Living with Thelma: A Novel

By Joseph J. Sollish

Forty-year-old Louise Berman has been wallowing in self-pity ever since her husband left her for a woman half her age and twice her brassiere size. Her English literature professor daughter, Laurie, has been living with her, all while attempting to keep a relationship with her father and his new wife. But as Laurie grows more exasperated with her mother, it seems inevitable that something needs to changeand fast.

After Louise finally secures a job as a lingerie buyer at Henri Bendel, her ex-husbands wife, Vivian, presents Louise with a strange birthday gifta stuffed gray mouse named Thelma. While Louise treats Thelma like a living family member, she and Vivian grow close, much to the dismay of Laurie. As Louise is led to a new opportunity running a Bergdorfs store, Laurie makes full professor at NYU. But everything is about to change when Louises ex-husband proclaims he wants to reconcile. While Louise decides whether to take him back or keep Thelma as her companion, Laurie is led down her own path where both love and sadness await.

Living with Thelma shares the charming tale of a divorced woman and her grown daughter as they search for love, acceptance, and the magic within a stuffed gray mouse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480857209

Joseph J. Sollish

Joseph J. Sollish is the author of seven novels, Gates of Horn and Ivory, Guardians of the Dream, Tell Me a Story, No More Tears, Bless the Children, Casey Calhoun, and Family Forever. He has also published Halls of Academe, a collection of thirteen new short stories. Sollish lives in Los Angeles with his wife of fifty years, Claudia.

Book preview

1

My Mom and I

"Ma, you just have to stop watching those Golden Girls reruns! You’re starting to sound like Sophia Petrillo!"

So? She’s eighty, a widow, four feet tall, has grandchildren, is sharp as a tack, and is Sicilian! Besides, I’m only in my third go-around. Eighty-six more episodes to go!

"Ma, you’re only forty, divorced, have just me, you’re five eight, and you’re Jewish! You should be doing something instead of watching Golden Girls."

"You’d rather I watch Dallas reruns and make like Miss Ellie?"

"No, Ma! Nor Kitty on Gunsmoke or Jessica Fletcher on Murder, She Wrote! All I’m saying is you should be doing something worthwhile instead of watching TV all the time."

Laurie, you sure know your reruns! At least I don’t watch the soaps.

Only because you sleep most of the day!

My mother and I have been having this argument, or discussion, at least once a month since my dad left two years ago for a paralegal in his law firm. Mom describes the second Mrs. Edward Berman as being half my age and twice my brassiere size, probably borrowing the phrase from some rerun. Mom quit her job as a buyer at Bergdorf Goodman and has been moping around our condo ever since.

I feel sorry for my mom and regret picking on her when she’s so vulnerable, but I know she’s really very strong. She just needs to get with the program.

You could go to Saks or any store. They’d take you in a minute, if you don’t want to go back to Bergdorf’s, I tell her.

She shrugs me off. I know, I know.

I am an associate professor of English literature at NYU, and my father’s office is on Madison Avenue uptown, but we manage to have lunch once a month. We meet at La Grenouille or at the new grill in the Seagram Building. He always asks how my mother is. I like my dad; he’s smart and tells funny lawyer stories. We were a happy family once.

glyph.jpg

I am coming home from NYU one afternoon and stop at the deli for two cups of the greek yogurt my mother loves. I toss my keys on the foyer table, drop my briefcase, and shout, Ma, I’m home! as I hurry into the living room.

Flat on her back on the rug, motionless, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, lies my mother.

Oh, Mom! I moan, dropping to my knees beside her, yogurt cups flying across the room. Tears are in my eyes when she abruptly springs up.

Gotcha! she shouts, and then she flops down, roaring with laughter. Gotcha!

I get up, retrieve the yogurt, and go into the kitchen, where I sit sullenly. She joins me a moment later.

You know you scared me to death? I ask. Not very nice, Mom.

Oh, I’m so sorry, pussycat, she says, faking her regrets. Just a little joke. You tell me I sleep all day.

Not funny. Have some yogurt.

She takes a chair and opens her cup. I went out this morning, Laurie. She pauses for dramatic effect, spoon in the air. I got a job!

I pretend indifference, still upset.

She says, You’re looking at the new lingerie buyer at Henri Bendel!

Henri Bendel? Really? That’s wonderful! I lean across the table and kiss her cheek. She is forgiven. Bendel’s a fine store, Mom.

Glad you approve. I just got tired of your nagging, nagging all the time. You get a 20 percent family discount, you know.

I’m afraid Bendel’s out of my league, even with the discount.

Aw, c’mon, sweetie. Live a little! Spoil yourself! Can’t stash every cent in the bank. She becomes Sophia Petrillo. Under the mattress is safer—and easier to make withdrawals. Ha!

I ignore her wisecrack. I save for a rainy day, Mom. I have no 401(k). And I don’t have tenure yet.

Well, anyway, Laurie, we’re two working girls again! Hoo-ha!

glyph.jpg

You can start dating again, my mother says over a Chinese takeout dinner.

I had stopped going out altogether when Dad left, to avoid adding to her loneliness, not that I dated that much anyway.

Gee, thanks! I say with a laugh, scraping the last grains of rice from a container. I’ll call my dating service right away.

You know what I mean, Laurie. I appreciate what you did.

I give her a hug. That’s what daughters do, Mother! You can’t watch your reruns when I’m around, not all the time anyway.

It doesn’t mean I’m over the whatever with your father. Still hurting.

She doesn’t even say the word. I know how shocked and humiliated she was—still is—by the divorce.

By the way, she says as she smiles, guess who shops at Bendel’s.

Don’t tell me.

I didn’t see her. Just her name on a special order. She smiles ruefully. Vivian Berman. At first I thought it was just another person with our last name, but then I saw the address. She laughs. Her bra cup is actually double mine, just as I suspected.

We start clearing away the detritus of our dinner.

Don’t let her tits bother you, Mom. They’re probably fake anyway.

Shall we watch some TV and go to bed? There’s a rerun of a Tony Bennett special on Fox about now. She laughs. Anthony Benedetto! Sophia would love him!

This is the first time in a long while that she has even mentioned reruns, and she hasn’t watched any at all since she got the job at Bendel’s. I’m happy in a lot of ways.

2

Holy Smoke!

Dad wants to take us to dinner, you and me, I tell my mother one day.

Then why doesn’t he invite me himself?

Because you were very rude to him when he called you last time.

I wasn’t rude, she says. I just hung up!

Uh-huh. So what about dinner?

I’ll think about it. Okay, I’ve thought about it. When and where, and will he bring her?

glyph.jpg

She fusses like it’s her first date. I help her choose her dress: a slinky black silk off-one-shoulder number. I suggest she go a little easier on the eye makeup. Mom looks great!

While we dress, she regales me with how my father once mistakenly tipped a customer as he was leaving a Paris bistro, thinking he was the maître d’. He wasn’t so urbane then. I taught him everything!

We meet at Le Bernardin, on East Fifty-First Street. Vivian, wearing a slinky black off-one-shoulder dress, totters in on Manolo Blahnik six-inch stiletto pumps. She just smiles her greeting. God knows what my mother would have done if Vivian had tried to hug her!

I chose this restaurant, Louise, because I know how you love seafood, Dad says after we’re seated.

My tastes have changed, my mother replies, hiding behind the menu, along with a lot of other things. I’ll have a filet mignon, medium rare.

We have cocktails and order our dinners. Dad has the Maine lobster, Vivian the swordfish, and I the grilled salmon. Mom sends her filet back, saying it’s too rare. I think she’s just being a pain in the ass. Dad doesn’t seem to notice, doing most of the small talk.

Vivian, how do you like working under Edward? my mother suddenly asks, with an obviously deliberate double entendre.

Oh, Dad replies for her, Vi doesn’t work at the firm anymore. The senior partner enforced our rule against married couples, even partners, so she had to leave.

I’m a lady of leisure now, Vivian confirms with a little giggle. I hate gigglers.

Still works under Edward, though, my mother mutters. Then she says, By the way, your special brassiere from Bendel’s is en route. Your cups will floweth over in a day or so.

Oh, Edward told me you work there! Say, do you think I could get the employee family discount?

You’re not this employee’s family! Mom replies sharply.

As we are leaving, I find myself watching Dad as he palms a ten-dollar bill. I want to see if he tips the maître d’ and not a patron, my mother’s tale still in my mind. He gets it right.

He offers to have a cab drop us off at our condo, but Mom says, We’ll get our own, thanks. And thank you for a lovely evening, Edward. Over her shoulder, she adds, Nice meeting another Mrs. Edward Berman.

I’m glad the barb wasn’t too sharp.

Fifty-Seventh and Second, I tell the driver as we get into the next taxi. We start moving.

Let’s not go home yet, Laurie, Mom says. I need some air. Driver, go through the park, all the way around.

She sits back and then sniffs and sniffs again, wrinkling her nose. What in the world is that awful stink? Did somebody die in here?

I smell a strange, heavy odor and lean forward to speak to the driver, really seeing him for the first time since entering his cab. He wears a fez on his head, with a tassel hanging down his face, and he has a long black moustache. He seems to be murmuring to himself. It’s then that I see a thick curl of smoke rising from his compartment and wafting through the open glass divider to us.

Driver, are you burning something? I ask while my mother tries to roll down her window and finds it stuck tight. She’s gasping. I try my window. It won’t budge.

I do the prayer with holy incense, lady, he says. Makes good the air! You like, yes?

Like hell! Put out the damn fire!

Without a word, the driver pulls over to the curb and stops. You not like holy incense, you get out my cab!

We struggle the door open and spill out on the sidewalk, sputtering and coughing. Passersby pay us no notice. When we can finally breathe again, my mother asks, Did you get his number—or a name?

No, I was too busy trying to breathe!

We wobble to the Marriott Hotel down the street and get a cab from the taxi queue. We go home.

The dry cleaners can’t get the holy smoke out of our clothes. Mom treats me to a new dress at Bendel’s. And now I give every cab driver a thorough once-over before I take his taxi.

3

Happy Birthday from Thelma!

At seven in the morning, as we’re about to get up, I hear the opening bars of The Golden Girls theme song coming from my mother’s iPhone. She picks up, and I hear her talking.

That bimbo is getting to be a real pain, she says, coming into my room, as if she hadn’t been one already!

What does the bimbo want? I ask, knowing who she must be talking about. I start getting dressed.

She wishes me a happy birthday!

A bit early, isn’t she? Your birthday is next month!

Well, she has a present for me and says she can’t wait, so she wants to take me to lunch. She pauses. I knew I shouldn’t have been so friendly with her at that dinner!

You were friendly? I ask with a laugh. I didn’t notice. So, when are you having lunch with her—or not?

She sighs, going back to her room. Today. She’s picking me up at Bendel’s.

glyph.jpg

I’m home before my mother, and I can hardly wait to hear about her birthday lunch, but I pretend to have forgotten all about it.

Hi, Mom! How was your day? I ask, having coffee in the kitchen. Busy?

She drops a big box on the counter and pours coffee for herself before she tops off my cup. She took me to La Grenouille. I had the boeuf bourguignon; she had the snails.

What was the present she couldn’t wait to give you?

See for yourself, she says, pointing to the box.

I open it. A doll? I ask, lifting a stuffed something up.

It’s a mouse, dummy! Her name is Thelma!

Thelma is indeed a gray mouse, about eighteen inches tall, with big pink-lined ears, bright eyes, perky nose, whiskers, and wearing a polka-dot dress covered by a pink pinafore. Her feet are in lavender booties.

Wonderful! I cry out, clutching Thelma to my chest. I feel like a little girl again. Can I have her, Mom?

The hell you can! she says, grabbing the mouse. Thelma is mine!

4

The Green-Eyed Monster

We are now like the nursery rhyme, You and me, and baby makes three, except our baby is a mouse! My mother dotes on Thelma, gives her a padded bench for her regular seat, and makes her comfortable in an easy chair to watch television with us in our living room. She won’t let me hold Thelma for even an instant, but I hug her plenty when Mom isn’t around.

Mom attributes magic powers to the mouse. When someone is ill, she perches a nurse’s cap between Thelma’s ears, saying, Make them better, Thelma! To give someone good luck, she