“You can’t pretend to have a tummy ache,†Mom said. “And you can’t walk out on the poor girl. It’ll hurt her feelings.†I was surprised. If I’d called from anywhere else Mom would’ve sent an older sibling to pick me up no questions asked. She regarded her kids’ play dates as a transportation nuisance and no more. As long as I could get a ride home, I saw no reason to stay. “Her family won’t understand,†Mom explained. “They’ll think you don’t like them.†I considered telling Mom how there was no food and how everyone was drunk and racist and cussing but I knew that wouldn’t register as legitimate hardship. Then I offered what was, to me, the greatest horror: the mother was drunk. “It’s not just the men,†I said, “It’s her mother too. Missy’s mother is drunk. She just fell down the stairs.†Mom remained perfectly calm and said it was no reason I couldn’t stay and play nicely with my friend. In fact, she explained, it was all the more reason to stay. “That poor little girl might need a friend,†Mom said. A deal was struck: Mom would pick me up, but only if my sister Vincenia agreed to take my place. Vincenia was one year older than me yet far less social. I still can’t imagine what made her agree to sleep over Missy Kappes’ that night, unless Mom appealed to her in a way that made it a personal favor to her. I’d never known Mom to care so much about how I treated a school friend, particularly since I had not done anything explicitly cruel to this one. I decided it was about the family. Missy’s family and my own. I’d noticed time to time that Mom needed town’s people to know that she was not rich. Her parents, yes, but not she. Mom owned precisely six pairs of polyester slacks from Woolworth’s that, together with smock and apron, comprised her daily attire. She was five foot tall, two hundred pounds and so disinterested in fashion that when the waistband of her slacks snapped, she cinched it with a safety pin. I suppose the safety pin made sense as a complement to the rubber bands perennially piled up her wrists. Mom’s one and only luxury was a dab of lipstick once a week before Mass. When my grandparents came to Mass they sat in the pew that bore their plaque and Grandma dressed as befit the parish’s main benefactor: fur, jewelry and an eighteen carat gold front tooth so tacky that today it would be called ‘gangsta. A friend’s mother once grilled her on our house once was disappointed to hear it was messy. Mom laughed. Nobody could accuse us of being fancy and this pleased her. I, in turn, was pleased that the friend could report on the opulence of my grandparent’s house. We all lived on the same street behind the old ShopRite, the very first grocery store my grandparents had built. The street was regarded as the ShopRite family’s very own and lent us a stature decidedly different from anyone living on Allen Street. I was reminded of Missy’s peculiar reputation once again when, one day, I took her with me on an errand to Grandma’s house. Grandma liked to meet our friends and ask about their town lineage. “Who’s your grandmother?†she might ask one. “Is she the Polumbo who married Joey the barber?†Grandma would interrogate the kid to see if any of their relations worked for ShopRite. She liked that. If someone in their family were sick, graduating or celebrating a sacrament, Grandma made a note to have the store send a fruit basket. She was almost as intent as Mom to elude a reputation for snootiness. Unlike Mom, however, she knew nothing of the Kappes family. “Where are your people from?†she asked Missy. “What church were you with before St. Michael’s?†Missy didn’t grasp the question and could only give the names of some towns where she’d previously lived. Grandma let it go once she discovered the people were transients without a church. When I was in high school I introduced a new friend to Grandma and when Grandma couldn’t place her surname she asked, “Are you Jewish? It’s ok if you are. My accountant Bernie Sobel’s Jewish.†It so happened that my friend, Tammy, was the one and only Jewish student in my regional high school and to her credit, adored my grandmother’s loony questions. I was now of an age to be embarrassed by Grandma’s noveau rich décor and made jokes about the all the red velvet and gold gilding. Tammy thought it was fabulous. “No way!†she said, “It’s perfect! Just too, too funny!†And the clincher, “I so love that neither of your grandparents finished the eighth grade.†Missy, however, was gob smacked by all the red velvet. She fondled the crystal drops on the standing chandeliers and ran her fingers over the same gold plate utensils Tammy and I laughed at half dozen years later. The housekeeper, who was usually quite ingratiating, followed us around in a huff that day. She told Missy to keep her paws off the crystal, adding, “I just cleaned that. You’ll smudge it.†I knew this wasn’t true. I knew that this housekeeper, Mrs. Ray, just didn’t like Missy. She pulled me aside to tell me so. “You shouldn’t be playing with that girl. Does your mother know she’s here? She could steal something you know.†All I knew was that the Ray family hadn’t much more than the Kappes. They lived in a tidy, but tiny, house near the school. I also knew that Mrs. Ray was a FISH client and that Mom had gotten her this job to help while Mr. Ray was out of work. When Mrs. Ray did Grandma’s ironing, she made a point of telling me how nicely she ironed her own kids’ clothes at home. I knew her kids and it was true – they were terribly well pressed. Nothing to be ashamed of. But nothing special either. None of my siblings found the Ray kids interesting enough to befriend. They did just as poorly at school as the Kappes kids, though the teachers were not as inclined to pick on them. I made fun of Mrs. Ray when I got home and declared that she had a lot of nerve accusing Missy of theft. “Who the heck is she?†I asked Mom. “If she’s so hot, how come she needs to clean Grandma’s house?†“That’s a terrible thing to say,†Mom replied. “Who are you, I might ask?†“But they all call the Kappes’s white trash. You said yourself that was as bad as saying nigger.†“It is. But the Rays don’t know any better and you do.†“But shouldn’t she know better?†I asked. I said that Mrs. Ray, of all people, should know that not all poor people steal. Like most of my siblings, I enjoyed a good argument – even if I knew Mom was unlikely to engage. She sat back and listened appreciatively when my left leaning big brothers discussed politics with our right wing father. She was proud of the rhetorical talents they bore on defending their respective positions. But if forced to articulate her own case, she could muster only the simplest statements. For instance, “It isn’t about what Mrs. Ray should or should not do. Just worry about what you do.†And then, always, the refrain, “Didn’t I teach you to be kind?†Over the years each of my siblings has become enamored of some cause and in due course added our mother to the mailing list. I love going to Mom’s mailbox because it’s filled with the most amusing variety of propaganda. I can recognize each sibling’s ideological hand as I sift through pamphlets from such disparate organizations as Right to Life and Planned Parenthood; PETA and The NRA; The Southern Law Poverty Review and The American Family Association – all addressed to Mom. It’s occurred to me that we can each assume Mom’s allegiance to the right cause because what we really trust is that which is right in her. F.I.S.H by Margaret C. Laureys