Shamans and Brussels Sprouts
“Where’s Meredith?” Mrs. Mango asked, giving second son Michael a hug. They hadn’t yet made it into Danny’s house but were standing in the driveway, unpacking the truck. “Her family got you guys at Thanksgiving; so glad we get you for Christmas!” As she said the word ‘Thanksgiving,’ Mrs. Mango cringed, wondering if she would ever enjoy that holiday again. She was not going to let her brain spend one moment remembering her daughter Christine announcing she was gay and that her guest that day, Sarah, was actually her girlfriend. She was not going to remember any of the mayhem that followed, not the fire or the dented cars or fractured relationship with Christine. Mrs. Mango’s brain had watertight sealed compartments and that day was firmly locked in one.
“She’s, uh, not going to make it today,” said Michael, his brown eyes darting to the side, not able to look his mother in the eye. A girlfriend had once told Michael that he was good- looking in a ‘third look’ kind of way, and he couldn’t really argue with that. He had a nice-enough face, brown eyes, thick brows, strong nose, but it took some time for women to put that all together in a pleasing way. Most didn’t bother after one look, but Meredith had. Until she hadn’t.
“Oh, poor thing, she’s sick? Are you sick?” Mrs. Mango said, leaning forward and feeling Michael’s head for a fever.
Before Michael could actually answer, Danny came up behind his mother and hugged her. “Hey, Mom, Merry Christmas; is there more in the car to bring in?”
Michael and Danny gave each other a meaningful look as Danny led Mrs. Mango away. Michael slid his hand around to his lower back and grimaced when his mother wasn’t looking. Now was no time to tell her about his marriage. Or his back pain. He didn’t need her advice or worrying. Because when his mother started worrying, it took over everything.
“Pops, you remember my brother?” Danny’s wife Rita said, giving Mr. Mango a hug and gesturing to a tall, bearded man beside her. They were standing in the high-ceilinged kitchen that Rita and Danny had just finished remodeling. It was full of light and seemingly acres of white cabinets, with a view of a deep backyard rimmed by beautiful old live oaks.
Mr. Mango squinted, not recognizing him. Rita and Danny’s wedding had taken place five years earlier, and although he had a vague recollection of a brother, he didn’t remember anyone looking like this guy. This guy had a rumpled gray linen shirt hanging untucked over flowy white linen pants. Several strands of beads and charms circled his neck, and a leather woven bracelet hung from his wrist. His brown wavy hair was cut closer on the sides of his head than the top and his beard was carefully trimmed to about an inch below his chin.
“I’m Don Paz,” Rita’s brother said, stepping forward and grabbing Mr. Mango’s hand in both of his hands. “Blessed to see you.”
“Uh, yeah, uh, nice to see you too, Don,” said Mr. Mango.
“It’s Don Paz,” said Don Paz. “‘Paz’ as in ‘peace.’”
Mr. Mango couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Don Paz just gave him an understanding smile that irritated Mr. Mango even more than the silly name.
Rita gave a high-pitched laugh. “Don Paz is his chosen name, Pops. When you met him at the wedding, it was just Bill.” Rita gave her brother a squeeze to soften her words. “Who isn’t for more peace in this world, huh?”
Don Paz gave a slow nod with the same goofy smile, and Mr. Mango wondered if he was high on something. Good Christ, this was going to be a long day.
“Come on, let’s get you something to drink,” Rita said, linking her arm in Mr. Mango’s and pulling him away from Don Paz.
Mr. Mango found Danny in the backyard, heating up the grill. Staring at Danny Mr. Mango couldn’t help but think he was a good advertisement for his medical profession, slim and tones, with a healthy glow to his face even when he wasn’t sweating over a grill. Danny was dressed in gray jeans that were snug clear to his ankles and a maroon, thinly knit sweater that strained a bit across his shoulders. Mr. Mango couldn’t argue with the results but was bewildered by how many hours Danny put in on his treadmill and fancy stationary bike. How could a person give so much of their life working so hard to going exactly nowhere? Mr. Mango waved his beer bottle at Danny, “Here you are. Couldn’t find where you disappeared to.”
“Yeah,” Danny grunted, scraping old black shreds of unrecognizable meat off the grill.
“Hiding, maybe?” Mr. Mango said.
Danny didn’t answer.
Mr. Mango looked around the back yard. “Well, you are in the middle of it now, huh? Looks like it’s going to be nice.” The back yard was torn up, with pallets of stone stacked to one side and all manner of PVC tubing and sprinkler heads scattered around.
Danny nodded. “Yeah, am happy with the flagstone we picked out, and the landscaping is going to be killer.” He sprayed some water on the grill and scraped a few more times, then closed the lid.
“Shouldn’t take too long to heat up.”
“You’re doing a prime rib on the grill?” Mr. Mango asked.
“Huh!” Danny barked, raking his fingers through his short, light brown hair. “Rita, uh, miscalculated on the prime rib. It came out of the oven an hour ago. Pretty much ruined.”
Mr. Mango took a breath and reminded himself not to criticize his children’s choices of mates. But, goddamn, he had been looking forward to that prime rib.
“I knew I should’ve cooked it,” grumbled Danny. His dad’s self-control in not criticizing Rita opened up the possibility for him to. “A hundred and twenty bucks worth of meat turned into a pile of charcoal. Apparently, she forgot to turn the heat down after the first 15 minutes. So we’ll be having steaks. And burgers. Not that the Dalai Lama in there eats meat. I guess he can have some alfalfa.”
Mr. Mango stared at Danny in surprise because Danny never broke the boundaries of his marriage. This was the first time he had ever complained, even though Mr. Mango knew Rita could be a bit of a ball breaker.
“Yeah, what’s up with him?” Mr. Mango said, finishing the last of his beer and looking around for an outside cooler.
Danny walked over to a partially completed outdoor kitchen and opened a door to reveal an under-counter refrigerator. He pulled out a beer and handed it to his dad, then pulled out another one for himself. “He’s a ‘shaman,’ if you can believe it. Dropped out of Stanford Business School to be a freaking shaman.”
“What the heck is a shaman?” asked Mr. Mango.
Danny shook his head. “Something about the spirit world. Like, that he is some sort of messenger between the spirits and the rest of the world. And something about healing.”
“Doesn’t seem like there’d be a lot of money in that,” said Mr. Mango.
Danny shrugged. “Hopefully, not my problem. I don’t get it, but he seems pretty harmless.”
“Harmless? Not earning your way in the world is not ‘harmless.’ Who do you think is paying for all the services that guy uses? Us! The taxpayers of the world. The people who do honest work for honest pay. We don’t float around all airy-fairy ‘healing’ people. We get out and get our hands dirty.”
Danny took four quick slugs of his beer. “I get it, Dad; I probably even agree with you. But it is Christmas Day, and Rita’s already stressed about the stupid meat and probably deep down worried about her brother, and I’m sure Mom is in there making her even more stressed, so for today, just for today, could you not make a big deal out of it?
“Fine. But one more word of advice: don’t give that guy any money. I know how that works. Do you know how many people ‘live the dream’ on someone else’s dime?”
Danny had a feeling his dad’s words were hitting close to home. His oldest brother, Joe Jr., was forty years old and still chasing the dream of being an actor. Everyone in the family had secretly sent him some money, but the big break still hadn’t come. Maybe every family had that member.
Christine was giving Sarah a tour of Danny and Rita’s house, and Sarah was so entranced there was a chance they would not finish by dinner.
“Look at these hardwood floors; they are beautiful!” Sarah enthused, slipping her loafer off and running her bare foot along the living room floor. “And I love the colors, so soothing,” she added, looking around the room full of white and light wood.
“They pretty much gutted this place and updated everything,” said Christine, finding herself proud of her brother as she saw his house through Sarah’s eyes.
Sarah nodded, still scanning the room. “Love the built-ins along that wall,” she said, gesturing towards the end wall filled with books and artistically placed objets d’art. “And that piece—just gorgeous,” she added, walking towards an antique-looking armoire. “What is this?” she asked, peering more closely at it.
“I think it is some sort of Indian thing,” said Christine, wishing she had listened more when her brother and Rita enthused about their various finds.
“It’s a carved Indian cabinet,” said Rita, who had appeared in the doorway without them hearing her. “Isn’t it just so cool? I wanted one really unique item in here, and when I saw that, I knew it was the piece.” Rita was talking fast—friendly but with an undercurrent of holiday chef stress just beneath the surface.
“Oh my God, I just love your house,” said Sarah. “I love everything you’ve done with it. The colors are gorgeous, and everything just flows so well! Where did you find the chandelier in the entry? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“There are so many antique shops and unique little design places in this area,” said Rita. “I found that way up above St. Helena.”
“And the floors, are they reclaimed wood?” said Sarah.
Christine felt a happy glow. For once Rita was friendly and animated, and Sarah seemed more at ease than either of them had thought was possible. Who knew that interior design would be the entry for Sarah into the family? She watched Sarah and Rita chatter away at each other and trailed behind as Rita took Sarah to see the chandelier in the dining room.
“Let me show you this real quick, and then I’ll do a proper tour after dinner,” said Rita as they trooped out. “Oh, and you don’t even have a glass of wine yet; let’s grab one from the kitchen.”
Christine had never liked Rita as much as she did in that moment.
“Does anyone want more ham?” Mrs. Mango held up the platter, triumphant in her decision to bring it. She had just known that prime rib was not going to materialize. They were gathered around the long distressed-pine dining room table, digging into the meal. The dining room was one of the biggest rooms in the house, stretching along a good section of the back of the house, the entire wall covered in a series of French doors opening out onto the gray flagstone patio. Opposite the doors, Rita had positioned a triptych of mirrors, and the light of the funky elegant chandelier bounced off the mirrors and around the room in a pleasing way. Comfortable parsons chairs covered in thick linen with a faint mattress ticking stripe lined each side of the table, and it all sat on a soft grayish-blue rug. Mrs. Mango had once told Rita it looked like a room straight out of a catalog and didn’t understand why Rita was offended by the comment. It was top praise for her.
No one said yes, but Rita’s shoulders slid towards her ears. “I’m fine, Mom,” said Danny. “The steak is enough for me.”
“Potatoes? Green bean casserole?” said Mrs. Mango.
Danny sent her a dagger look. Could she not see how stressed Rita was? And here she was offering up only the food she had brought. “Hey, I’ll take some more of the kale-brussels sprout thing,” said Danny, gesturing towards the end of the table with his fork.
“Me too,” said Christine, understanding what Danny was up to. She grabbed the kale-brussels sprout mix, heaped a pile on her plate, and passed it along. “Rita, I’m going to have to have this recipe,” Christine said.
Sarah had one goal in mind, which was pleasing Mrs. Mango, so she passed the bowl along without taking any. She and Christine had agreed it would be progress if Mrs. Mango just tolerated Sarah being at Christmas dinner. Actual conversation could be a goal for the future. For her part, Mrs. Mango pretended Sarah wasn’t there and never even looked towards her. She could barely even look at Christine.
Mrs. Mango turned to Michael. “Tell me again why Meredith isn’t here. Is she that sick? What’s she got? Is it contagious? If so, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
Mrs. Mango peered more closely at her son. “You don’t look good; are you okay?”
“She’s fine. Well, not fine. Just, uh, not up to being here today,” fumbled Michael.
Mrs. Mango’s mother instinct spun into top speed. “What does that mean? What are you hiding?”
“Meredith and I are, uh, taking a bit of a break,” sighed Michael. Hoping to change the subject, he turned to his dad and said, “Gas is $2.45 a gallon! Can you believe it? Filled up my Yukon on the way here for barely forty bucks.”
Mr. Mango shook his head. “Just goes to show you what I’ve been saying all along. You think all of a sudden there’s more oil? Those oil companies have had us by the balls since the engine was invented. They set the price as high as they can ‘cause they know we’ll pay it. And then, boom, all of a sudden people are buying less gas, and what happens? The price magically goes down.”
“What do you mean, you and Meredith are ‘taking a break’?” Mrs. Mango’s eyes drilled into Michael’s.
“Dad, there is more oil available now; well, I mean we have more available in our country,” said Michael, ignoring his mother.
“Exactly! But it won’t last forever. And I didn’t believe in it at first, but now that there’s all those alternative energies and people don’t need the oil as much, isn’t it amazing how the thing that cost over four dollars now costs almost half that?”
Mrs. Mango had not broken her stare at Michael. “Mikey? What’s going on with Meredith?”
Mr. Mango turned to Mrs. Mango. “Crissakes, Elsie, can’t you tell he doesn’t want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Danny asked, returning to the room having just hopped up to get another bottle of wine and the salt and pepper shakers.
“The price of gas,” Michael said.
“You don’t want to talk about the price of gas?” Danny said, shaking salt on his kale-brussels sprout salad.
“It needed salt?” Rita said in a shrill voice.
“He and Meredith are having problems,” said Mrs. Mango. “And he has to tell us now, at Christmas? Just ruin the day?”
“Mom!” said Michael. “I didn’t bring it up! You are the one who kept pushing to know why Meredith wasn’t here. You just couldn’t let it be.”
“I don’t know how I’m the problem here all of a sudden,” huffed Mrs. Mango. “Excuse me for caring.”
“What does this all have to do with the price of gas?” asked Danny, still trying to catch up.
“I was saying that I’ve been right all along,” said Mr. Mango. “The oil companies have lied to us for years, acting like oil is worth more than gold, then all of a sudden, the demand goes down, and what do they do? Sell it for less. The price of gas has always been some magical moneymaker for them, and we all just handed over our wallets and let them take what they wanted.”
“And don’t forget all the suffering that’s been caused in the world getting that oil,” chimed in Don Paz.
Mr. Mango turned towards Don Paz, surprised to have an ally. “True. We wouldn’t have soldiers in the Middle East it wasn’t for all the oil they’re sitting on. Hah! We always act like we are there to spread democracy or something when it’s really about the oil.”
Don Paz nodded. “A lot of pain.”
Mr. Mango couldn’t believe he agreed with Don Paz, but you never know where allies are going to come from.
“Pain and suffering. I’ll tell you about suffering,” said Mrs. Mango, a tear running down her face. “I’m never going to get grandchildren.” She looked around the table, eyes full of judgment and disappointment. “That’s all I want. Grandchildren!” She banged her water glass down so hard the water slopped out onto the table.
Rita leapt out of her seat so fast she knocked her chair over but didn’t stop to right it, just ran out of the room. The sound of her sobs carried back as she flew out the door.
Silence took over the room, everyone looking around at each other, and then all ending up staring at Mrs. Mango.
“What?” asked Mrs. Mango. “What was that?”
Danny let out a big sigh as his head fell into his hands. Taking another big breath, he stood up and followed Rita out of the room.
“What?” said Mrs. Mango again, looking around. Her eyes fell on Christine. “Well, I’m not getting grandchildren from you,” she said. “And Joe and Jenny are too poor; thank God they are smart enough to know that. And now it looks like they won’t come from Meredith, at least not any time soon. So . . .”
Christine shook her head. “Mom, you know that Rita and Danny want kids . . .”
“Yes! And they should get to it!”
“They’ve been trying. And trying. And it hasn’t worked out. So, Rita is a little sensitive about that right now,” said Christine.
“Well, how was I to know?” demanded Mrs. Mango. “Nobody tells me anything.”
“It’s not necessarily the kind of thing you give your mom details about,” said Michael. He mimicked holding a phone to his ear, “Hey Mom! How are you? Want to hear about all the baby sex we’ve been having and how it isn’t working?”
“Oh for goodness sake, Michael,” Mrs. Mango put her hands over her ears. “Stop that!”
“Besides, Mom, maybe I will have a baby sometime. I’ve got a working uterus. Maybe I’m your best shot at grandchildren,” said Christine with a sly smile. “In fact, we’ve got two!” she gestured at Sarah.
To read more or buy, click on: https://www.amazon.com/Unmooring-Mrs-Mango-Lynn-Rankin-Esquer-ebook/dp/B08HHBPHK8
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