Mother fussed. That’s what she always does. This time, it seemed her shrimp puffs were not quite puffing the way she had hoped. She pressed her eyes to the oven door window, fretting the disappointing rise of the pastries. With a sigh, she pulled herself away to sample the wine, making sure it had time enough to “breathe,” as she said..
The last time I had been home, we ate fish sticks and macaroni and cheese. Ice water was the accompanying beverage. Not that I’m complaining, but tonight was different. Tonight the fish sticks were left in the freezer. Tonight there were cloth napkins on the dining room table. Crystal wine glasses sat at the ready, awaiting the opportunity to be raised in a toast to the one long gone but welcomed back home with open arms. The one of whom we should all be proud.
Tonight, Francis was coming home.
Francis is my older brother. Two years separate us in age, but if accomplishments were the yardstick in our differences, he would outdistance me by a mile. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy with my station in life. I have a decent job down at the plant. My wife thinks I’m a pretty great guy. My kids do too.
But I don’t get the white linen and crystal wineglass treatment when I visit Mother these days. She never bakes a puff of any kind when I come around.
My brother went to college. I didn’t. My parents could not afford the tuition for either of us, but Frankie managed to get a full academic scholarship to State. He did well there too. Summa Cum Laude or Magna Something or other seemed to be plastered all over his graduation certificates. I should know. Since childhood Mother had framed his many awards and displayed them all about the house. My high school friends often referred to my mother’s home as a museum. The Museum of Francis.
After college, Francis moved to Los Angeles to conquer Hollywood. That was nearly ten years ago, and he has not been home since. For the first few years, he would call Mother every Sunday evening. He would write one or two letters a month, occasionally slipping a hundred dollar bill in the envelope - “just a little something to help out”.
In time, the phone calls became more infrequent, and the letters stopped arriving altogether. Mother didn’t seem to mind much, claiming Francis was just too busy to have the time for us that he once had. After all, he had made the big time.
On the rare occasion that I spoke with Francis on the phone, I got the impression that he truly had made it big. I could not figure out what his job exactly was, the specifics seemed to change every time I spoke with him.
For a while, he was a scout for one of the premier talent agencies in the city. Next he was a full blown agent for a competing firm. After that it was a regular job title carousel, including Associate Producer, PR Director, Executive Producer, and on and on until I lost track.
As I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, I knew I would soon be able to get the update on Francis’ ever-blossoming career. He was due to arrive any minute now.
Mother fluttered about beneath the kitchen lights like a spastic moth. It turns out the shrimp puffs managed to fully puff after all. She beamed as she pulled the tray from the oven.
“If only your father were still alive,” Mother said to me. “Everything is going to be just perfect tonight!” She ran to the dining room to smooth the creases in the tablecloth one more time. The window was awash in light from an approaching car. Mother looked in my eyes. Her anticipation was volcanic. For an instant I worried for her health.
I went to the door, and through the window observed the figure approaching in the dark. Even in silhouette, I could see that he held an enormous bouquet of flowers. I had brought nothing. Francis would outshine me again, and he hadn’t even set foot in the place.
I opened the door only to find it was not my brother who approached, but a courier. He handed Mother the flowers and the accompanying note to me. I could hardly bear to read it aloud.
“Something came up. Maybe next time.
-Francis”
Mother’s face was ashen, but she recovered quickly.
“Matthew, let’s not allow a wonderful dinner go to waste. Let’s eat.”
As I sat at the table, something on the wall caught my eye. Mother had framed the only award I could recall from my academic career: Perfect Attendance for my Freshman year in high school.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. It turns out Mother was proud of me too.