It was my mother’s standard Guilt Call.
“Did you go to Aunt Mona’s barbecue yesterday?”
“No, Mom. You know what I think about Aunt Mona after what she said. And did. No. I. Did. Not. Go.”
“Did Alana go? Or your Jeffrey?”
“No. I did not go. My daughter did not go. My husband did not go. We. Stayed. Home.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she whispered, and then burst into tears.
Now, whenever Mom calls, I pull out this crossword puzzle book, and start working on a page.
Keeps me calm and unconcerned. I don’t rise to guilt bait. But I put my pen down and left 24-Across alone.
“Why are you glad?”
“Sit down.”
“I am sitting.”
“Maybe lie down. I have to tell you something.”
“Go ahead, Mom.”
“It’s bad news, sweetie.”
“Tell me, Mom.”
“At the barbecue, everyone else was there, it was a beautiful day for it, it’s still nice out—”
“Mom, you’re in Ottawa, not here.”
“It’s a weather system, it’s nice here too.”
“Is that the bad news?”
“No. Don’t be funny. Well, at the barbecue, when Uncle Bernie said that the steaks were ready—
steaks! They got them from that great butcher—Schwartz? Stein? What’s his name?”
“Okay, they had steaks—“
“And Aunt Mona came to get them, and she had a small plate of shrimps for the grill, which was risky, since Uncle George is such good friends with the rabbi—”
“So the rabbi came by and excommunicated everyone?”
“No! Stop being funny. This is very sad.”
“The expensive steaks were bad?”
“No! Let me talk. Stop interrupting.”
“All right, Mom. I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Well, it was a barbecue. You know about propane?”
“Jeff and...
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