I try to imagine the way that conversation between Chris and the DJ must have gone down, but I can’t get past how bizarre the story was to begin with. People do get what’s called dysgeusia, which is where a person’s sense of taste is altered, but I’ve never heard of anyone only ever tasting roast beef sandwiches.
Mason’s laughter, once boisterous is now quiet, reserved. It’s possible I’m focusing on the wrong part of the story.
“That’s funny,” I cover. “Did you get any coupons for places that serve roast beef sandwiches?” I ask.
“Almost exclusively,” Mason chuckles. “How did you know?”
“It seems like the only kind of restaurant that wouldn’t be hurt by doing that sort of thing,” I answer. “The worst thing you could say about a roast beef sandwich with such a peculiar form of dysgeusia is that it tastes like a roast beef sandwich. But say you got a coupon to an Italian restaurant and ordered cavatappi with marinara sauce and a red wine reduction and you say that tastes like roast beef, people would probably stop eating there.”
He’s laughing as we get to the car. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I forget just how much smarter than me you are.”
“I’m happy to remind you,” I tell him and smile, putting the key in the ignition. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.
“I’m still pretty beat from the gym,” he says. “Would you mind if we just relaxed with a movie or something?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “If you want, we can go to my place. Jana’s at work for the next little bit and my only class for the day got out before I came and got you. It doesn’t really matter to me, but it’s an option.”
“That sounds good to me,” he says. “I’m kind of glad to get out of the house for a while.”
We chat a little bit and the tensions of the last while are finally starting to ease. It’s hard to say what caused the change, but we’re talking and laughing in a way we really haven’t since Chris’s arrest.
We continue to enjoy each other’s company right until the moment we’re at my apartment and I’m opening the door to find two people I didn’t expect to see sitting on the couch.
I immediately close the door, but the jig is up.
“Darling?” that grating, affected voice comes wafting through the air just like that expensive perfume she may as well bathe in, and Mason’s looking at me not having any idea what’s about to happen.
“There are some things I need to talk to you about,” I tell him quietly as I hold the door closed just a few more seconds. “First, I’ve got to deal with this.”
“Who is that?” Mason asks in a whisper.
“That’s my mom,” I answer. “Excuse me,” I correct, “that is my mother. I promise I will explain everything, but for right now, I just need you to go to my room and wait for me for a little bit. I know this is weird, but—”
“We should probably open the door now,” Mason interrupts as someone, undoubtedly Jana, tries the knob and then knocks on the other side of the door.
“I’ll explain everything, okay?” I ask, hoping for some sort of reassurance. Maybe I can use it as armor against whatever humiliating position my parents have gotten themselves into this time.
Probably not.
“Okay,” he says easily... too easily. I may have overstated my enthusiasm about explaining whatever’s about to be explained to me.
I let go of the doorknob and the door comes open with Jana holding the other side of the knob.
“What was that about?” Jana asks.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to avoid eye contact. “I just had to tell Mason something.”
“Your mom’s here,” Jana says, grinning at me.
I hate this moment so much. Jana loves my mom, but not for any good or even decent reason. Mom, love her as I’m genetically programmed to do, is basically a walking advertisement for old money, though that’s not actually anywhere in her background.
Her name’s not even May Weese.
Jana and I have known each other for a very long time, and in that time, my esteemed roommate and friend has also gotten to know my parents. She doesn’t like my dad. He’s too dry and whiny—Jana’s words, not mine—but mom, Jana loves mom.
There hasn’t been a conversation between the two of them that hasn’t yielded my friend some kind of ammunition to throw at me for her own twisted amusement. Judging by the fact I could count her teeth from the size of the smile on her face, I’d say she’s already achieved that goal.
“Mason?” I ask.
He stands there a second before saying, “Oh, right,” and walking past the three of us and going to my room, closing the door behind him.
Good boy.
“Jana, as always, I appreciate you getting my mother to tell you embarrassing stories about me, but you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Actually, the boss gave me the day off,” she says.
“Say, Jana, you’re supposed to be at work right now, aren’t you?” I repeat.
She finally takes the hint.
“Fine,” she says, “but you and I have a couple of things to talk—” she bursts into laughter. Over the next painfully long thirty seconds, she tries again and again to finish the sentence, but every time, she just starts laughing again.
“Just go,” I tell her.
As I hear her laughing even after she’s left the apartment and is walking down the hallway, I realize I haven’t done a very good job inspiring fear around this place. That’s something I’m now rather eager to change.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Oh, good heavens, darling,” mom says in her aristocratic tone. “The way you speak sometimes…”
“Mom, it’s just you and me. You can drop the stupid voice,” I tell her.
“It’s not stupid,” she says in her natural and refreshingly boring voice. “We haven’t spoken since you called me back, and I was concerned you might attempt to do something silly like make a statement against your father and I.”
“How can I make a statement about it before I know what you’ve actually done?” I ask.
“Sit down, dear,” she says. “There are a few things I think you should know.”
“I thought the best approach is plausible deniability,” I answer, but I do take her advice and sit down on the couch. “If you’re willingly telling me what’s going on, that must mean—”
“You act as if your father and I are so predictable,” she says, tinges of that almost raspy, almost British voice creeping in at odd intervals. “This is quite serious, I assure you.”
“Tell me you left me out of it,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t involve me in whatever scheme the two of you have been working. That’s my boyfriend in there. We just got back from court where his brother was remanded for more than a few dozen things, and I’ve just about had my fill. What’s worse, I’ve been so nervous to talk to him about this that I never got around to it, so he’s totally unprepared for any of this. Just tell me you left me out of it,” I repeat.