Mom Knows Best

MOM KNOWS BEST

"Mom, I'm home."

It had been years since I lived here, but it'd always be home. Nothing had changed. I'm sure my room still had the same posters on the wall. I kicked the door shut in a well-rehearsed motion. I juggled a bag of groceries as I walked through the hallway to the kitchen. Whatever she was making for dinner already had my mouth watering.

"You're just in time."

Mom rushed out of the kitchen wearing her favorite apron. A gag gift for Dad. It had a half-naked man on the front with bulging muscles. Dad had worn it with pride, and now she continued the tradition. Mom grabbed the sides of my face, pulling me down so she could kiss my forehead.

"We're having meatloaf, baked potatoes, and?—"

"Mom, you didn't have to go out of your way." It was the same dance we had every Wednesday night. Since Dad passed, she demanded we eat like a p roper family. That meant the fine China, folded cloth napkins, and absolutely no television. It was a drastic change from the TV trays we used when I lived here.

"Hush your mouth. Did you get the bread?"

I lifted the bag. "Mr. Stevens made it fresh."

"He better have. His bakery has suffered ever since the divorce." She grabbed the bread from the bag and vanished into the kitchen. "Did you know he's dating a woman half his age? Rumor at the salon is that he's seeing the Jenkin's girl. Wasn't she in your class?"

I stopped in the hall to scan the photos hanging on the wall. Mom had created a timeline of our family. It started with photos of her and Dad as teenagers when they first met. It moved to their wedding photo, him in his military uniform and her in a white dress. The biggest photo of them, her and Dad, standing next to my crib only days after I was born. There were pictures of us on vacation at camp or on the pier in Bar Harbor. Dad's retirement photo, full dress blues complete with white cap, had fingerprints in the dust. I couldn't tell if my heart swelled with pride or sorrow.

"Mom, how are you doing?"

She held a plate with the meatloaf in one hand and bread in the other. "I'm fine. Wash your hands and sit your butt down."

As she set the plates on the dining room table, I came up behind her and wrapped my arms over her shoulders. The tension in her body faded, and she covered my hands with hers. I was the giant in the family, and in this position, Mom had all but vanished.

Like the rest of the house, the dining room had hardly changed. The solid oak table had been a present from her parents and was made in Merryville. At one end, her China hutch showed off the good plates, the ones that only came out for Wednesday dinners and holidays. I spotted a corner where the floral wallpaper had peeled away from the wall. I'd argue with her to peel it down and put up a coat of paint, but it'd fall on deaf ears.

"I miss him," she admitted.

"Me too." There wasn't a day that passed where I didn't think about him. "You know he's watching us."

"He was always a nosy bastard," she said. I squeezed her tighter, and she didn't stop me. We were always a close family. When I moved out, Mom acted as if I were moving across the country. It took two minutes, exactly two minutes, to drive from my house to hers.

"I'm not going to wait for you." She ducked out of my arms and pulled off her apron. Tossing her muscular physique on the back of her chair, she pulled up to the table.

I went into the kitchen to wash my hands while she started plating the food. "Is Amanda coming tonight?"

"I don't think so. She's having one of those artistic fits. She'll be in the studio half the night." It might be partly because I made her cover the store for part of the day. After the incident, I had to run home and change. It'd be awkward to greet customers with dry white stains on my t-shirt.

"You both work too hard."

I pulled out a chair and sat across the table from my mom. It was hard to not notice the extra place setting. Either out of habit or to honor his memory, she always left a place for Dad. If I asked, she'd claim she did it for Amanda, but she wasn't fooling anybody.

"So, are you going to tell me how the date went?"

The meatloaf hadn't hit my plate before she inquired about my love life. Usually, I wasn't even at the table before she asked. I knew she didn't mean my liaison this afternoon, but I couldn't help but think about Simon's hand squeezing mine. No, she wanted to know about the actual date I had gone on.

"It was okay."

Her eyes narrowed as she held the butter knife. "But…" She locked eyes, refusing to let me dodge the question. We needed to revisit the boundaries conversation.

"There was no chemistry."

"What does that even mean?" I loved her. Every time Mom met a gay man, she would drop my name. It'd be cute if she didn't act like my pimp. She pointed at me with the knife before buttering her bread. No more episodes of I Married the Mob .

"We had nothing in common. Tim is an accountant."

"I'm hearing your date had a steady job."

"He spent half the night talking about finances. Do you know what kills the mood? Profit margins. It was only downhill from there. How can I date a man who doesn't have a favorite superhero?"

"Sentinel, of course," she said. "That beard…"

"We should not be attracted to the same men." She flashed a smile. My love of bears might have something to do with my dad and his burly physique. I'm sure I should discuss this with my therapist. The last time he shaved his beard, Mom made him sleep on the couch. He was only allowed back into the bedroom once the stubble hid his chin.

"How was he in the sack?"

"Mom!"

"I'm not a prude. I know what goes on."

Nope. We were not having this conversation. It didn't help that Tim was possibly my number one worst lay. I should have suspected it when he couldn't kiss worth a damn. At best, I'd describe his attempts as slobbering. If he had kissed like Simon, maybe our one-night stand would have had a repeat.

Simon. He knew how to kiss. It was the perfect amount of pressure, not too much tongue, and no slobbering. He got an A+ on technique, but it was the mix of eagerness and yearning that made my pants tight. Him? He wouldn't have to ask for another chance. I'd gladly throw myself at him.

"Way you're blushing; looks like Tim wasn't half bad."

"We are not having this conversation."

"Why the red face, mister?"

How did I explain it in a way she'd understand? I go from one failed date to a random hookup? She might not be a prude, but I don't think she'd quite understand gay culture. Yes, some of us said our first hello's on our knees. I didn't need Mom thinking I was a ho… even if it might be true.

"What about you? Seeing anybody?" Ha! Take that.

Mom's frown spoke volumes. Dad had been her soulmate. They bragged about their high school romance. Even if she dated, there'd never be a man who?—

"I had a second date with Gerald."

Gerald? Whoa. No. Nothing about this was okay. My mother wasn't allowed to date. Dad might be gone, but I maintained she spoke to him at night as if he were still there. Would I be a terrible son if I roughed up Gerald?

"We went to that new brunch place. Brunch, can you believe it? I felt so fancy."

"I'm not calling him Dad."

She laughed. "We're not talking about me. You need to find yourself a good boy and settle down." The conversation dropped long enough for her to take a bite of her meatloaf. She gave her plate a curious glance. "Too many breadcrumbs."

I had already shoveled in a second mouthful. I covered my mouth while I spoke. "Tastes good to me. Your cooking is why I have a gut."

"Are you still thinking about moving to the city?" It was a loaded question. While she'd have a fit about me moving two hours south, she wanted a son-in-law. I think she wanted a relationship more than I did.

"I'm not moving just to find a man. "

"Boogie." Boogiebear. Ironically, Mom had been calling me a bear long before I transformed into a chubby gay man. It didn't matter how old I was; she'd always refer to me as her Boogiebear. We both chuckled at the irony.

"This isn't about me getting a son-in-law. I mean, do you owe me a wedding and walking you down the aisle? Yes, yes, you do." She had already picked out her dress. "But dammit, I want grandchildren."

I choked on a baked potato. I grabbed a glass of milk and chugged. It was one thing for her to plan my wedding. She had already said she'd let out my dad's kilt so I could wear it. Half of our text messages were suggestions for the mother-son dance. At this point, there'd be a wedding with or without another man.

"You're skipping a few steps," I muttered.

"If you don't make me a grandmother, we're going to have a fight."

I didn't have a reply for her. I had never thought about having children, but it seemed I didn't have a choice. How excited would she be that I met a man who had a kid? She'd be asking if we set a date for the wedding. She'd move Heaven and Earth for somebody to call her Nana.

"Are you going to tell me about Gerald?"

Her face lit up in a way I hadn't seen in years. I had mixed feelings about my mom dating. I couldn't wrap my mind around her having an interest in anybody but Dad. If Gerald made her smile, I'd overcome my discomfort. There was nothing I wanted more in life than to see her happy. Yes, that even meant considering children.

"He introduced me to avocado toast…"