MOTHER THERESA

MOTHER THERESA

Carefully placing her knitting on the ottoman, she heads for the kitchen as fast as her orthopedic shoes will allow. The timer for the oven just sounded and the oatmeal cookies must not be burnt. The house is filled with such a delectable aroma; grandma can’t help but belt out a tune. “Whatever Will Be, Will Be” by Doris Day has been a favorite as of late, perhaps because the song generates in her a feeling of freedom. Indeed, life events that are predestined are far more amusing than ones you have to account for.

Pleased with the cookies, she decides to set up a time for the boys to come over for a get-together. It can’t be Saturday, that’s Bingo night at the church hall. Betty is depending on her to be there; she needs help recognizing the numbers on the bingo cards. Grandma is adept at numbers in any capacity. Therefore assisting her lifelong friend in perpetuating a win is as easy as crocheting a doily. Anyway, Monday nights are out of the question. “You Bet Your Life” plays on television and grandma won’t miss a date with Groucho Marx for anything in the world. Wednesday looks good. She delicately wraps the oatmeal cookies in plastic to keep them fresh and then places them in her brand new Tupperware.

Wednesday dawns as the warmth of the sun envelopes the living room. Grandma sits in her rocking chair writing a list. She stops, crumples the paper, and starts again. There must not be any mistakes. After all, she hasn’t lived as long as she has by making mistakes. When the list was complete, she decided to create name cards as table settings for the boys; otherwise they may fight over where to sit. Everyone likes to be a boss, she affirms. Which one of her darlings will she choose to entrust her list to? She decides that she’ll know when they’re all there, together. Of course, grandma astutely plans to enlist her selection to accompany her to the train station under the guise of purchasing tickets for a vacation trip. Then, and only then, will she present the list and her instructions. If the other boys were to get wind of the list, jealousy would ensue among them, provoking a feud to be sure.

Suddenly, chugging sounds coming from the street triggers a bolt to the window to see if her guests have arrived. One by one, as if in a parade, a Ford Model 18 V8, a Lincoln Continental, a Cadillac Town Sedan, a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, and a Jaguar MK, pulls into her long driveway. She stuffs her hit list into her pocket and rushes to the door to greet them. Just before opening the door though, she glances over to the table. All the name cards are meticulously placed for the boys with their nicknames; Bugsy, The Godfather, The Irishman, Joe Batters, Lucky, and of course, her baby, Al.