Veronica Tries to be Good, Again. Michael K Freundt
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a gasp escaped from her mouth.
“What?” said Jack. He was standing there laden down with a computer, his school bag, a large bag of groceries and a pot plant: a moth orchid in a pot wrapped with a blue bow. But it wasn’t his accoutrements that made her gasp it was the five-o’clock’ shadow on his face. She hadn’t expected that. She couldn’t say anything so found another reason.
“What's all this?”
“Just some groceries and stuff from Dad.”
“I’m quite capable of affording my own groceries, thank you very much.”
“I know, but give me a break will you? It’s his latest peace offering. Let him have his fantasies. Throw them away for all I care. Can you take the plant, please?”
“What’s this for?” said Veronica taking the offered orchid but failing to keep the biting tone out of her voice.
“Relax, it’s not for you, it’s for Nan. Can I come in?”
“Oh sorry” and she stepped aside letting him enter and proceed down the hall. She followed and watched the back of him. His shoulders were definitely wider.
He dumped everything on the kitchen island bench and then picked up the orchid and took it out the back to the shed, to Nan’s shed. She heard her mother shriek a little at the gift and noted the sing-songy responses to Jack’s gruff questions and comments. Veronica rifled through the bag of groceries. Thank god there wasn’t toilet paper, detergent, or fly spray; there were just things she absolutely loved: caper berries, smoked salmon, horseradish cream, smoked oysters, Sicilian green olives, artichoke hearts, Ortiz anchovies - very expensive, as well as water crackers, tonic water, ginger beer - that was for Jack, and three very ripe mangoes.
“What’s for dinner?” asked Jack as he re-entered the kitchen.
“Sausages and mash.”
“Great. Put some of that horseradish in the mash, will you? It’s one of Ray’s ideas. It’s great.” This little bit of information was bound to make sure that the horseradish went nowhere near the mashed potatoes. She changed the subject.
“What’s all this?” she asked again, as she indicated the pile of books and papers on the island bench.
“My new project.”
“I thought we were going to spend some time together.”
“Yeah, doing my project.”
“I see. What’ve you chosen this time, the French Riviera?”
“We couldn't choose this time. We were each given a set topic: mine’s Hawaii.”
“I can't afford to take you to Hawaii.”
“That's not necessary.”
“What, your father's can't afford to take you to Hawaii either?”
“He's very busy at the moment.”
“What's it now? Cryogenics?”
“He's working on an idea for public bicycles.”
“Really! What's he doing? Making them or marketing them?”
“I’d rather talk about Hawaii, the project, not public bicycles. If the project was on public bicycles I'd be with him, wouldn't I?”
“Yes, I suppose. We haven't got off to a good start here, have we?”
“It's that sarcasm of yours. You can't let it go, can you?”
“Sorry.”
“So let's get to it.”
“What? Now?”
“Why not? I’ve got an assignment for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to research the islands’ discovery. James Cook and all that.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“Its formation, vulcanology, geographically speaking.”
“I’ll have to take a break to get dinner.”
“You help me with this, I’ll help you with that.”
She knew it was a cliché but the idea of mother and son getting dinner together warmed what cockles of her heart she had left. ”OK. So let’s get to it.” He stared at her as if something else was on his mind. “What?” He kept staring. “Jack?”
“ ... Do you use sex in your work?”
The direct and abrupt question made her return his gaze with equal force, gave her courage, and demanded a reply of reciprocal honesty that far outweighed the reticence that might be implied in such a question from a teenage son to his mother; but before she answered her eyes flickered over his darkening cheeks and his broadening shoulders and a mother’s sense of time gave her that universal tinge of sadness, “When I believe it necessary, yes, I use sexual techniques. The only time this policy went seriously awry was when I was raped by Melvin Verlarny five and a half years ago.”
“I see.” She could see in his eyes that he got more than he bargained for.
“Why do you ask?”
“Something Ray said. He disapproves.”
Something wise and feminine stopped her from saying sarcastically, ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ so she said instead with a little over-compensation, “That’s his right.” She could see, however, that he had more to ask: he was studying her face. What a wonderful man he is becoming, she thought.
“Why don’t you hang up your shingle in Macquarie Street?
“To preserve the anonymity of my clients.”
“And yours.”
She let him continue as her brain sought a meaningful path through his questioning.
“Anonymity is preserved in a building full of professionals: dentists, doctors, psychologists.”
“The cyber-world is the world of the future,” she said confidently.
“You’re not on facebook or any other social media; you don’t have a twitter account, nor an iPad. An online business needs all of these things.”
She couldn’t help a feeling of ambush and that meaningful path was proving elusive. “And your point is?”
“It sounds as if anonymity is more about you than about them.”
“I try to put my clients first.”
“Why do you call yourself Susan?” She now knew he had been on her website and her face must have shown it because he added. “I Googled you.” He followed this with a knowing, cheeky, and son-like smile of admission, which greatly pleased and relieved her and gave her permission to reciprocate.
“Maybe I’m a little guilty of sub-conscious self-preservation,” and then added self-deprecatingly, “Just because I study the sub-conscious doesn’t mean I’m immune to the shenanigans of my own.”
His smile disappeared as he said “Your anonymity didn’t save you from Melvin Verlarny.”
“You’re right there,” she said and then took the lead. “Not all my clients have been about sex; in fact they are in the minority, so when asked you can honestly say that your mother is a psychologist, a consulting psychologist.”
“But I know you use sex.”
“Sexual techniques,” she corrected him; “there’s an implication with the word ‘sex’ that I want you to be clear about.”
“Sexual techniques. You use sexual techniques.”
“Yes, when appropriate. But there’s no need to explain my techniques when you tell people what your