Chapter 1

As I was telling you earlier, much earlier, I made the plane with at least twenty seconds to spare. And no, the kid with the donut problem didn't throw up on me. That turned out OK ... about the only thing that did, as I recall. Forty minutes into the flight to Bloomington-Normal, the captain's voice came over the speaker. Captain, hell, on a plane this size the pilot is probably a corporal at most. "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that the runways are nice and clear at Bloomington. The bad news is that it's Bloomington, Indiana. Go Hoosiers!" Funny guy.

Most of Illinois was snowed in tonight and that was the best the airline could do. It turns out warm, moist air from the Gulf of Mexico was moving up the Mississippi Valley and colliding with cold air masses from Canada. Why can't the Pentagon do something about the true threat to Middle America, cold air masses from Canada? Who did that routine? Steve Martin? George Carlin? Henny Youngman? I don't know and don't much care.

Well it turned out that in Bloomington, there was a plane to West Lafayette, Indiana, with a continuation to Ann Arbor and East Lansing Michigan. Now West Lafayette is not far from Chicago but they were pretty sure West Lafayette would be closed down soon. So the ticket agent thought I would be better off going all the way to Lansing. The storm might pass south of Lansing since it was expected to track up the Ohio Valley, hit Pittsburgh and then dump two feet of snow on, wait for it, Buffalo. At Lansing Airport, they said, I could change to a plane to Madison, Wisconsin. The snow might have passed through Madison by then.

Well, Madison is less than two hours from Milwaukee and somehow I would get myself down to Chicago from Milwaukee, hitchhiking if I had to. At least I would be moving, not camping in some miserable Midwest airport.

I remembered an issue of Playboy, "Girls of the Big Ten." This was "Airports of the Big Ten" and not nearly as sexy. Either that or I was starring in a remake of Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I could hardly wait to meet John Candy. Well, as it turned out, the flight planned for the Indiana basketball team had been cancelled and the team was rerouted via the flight to Ann Arbor. No, I wasn't bumped. They wedgedme into the window seat next to a 6'10" power forward who had John Candy's waistline. "A guy my size has to have the aisle, man," he announced, and I wasn't going to argue. Go Hoosiers!

Late Friday morning I phoned Mom from the Lansing airport. After all, it was my birthday and birthdays mean a lot to Mom. She told me she was in the kitchen and judging from the echoes, I was pretty sure she had the phone on speaker phone setting. For sure, I could hear her move about the kitchen and I could picture her measuring and pouring ingredients.

What? She can only open bags of Chips Ahoy? – you remember that? That was just a joke to make Amy laugh. Mom is more of a first course person than a baker but you seriously imagine that the loving and caring mother of five children and nine grandchildren can't cook, Catholic or not? Never happen! Mom wasn't a near gourmet chef like Amy but no one can rustle up solid, nutritious comfort food like my mom. If you look up "home cooking" in an illustrated dictionary, there's a photograph of my mother.

"Son, we are so glad you can come home for your birthday party this evening. Frank's coming down from Green Bay and the twins are bringing the grandkids..."

Home??? Milwaukee? I was on my way home to Chicago! What the hell had happened here? A moment's thought dialled in the frequency. Liam had asked whether I would be home for my birthday and had passed on the word to Mom that yes, I would indeed be home. I think of Chicago as home but that's not the way the mother of an unmarried son under thirty sees it. Until thirty, home is where Mom lives, in his old bedroom with the posters on the bedroom wall and the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. Mom was expecting me in Milwaukee and I needed to be in Chicago, to rescue Amy. Shit! Liam was messing me up even when he didn't intend to!

"Mom, I'm sorry. I don't think I can make the party."

I could feel the frost coming over the phone. Mothers whose sons tell them they can't get home for a family birthday party are the world's second leading producers of cold air masses ... after Canada.

"Mom, I'll tell you the truth and I know you'll understand." I was so desperate I was going to do something unheard of; I was going to tell my mother the truth about my love life, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Oprah.

"This had better be good."

"Mom, is Dad there?"

"No, but..."

"Or Frank, or the twins or anyone else in the family?"

"No, but..."

"Or any of the neighbors, or your bridge friends?"

"No, but I really should tell you..."

"Mom, they may call my plane any minute and my cell is almost out of power. I need to tell you why I can't come home and I need to do it right now!"

"OK, son, but"

I drew a deep breath. They'll kick me out of the sons' union for this but here goes: "Mom, I'm in love." That worked. I heard only a faint "eek," like the sound of a stricken mouse emoting, over the speaker phone. Long pause...

"Is she, is she by any chance that sweet Amy girl I talked to on the phone the other day?"

"Of course she is!"

Mom likes Amy! Big sigh of relief, whether mine or hers, or both, I can't tell. This was working but still, time for the sales job. There's nothing that sells as well as the truth so I decided to go for it.

"Mom, she's the sweetest and kindest girl I've met in my life."

My mother is big on kindness, probably because if you check out kindness in that illustrated dictionary while you have it out, there's a photo of Mom on that page too. "You probably could tell she is sweet and kind, even over the phone."

"Yes, Charlie, I could." I could hear gentle sniffling over the phone. Either mom had a bad cold or she was getting really emotional. Probably a good sign.

"And I desperately need to see her as soon as possible, to tell her I love her."

"But why does that mean you can't come to the party?"

"Because there's this ass... , this nasty, self-centered person named Liam, and Amy's been hoping for years that he would notice her.

"Liam, your roommate? The one who looks like Brad Pitt?" I ground my teeth.

"Yeah, Mom, but he never realized how wonderful Amy is because she used to dress a little funny and her hair wasn't so fashionable. But now she looks as beautiful on the outside as she always has been on the inside. Liam has noticed her. Mom, he told me she's doable and I'm afraid..."

Normally, I wouldn't even speak the word "doable" in hearing distance of my mother, just in case, but this was sudden death overtime in the Stanley Cup finals and I had to end this.

"Charlie, are you telling me that you fell in love with this sweet young woman once she had a makeover and now are afraid someone else might want her? I always hoped that none of my children would be so shallow!"

"No, Mom, I swear that I loved her all along. I love her because she has the capacity to care for other people like nobody else I've ever met and I hope with all my heart that she will care for me." I decided to go for broke, "and for my children."

More sniffling from the phone, even maybe some crying. "I love the way she smiles at me. Mom, she smiles at me the way you smile at Dad when you think we aren't looking."

And it wasn't a line, it was true. I suddenly realized didn't love Amy because she reminded me of a cat. I loved her because she reminded me of my mother. Every heterosexual male raised by a loving mother, wants a wife who reminds him of his mother. I wanted someone who could love with all her heart, like Mom can, like Amy. Go smoke a cigar, Dr. Freud. I don't give a shit about your opinion. Though I am still going to call Amy "Peanut." "Mom" would be too weird.

"If Liam gets her into bed, Mom, I would have to really work not to go postal. Do you remember when I caught the teenager next door torturing Peanut and went for him? He had a knife out and was cutting at me to make me let go? And you had to pull me away from him, all cut and bleeding? That's the way I feel when I think of Amy in bed with Liam. I just get sick to my stomach."

"Oh Charlie..."

"I just need to find Amy as soon as possible and tell her I love her. The moment I have any hope that she loves me back, I'll ask her to marry me and keep on asking until she says yes." By this time the sniffling stage was long past. It was outright weeping over the phone, in fact, it sounded like weeping in stereo.

"Charlie, you don't know if you can even get back to Chicago tonight or even if Amy is in the city. Tomorrow you can go looking for her. I promise you there will be somebody here who can drive you back into the city whenever you want."

"But Mom..."

"If this Amy smiles at you the way I smile at your Dad, you don't have to worry. Nothing in heaven or earth or hell besides would get her into bed with anybody but you."

"Mom, how do you know that?"

"Woman's intuition."

"Not good enough."

"Secret knowledge of the Sisterhood of women who adore their man. Charlie, believe me on this one. I absolutely know."

"But..."

"Charles McKee! Do you think I would cheat on your father?!"

"Of course not." What did that have to do with anything?

"Well then, trust me on this. Amy won't go to bed with Liam. Now promise me you will show up for the party. Promise!"

I know when I've been beaten. "I promise."

"And besides, it's your birthday. There'll be a present waiting for you."

Dear God! Mom always went overboard in the present department. She believed in quality but that quantity never hurt. The chance of me being able to fit whatever she gave me into carryon were in the Bambi vs Godzilla range. "Nothing big, Mom!"

"Nothing very big, I promise."

After I hung up, I decided that Mom was right. Amy probably did belong to the Sisterhood of women who adore their man. It's just that I was afraid that Liam was her man. Of course, she had gone to bed with me, now that I thought about it. Did that help? Or just make the prospect of losing her to the asshole that much more painful. Sitting in the waiting room in Lansing, I recalled a poem from Bonehead English for Math and Science Geeks at Notre Dame. For some reason, I could recall the entire poem.

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me.

The poem worked just as will with "Amy" as with "Jenny." I hoped Amy wasn't jumping for Liam. And that Liam wasn't jumping Amy's bones.

The rest of the day would be interesting only to someone who actually would lust over the Airports of the Big Ten foldout, but by late afternoon, with the Midwest winter darkness already drawing on, I arrived in Madison. Madison is easy driving distance from Milwaukee, even in the snow ... if you can rent a car. It took me an hour to find Rent a Lemon, only a mile and a half walk from the airport. I didn't know until then that you could rent a Yugo, or a Skoda or a Lada in the United States. Where did these people get their stock? From Berlin Wall Motors? Only a rusted orange Yugo was left. One wiper worked but the heater didn't. Oh and the one wiper was on the passenger side, which made for a very peculiar driving position. I couldn't care less about heaters or wipers or driving position, as long as the wreck took me towards my Amy. Or at least, I hoped she might be my Amy

Three frozen hours later, I pulled the Yugo across the mouth of the driveway of my parents' home, blocking the three cars already in the drive, but poised and ready to take off for Chicago the moment I could do so without suffering a mother's curse. Oh, and thawing my fingers would be a good idea too. I could see the curtain on the living room window part slightly as someone checked out my arrival. Good thing this wasn't a surprise party. The McKee family party discipline was slipping and the gaff, as they say, would have been blown. (What's a gaff and why would anybody want to give it a blow job?) I could even hear bodies scurrying about as I mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door before I could even ring. By Mom standards, the hug she gave me definitely qualified as perfunctory. Normally, a famished python releases you more quickly than Mom. She took my coat, folded it once lengthwise and threw it on a pile of outerwear stacked on the couch in the den. Obviously, there was a full house.