Last week: Sharon, just widowed, broke the sad news to her younger son Jeff and Inge his wife so far away in Copenhagen, knowing they would catch the next flight home.
“Mamse, soon we want you to sell your home, move here where we have much room and before the children are too soon old; oh, did I say it right?”
“Dear Inge, just perfect; I pray for your safe journey as you come back to me.” She ended the connection, knew she needed a glass or two of Chardonnay before calling her difficult son in New Jersey, too close for comfort.
Liquid courage helped her punch in his number; the phone rang a few times, his nasty wife, Corrine picked up; Sharon heard shouting in the background, just what a mother loves to hear and Corrine said, “Yeah, who’s calling?”
“Sorry to call so late, Corrine but I must speak to Fred.” don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry-hold yourself together…”Mother, what’s wrong, Oh God, something must be very bad for you to call this late.” Sharon took a deep breath, “Your father had a heart attack and now. . . he’s gone.”
Silence on the line and then her son said, “Is my brother coming in from wherever the fuck he lives?” “Of course he is and don’t curse.” “So you called him first, huh.” “Stop it right now, I have no patience for your rivalry and Jeff has to make arrangements; I need rest before the,” her voice caught before she could say, “funeral.” Sharon heard him break down as he hung up.