Don't Forget the Flea Shampoo

by Barbara Maines Berg
                                           

I kissed my mother goodnight, telling her “Buonanotte Mama” and saw her to the door, making sure it was locked after she left before I took a deep breath and headed directly to my bedroom.  As I slipped my cozy flannel nightie over my head I realized it had been a long day, I was totally exhausted. I got into bed and snuggled closer to Duke, reaching over him to rub his tummy and smooth down his hair telling him, “Dukie, boy, what’s going to happen next week when Mama finds out your name isn’t Charley?”

That evening she had honored me with her usual weekly visit.  Visit – that’s a polite word more accurately described as a routine inspection including, but not limited to, looking through my mail.  “Vicky, who’s this ‘Charley’ this Christmas card is addressed to?” she asked as she handed it to me.  When I saw her eyebrows knotted together and a stubby-fingered hand on her well-padded hip I knew I was going to have to think of something – quick.   

I couldn’t face the task of telling her quite yet.   Perhaps I would after we ate, or maybe it could even wait one more week, so I crossed my fingers behind my back and said, “Oh, that’s my friend’s idea of being cute.   It’s addressed to my new dog Charley, he’s like family already.”

She laid the card back on the hall table and didn’t say a word, but I saw that ‘ohmygod not another dog!’ look on her face as she patted down her gray hair into place and headed for the kitchen.  

Now there’s nobody in the world that makes better homemade spaghetti than my Italian mama and this evening had been no different, but I found it difficult to get that spaghetti down past the lump in my throat. Mama had cardinal rules, several on the mortal sin you’re going to hell side of the list and at least a dozen more lined up on the purgatory I’ll give you time to suffer first side, and for as long as I could remember ‘never discuss unpleasant things around the dinner table, it’ll ruin your digestion’ was way up on the list.

So she waited to broach the big discussion until after I had choked through the spaghetti.  With ‘Charley’ and his fleas already sprawled out happily asleep on the sofa, Mama was helping me with the dishes – I was washing, she was drying.  I handed her a wet cup, sneaking a glance at her as I dipped my hands back into the soapy water to grab a plate.  She did not look happy.  Here it comes, I thought, as she said, “Victoria, just exactly where did you pick him up?”

“Do you mean Charley?”  I answered, trying to hold back a hiccup.  I knew right then I would never be able to tell her.  When she called me Victoria she was displeased.  If she added my middle name I would be edging near the mortal sin side of her going to hell list. 

“You know very well what I mean.  Of course Charley.  Now answer me Victoria --  just where did you pick this one up?” she said, pinching her lips together as if she had just bitten down on a piece of lemon. “…And I suppose you’ll let him sleep with you.  He’s got fleas, you know.”  The tone of her voice indicated the bed arrangement thing was a statement, not a question.

I’m innately a coward so I opted to be selective by only answering the question, conveniently avoiding the bed companion issue.  “Well, I was driving on the back road to the grocery store and there he was, on the road with some bitch.  I saw her run off and he looked so sad and unhappy I stopped my car and picked him up.”  Technically true, I never lied to Mama.   Well, occasionally, but only out of urgent necessity and desperation.  Regardless, I kept my head down and pretended to concentrate on another plate praying this particular conversation would evaporate.

Before I could think of something else to talk about besides the weather she said, “Victoria Marie, I’ve asked you time and again, not to use that word, and you didn’t answer my question – for the second time, are you going to let him sleep with you?”  I heard her sit the cup down on the counter and could see out of the corner of my eye she had that hip stance thing going again, only this time instead of one hand she had thrown the dishtowel over one of her shoulders and both her hands were planted solidly on her well-rounded hips.

Oh dear, were my knees actually getting week?  With as much courage as I could muster I reminded her, “Mother, bitch is a perfectly legal word.  Look it up -- it’s in the dictionary.”  I sighed, and changed my mind about any attempt at bringing up the bed issue this week.  I could never make her understand my lifestyle any more than I could understand hers.  She had had forty nine years with the same man.  I inwardly shuddered thinking about the boredom they shared, the endless hours of empty conversation interrupted only by occasional outbursts of Italian curses from a stubborn old man.

But Mama knew how to handle Papa and although I had long ago accepted their lifestyle  she probably would never understand mine.   Regardless, I loved Mama dearly and knew it was just a generation thing – hers, not mine.

I could almost predict what she would say next. 

“You know, Victoria Marie Rizzo, you’ve been doing this nonsense since you were thirteen years old and you’re almost thirty. Lord knows what these flea-bitten hounds you drag home have given to you.  Maybe even worms.  And you even let them sleep in your bed with you.  Perche! I just don’t understand why you don’t want to find some nice man, get married and forget all this nonsense.  This one looks scruffier than the last couple and you promised me…”

 I handed her a plate to dry hoping to shut her up or at the very least distract her before she got to the teary  “I want grandchildren, all of my friends down at St. Mary’s have…” also known as being Section Two of ‘The  Weekly Sermon.’ 

The plate idea didn’t work, she wasn’t about to stop, Mama was on a roll.  She looked at me, giving me a withering look I was all too familiar with – probably you know the one I mean even if you aren’t fortunate enough to have an Italian mother.  It’s that ‘you better answer me young lady’ one, which is universal, every mother on earth knows when  to drag it out of the cedar chest.  I sighed again, reaching for a towel to dry my hands while at the same time thinking maybe a drink could get me through this.   Scotch. A double -- on the rocks. 

 My courage briefly returned.  I would admit it.  I had promised.  Yes, I would do it now; answer the bed question truthfully.  Why not?  I was thirty years old, of legal age for a long, long time. I was no child, it was time to stop being ashamed of my life style because I was afraid of her opinion.  Although I loved and respected her, and appreciated her concern for me, what I did in bed was absolutely none of her business, either in Italian or English.  “Yes, Mother, I sleep with Charley.”  I admitted, crossing my fingers  again as I hung up the towel.   Although the confession was technically true because I did sleep with Charley, it was a little white lie because Charley was a person not the flea-bitten dog named Duke currently sprawled out on the sofa.   

I heard a cabinet door slam shut and turned to look at her.  I’ve always been a whiz at math.  The last time I noticed the wrinkles around her mouth when she frowned there were only six.  I did a fast wrinkle count; this was a ten wrinkle frown. Oh dear, it might be months before she would forgive me, and this was just for giving a home to a scruffy dog. 

I was without a doubt flirting with her mortal sin side of the list.  Now wasn’t the time to tell her who Charley really was, although I was ready to insure there would be no fleas or worms with the package.   At least my self-preservation sense of humor had kicked in.

She sniffed before she shrugged her shoulders while a look of dismay bordering on acceptance crossed her face, “Non capisco.  Non capisco.   Il mo bambino, just don’t call me when your house stinks and you have fleas in your bed.  Honestly, Vicky, if you must have a dog at least get one with a pedigree.”

I relaxed.  There’s nothing like the love of an Italian mother -- I had moved away from the dangerous mortal zone back to the purgatory side of her list.   

Mama left shortly after, saying sadly ‘maybe’ she wouldn’t come again next Wednesday, she was feeling a little ill.  I suspected she’d be here exactly on time, at 6:00, out of concern for me and if for nothing else to check my mail and deliver her weekly grandchildren homily, unless, of course, I could manage to produce a bambino in une settimana.  That’s Italian for one week.  Whatever, it wasn’t going to happen une settimana or un anno either.   

  I scooped Duke off the sofa and took him to bed.  “Grandnona will love you, little darlin’, we’ll just give her a little more time…”  I rubbed his tummy again.   He woke up, shook his little head, flopping both ears, no doubt a flea,  before he laid his head back down on the pillow, “…and I’m sure she’ll love Charley also, we’ll just wait another week to introduce them.”

The phone rang and I said, “Hi Charley.  Yes, she’s left and I’m waiting for you and yes, I finally told her.  I told her in no uncertain terms, “I’m sleeping with Charley” like I promised you I would and you can stay next week to meet her.  Now please stop pouting and come home.  Oh, I almost forgot… stop by the market and pick up some flea shampoo, Duke is crawling again.  By the way, I love you sweetie.   You are the most gorgeous and understanding woman in the whole universe.  Now don’t forget the flea shampoo.”

Barbara Berg

‘I was born in Ohio in 1930 which makes me 80 years young this year, leaving children, grandchildren and two teen-aged great-grandchildren that I have forbidden to ever read my naughty books and stories.  Along life's journey I have been a legal secretary and newspaper columnist among other things.  I always say if you live long enough have enough curiosity you can get around to most everything and I thank God I have.’

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