in to every eating whim.

“I should just find me a new man tomorrow night. You know I work with nothing but hunky construction workers, right, Nigel?” He rolls his eyes, and this time it’s me who bursts out laughing.

“Mrs. Good Stuff,” he says, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek, but she moves out of his reach. He pulls her closer and kisses her anyway. “You think you’re so tough.” That’s nickname number two. This is the one he uses when trying to defuse a silly argument. “Go ahead and get another man. He’ll just bring your ass back because you talk and complain too damn much. And you know what? After I beat him to a pulp, I’ll take you back.” He picks up her hand and kisses it. She shoos him away and he goes back to eating his dinner. My mother turns her attention to me and starts to discuss the party I’m escorting her to tomorrow night.

Dad’s an introvert who listens more than he talks, while Mom never stops talking or misses a party if she can help it. Nor does she ever miss an opportunity to gossip, and the recent talk around the dinner table is her temporary boss, Nick Bain.

The owner of the construction company, Joseph Bain, broke his hip and needed a complete replacement. In the interim, his nephew, my mother’s new boss and, according to her, the devil in human form, has taken over.

If you hear my mother tell it, Joe is a saint who gave her a job as the bookkeeper in his company twenty-seven years ago. He could have hired a CPA, but he took a chance on her. He’s a prince among men who is loved and respected by everyone who works for him.

Mom even has a picture of Mr. Bain holding me when he came to visit her in the hospital after having me. He has sent gifts for the family every Christmas and gives her an annual bonus. Joseph Bain can do no wrong. Over the years, my mother’s role in the company has grown. She says she does whatever needs to be done.

The flip side is that Nick Bain can do nothing right.

“Miranda, pay attention,” she says, jabbing me in my ribs with her elbow. The unexpected movement causes me to jolt. “The man must have been raised by wolves. He comes in the office and doesn’t so much as mutter a good morning to any of us. He had the nerve to ask me to get him coffee again the other morning. When he heard me and Sherry talking, do you know what he said? He said this isn’t social hour. It’s a workplace.” She mimics this Nick Bain’s voice. I hold in my laughter, unable to imagine the man she’s mocking sounding so shrill. “Do you know I had to sit down with him his first week and explain my job. He wanted to see all the account receivables and payables for the past twelve months. And he even hired an outside firm to do an audit. An audit! Who does he think he is? The IRS? He’s wasting good money on that nonsense.”

I don’t bother telling Mom that I already know all of this because she talks about it every chance she gets.

“Woman, you get Joe coffee all the time. You insisted on that complicated machine that no one else understands. The man probably just can’t figure it out,” my father reminds her. “And so what if he wanted to do an audit. It’s not your money. Who cares?” Dad shrugs, which only irritates my mother more.

“And don’t forget what he did to my mug. Not to mention how he destroyed the Halloween decorations in his office. And he didn’t come to our Thanksgiving office potluck. Probably thinks he’s too good. Jerk.”

Neither one of us bothers to tell her the mug incident was an unfortunate accident or that some people just aren’t into holidays. I tune her out because we’ve had this same conversation at least once a week. Truthfully, I’m tired of hearing about Nick Bain. The man sounds like he needs a crash course in people skills if he can’t figure out that Mona Moore needs to feel appreciated and needed at all times. She’s given that company twenty-seven years, and if that fool doesn’t appreciate that, he’s not worthy of her.

“Well, Joe appreciates everything I’ve ever done for him. And with Nick Bain’s fancy education, you’d think he’d be able to operate a damn coffee machine. Idiot.” She mentions his fancy education about once a week too, but I still don’t know where he got this fancy degree from. The only thing I know is that he has some sort of architectural background from some school in Chicago. I know better than to ask. Frankly, I don’t care. He can take his ass back to Chicago for all I care.

Our strategy, my father’s and mine, is to let her talk. If we ask questions, the conversation will never end. “I want all of us to get on our knees tonight and pray. Pray for a speedy recovery and that he comes back to work. Nigel, I want you to make him some of your special jerk chicken and rice and peas. He loves that. I’m going to go visit him at home soon. Maybe seeing someone from work will give him the incentive he needs to get better fast. I swear, that nephew will run the business to the ground. Rumor has it his own business tanked, and he left Chicago with his tail between his legs. I’m not surprised.”

That’s another thing. There’s always some rumor going around the office. The men around there gossip more than the women, and my mother eats it all up.

“Just let me know when, woman. You’ll get your damn rice and peas. And I doubt very much Joe would let some screw up run his business, nephew or not. Where did you get your information from?” my dad asks. Dad’s the rational one, and Mom runs on emotion.

“The foreman at the Quincy project told me.”

Dad catches my eye and rolls his, forcing me to cover my laugh with my hand.

“The foreman? You mean Darren? That man gossips more than fifteen-year-old girls, and he always gets his information wrong. He should worry about his own damn business. Didn’t his wife almost leave him last year because of his gambling? Maybe he should focus on his own problems before running his mouth about stuff he knows nothing about,” my dad says.

My mom purses her lips. “Well, Sherry told me the same thing.”

Dad grumbles something under his breath but continues eating. He looks at me and twists his mouth. I’d bet five dollars Sherry heard it from Darren, who probably made it up just to give my mother and Sherry something to talk about.

Mom ignores my dad’s sage advice and says, “Darren Jr. is coming to the party. You two have always gotten along, Miranda. Maybe you guys should go see a movie or something.”

“Mom,” I warn, but my dad interrupts.

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