Page 21 of Betsy
Professional music as a ministry was not unlike tightrope walking. On the one hand, you needed to garner enough of a presence that your ministry reached as many people as it could so more hearts would be impacted. On the other hand, the more your name was recognized, the greater the risk of falling off that super skinny rope. And boy was it a long way down. You could trip on forgetting the reason you sang in the first place and who you sang for, blinded by the limelight. Or a strong wind of discord could blow you off, people challenging your very heart and character as a Christian.
I had no intention of getting a big head and becoming unbalanced as I walked the line. And as long as my mother was my mother, I didn’t need to worry about that happening. If my ego ever inflated just a little, she’d take a pin to it and pop that thing in under a tenth of a second.
“Have you decided to grow up and get a real job yet?” Cynthia North only considered careers that required college degrees, set business hours, provided 401Ks, and had bosses breathing down your neck as “real jobs.” My profession, of course, didn’t tick off any of those boxes, so I was wasting my life, according to her.
Her salon-styled sleek bob shone under the chandelier hanging above the massive dining room table. Enough chairs skirted the perimeter of the gilded-edge oak slab to house a dinner party, but only the three of us—Mother, Aaron, and I—sat around the ensemble. One would think we’d be congregated as a cozy trio at the end of the table. One would be wrong. We sat sparsely, evenly separated and spaced. We wouldn’t have even been able to pass each other dishes of food had the courses actually been placed in front of us. Instead, a long arrangement of out-of-season begonias and lighted candles ran central to the wood grain while Mother’s professional chef dished up culinary snobbery in the kitchen and presented each of our plates to us on golden chargers.
“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” Mother sniffed as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin.
Aaron set his fork beside his plate. If we’d been anywhere other than at Mother’s, he would have plunked his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. But we’d had the backs of our heads slapped enough as kids to know better than to ever display such base manners in front of Cynthia North.
“Yeah, Asher. You should be more like me.” He grinned wickedly.
If the table hadn’t been big enough to save Rose, Jack, and the rest of the cast ofTitanicfrom a freezing, watery grave, I would’ve kicked him in the shin.
Mother, of course, didn’t pick up on his teasing tone. In her eyes, Aaron could do no wrong. Despite the odds stacked against us, what with her devotion toward him and apathy toward me, my brother and I had a pretty decent relationship. Did I wish Mother would recognize that I wasn’t a deadbeat simply because my career didn’t follow her rubric of success? Sure. What son didn’t want his mother’s approval? In fact, I had to stop myself every once in a while and examine my motivations. Were my actions based on my mother’s voice in my head, or were they truly the right thing to do?
Take Betsy for example. I really wanted to get her singing in front of an audience with the band. Why? Was it because a new voice and sound like hers could catapult us to a larger platform that might actually garner a positive reaction from people in general and my mom specifically? Or was it because I knew deep down she had something to share, something the world needed to hear, and she was just the person to spread that unique message?
Honestly? I was pretty sure my motivation stemmed from the latter reason, but there was a part of me that feared a little of the first was mixed in as well.
Mother sighed dramatically. “If your father were still alive, he’d know what to do to make you see reason. He’d stop your tomfoolery.”
I picked up my water glass and took a drink. When she got like this, the best course of action was no action at all. If I didn’t respond, then she’d lose steam and move on. Sometimes to another subject she thought I wasn’t doing right. Like—
“Have you started seeing anyone, at least, Asher?” The skin above her top lip wrinkled as she puckered her mouth. “Although, women like men who can provide for them, and you’d need a real job for that.”
I looked across the table at Aaron and locked eyes with him. He imperceptibly shook his head.
My turn to grin at his discomfort. “A real job like Aaron has, right Mother?” I asked, all faux innocence. “Tell us, Aaron, any marriage prospects on the horizon? We mustn’t let the North line die with us, brother.”
Mother’s gaze snapped to me. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Asher.”
She had no quibble with the pretentious, out-of-date words coming out of my mouth, just the tone in which I said them.
Aaron’s body language expressed revenge at a later date. Then he softened as he swiveled to address the lady of the manor—a title we’d never dare use to her face. “Actually, I have met someone. Her name is Beverly, and we met at work.”
“Not one of your clients, I hope.”
Because no one of good breeding would be in need of a lawyer according to mother.
“Not one of mine, no,” Aaron hedged.
She took a dainty bite of risotto. “When can I meet her?”
Aaron shot a look my way. Not sure what he wanted me to do. Mother had her sights on him like a hawk with a field mouse.
Aaron reached up and ran a finger along his collar, pulling the material away from his throat. “We, uh, aren’t at the meet-the-family stage of our relationship yet.”
Mother frowned, the creases in her forehead deepening. “Meeting the parents is the first step. How else will you know if she’s good enough for you? For this family?”
“As if anyone could be,” I muttered.
“I know I taught you better than to mumble, Asher.” Mother set her disapproving gaze on me. “If you have something to say, enunciate each word.”
Aaron caught my eye. Shook his head. My peacekeeping brother didn’t want a scene.
“Yes, ma’am.” I shoveled in a spoonful of risotto, the food on my plate diminishing by half.Fine diningwas just a synonym for teeny-tiny portions. One reason I’d stuffed myself on tacos before even driving over here.
