I FORGOT to get my wife a gift for Mother’s Day. We, who about to die, salute you. The kids drew sweet portraits for her and made cards in school that were achingly cute; her sister sent her something nice; my sister sent her something nice. We went to the local International House Of Carbs for breakfast, and even they gave a rose to every mother who walked in. And each time one of these gifts was placed in her hands, she slowly turned her head and looked at me with ice-blue eyes that vibrated with a psychopathic hate. (Did you ever see Peter O’Toole in a movie called “The Night Of The Generals”? Those eyes.)
The thing is, I’m usually very steady on the major gift-giving holidays. (By the way, nevermind the U.S., the U.N., the E.U., and Russia. The really important “quartet” is Valentine’s Day, your anniversary, her birthday, and Mother’s Day. You think Hamas is tough? Try skipping two of those in a row.)
What can I say? I forgot. I was busy, but that’s no excuse. Everyone’s busy. And on other occasions, no matter how busy things are, I always manage to at least get to a flower store. Not this time.
Incidentally, here are two quick questions on the world of flowers: What is it with them? And why do women like them so much? Anyone who insists there are no deep, primal differences between the sexes should line up a hundred women and a hundred men, and show them each a spray of carnations. I’ll bet you a year of marriage counseling that 95 of the women will say, “Oh, aren’t they lovely?” and 95 of the men will say, “What’s your point?” I have nothing against flowers, and I’m glad they make my wife happy, but, aesthetically, I am as moved by gardenias as I am by cinderblocks, which is to say, not at all.
On the other hand, I love going to flower shops to buy things, because the women who work there can spot a husband-in-trouble the instant the little bell over the door tinkles, and he sets one of his cap-toed wing-tips inside the smelly place. I’ve always found these shop ladies unfailingly helpful (and frequently appealing), and it’s because I believe they’re always thinking, “Well, at least this one knows he fouled up, and is trying to do the right thing.”
It may sound silly, but I’ve long felt that all stores–flowers, jewelry, china, anything–should be set up not by departments and displays, but by how much a guy has to spend to get out of whatever mess he’s in.
Picture it. You walk into Tiffany’s or Bloomingdale’s and head to a counter that has an out-to-the-street line of well-shod men in their forties checking their watches. But the line moves pretty quickly, because the employee/grief counselors in front would be very good at their jobs.
“Next in line? Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“Okay. Her parents came to visit, and one of our boys hit the other one, and her mom said that was wrong, and I said I didn’t see what the big deal was, and she said, ‘I’m sure you don’t.’ And I thought that was a little snotty, and I said so, and then later my wife said she thought I could’ve just let it pass, and why do I have to be so self-righteous with her mother? And I thought that was snotty, too.”
“All right, sir, that would be third floor, vases.”
“Actually, that’s not all.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Then, the night before they left, I drank too much.”
“Oh, dear, that does change things, doesn’t it? Way too much, or just too much?”
“Just too much.”
“Any slurred words?”
“Some. But no cursing. And I still drove them to the airport the next day.”
“All right, sir, make that fifth floor, bracelets.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Next?”
“Yeah, hi. Oh, boy, where to start . . . See, my wife’s best friend from school got divorced, and, well, I think she always liked me anyway, and–”
“–Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but you really need to go right to the Lexus dealer down the block.”
SO I FORGOT to get my wife something, but, oddly enough, it turned into the best Mother’s Day ever, maybe the best day of our lives. Certainly, there have been none better. For us, that is.
It took forever to get our food at the diner, but we didn’t care, because the kids got into a gigglefest, and they let my wife and me cuddle them as much as we wanted. And then the food came, and it wasn’t any good at all, but that didn’t matter, because who cares? We tipped a ton, and all held hands in the parking lot.
And we went to a mall to get nothing at all, and the kids rode a while on the train. My wife and I sat, with an iced mocha-frappe, and we waved as they rode by again.
Yes, the greatest blessing possible, a long day of nothing special, which, of course, is everything special.
But throughout it all I was haunted by another Mother’s Day, the one I imagined Jean Prewitt was having. I don’t know the woman, we’ve never met, but I saw her picture on the front of the New York Times the day before, Saturday, May 10. In the picture she was kissing her son, Kelley, Private Kelley Prewitt, last January when he was leaving for Kuwait. She was kissing him goodbye, and it turns out she really was, because he was one of our soldiers killed in action. And I don’t know what any of us can say to her.
I supported our president and his policies. I supported them then, and I support them now, and I support them tomorrow, and I think we need to lead the way through every nest of terror and evil. But I spent Mother’s Day in a mall eating candy. I wonder where Jean Prewitt spent it. Throughout the weekend I kept looking at her picture. It’s in front of me now. Pictures, actually: the one on the front kissing her smiling son, and the one on page 11 at his funeral.
Every morning in my prayers I say one asking God to comfort those who’ve lost loved ones to this murder and this war. Both have been going on long before September 11, and both will be going on long after today. But I believe we’re right.
That night, after the kids were asleep, I heard the TV downstairs, and I looked at Jean Prewitt’s picture one more time. But I didn’t show it to my wife.
After all, it was still Mother’s Day.
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
