Chapter 17

Cora

It was a quick walk from the North Station to TD Garden, home of the Bruins. Fortunately, Beck knew somebody who knew somebody else who was best buddies with the best friend of...you know how this works...we had great reserved seats because the guy at the end of the “friends of” list was in Chicago.

The game was great...nothing in the world like National League hockey to satisfy a desire for blood, mayhem and vicarious violence. The shots on goal, the saves, bodies banging the boards, drinking cheap beer from an expensive cup, a classic Boston shaved steak sandwich with housemade cheese sauce and Beck’s favorite grilled chicken sandwich. Chicken cheesesteak, inferno fries, a steak and cheese hot dog, puking our guts in the women’s bathroom. A quick check for paper trails and skirts tucked into panties and we were ready for the second period.

Beck was nothing if not fun.

The game over...Boston lost 3 to 2...Although we didn’t finds that out until Monday because:

“Thanks, mom,” Becky slurred and belched, her mouth full of vinegar fries, the half eaten double burger burrito waiting for another bite. She washed the fries down with another chug of beer and started to cry.

So...naturally, the slightly older college student...proclaimed as such by the Boston College sweat shirt...nearly as drunk as she was...wanted to know why the sad face.

“Oh, I love a concerned man,” she sobbed. “This is my mom.”

Time out for introductions.

He staggered to his feet and kissed my hand, “Pleased to meet you.” He turned to a handsome man in the vicinity of my age and said, “This is my dad.”

A second round of introductions, mostly slurred and generally unintelligible.

Eventually, the conversation worked its way around to the beginning...why she was crying.

“This is the bestest mom in the whole world.”

The expansive gesture with open arms knocked her beer over and the cleanup took a few minutes, then the explanation continued apace.

Beck sobbed, “Mom gave me a million dollars...today...no...Mom?”

“Two days ago, Beck...no...three...I think,” I wasn’t in any better shape than my daughter but I was older and had more practice.

Wait...that’s a lie...I hadn’t been this drunk since...umh...the Custer Shoot...and suddenly I missed David. That set me off. I sobbed. The father of Beck’s sweat-shirted student commiserated, responding with a hug. I soaked his shirt.

That resulted in apologies. The apologies led to a suggestion. The suggestion soon led to the idea that maybe sex would help. We had an executive suite at the Boxer; two big bedrooms with a fancy living/dining area between. It was less than four blocks but we took separate vehicles. Beck and I took a taxi and they...the gentleman and his son...took their car...a newish Lincoln.

It did.

Help...the sex.

Although...the shower and the sleep probably had something to do with it. My handsome and debonair elderly gentleman dissolved into a puddle and was resurrected as a rather fat greying slob in soiled underwear and a wifebeater shirt. I managed to get my arm out from under his greasy body...and I didn’t have to chew it off at my shoulder...nor did I wake him with my struggles. I successfully retrieved my daughter and our luggage. We crept from the room. The door tag was turned to “Do Not Disturb” and we were on the morning commute back to Nudehamsta, as my offspring called it.

“Have fun, mom?”

“All but the wakeup, Beck. All but the wakeup.”

“Who were those guys?”

“I have no idea, Beck.”

“Morning After pill?”

“Good idea, Beck.”

“You’re a great mom...”

“But?”

“You and Chuck need to go home. You are a bad influence.”

And we broke into gales of laughter.

“Come see us, Beck.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Hey Chuck...time to go. Fish and houseguests.”

Chuck hugged his sister...but they didn’t kiss.

As soon as we were seated, Charles, went to sleep.