After a summer of politely declining casseroles and baked hams as well-intended comforts for death and broken hips, Estelle needed a stress release. In America, families look to distraction as a regular avenue for diminishing stress. Our streets are filled with lycra-clad housewives slowly jogging in over-sized sunglasses, men wearing plaid trousers that only see the light of the golf greens, and suburban white kids nodding their heads to the latest underground hip-hop sensation with the precision of robots. Our cultural DNA is linked to pioneers who escaped hardships and torments by enjoying the thrill of riding the open fields shooting everything from quail to bison. Estelle has one such favored endeavor: shopping.
The mathematics of her pastime possess both beauty and logic: the bigger the stress, the bigger the purchase. This logic can be correlated to her life and, in turn, categorizes all her possessions. There is a particular St. John Knit suit that signals the closing of her first large commercial account for her business. The two weeks in Belize was her reward for providing single-handed disaster relief during an event we simply refer to as "my cousin's wedding." There is the Hans Wegner chair that correlates with my finish of graduate school. There is an over-sized Gucci tote that reminds us all of my second journey to graduate school. I got the degrees and Estelle got the prize.
Cutting my beets during our weekly Thursday night dinner at the Hendersonville Country Club almost resulted in a lost appendage when Estelle sighed, "I think I wanna new car . . . " My father almost choked on the overly-baked prepackaged Ore Ida french fries that the Pro Shop passes off as "hand cut." After avoiding the need for a tourniquet and the Heimlich, our eyes met and acknowledged that after a period where my grandparents suffered a broken hip, two back surgeries, dementia, a funeral complete with alcoholics, Pentecostals and a caliber of family insanity usually found deep in the tales of Faulkner, Estelle needed something pretty and big. "I like that new Mercedes. Oh, and I saw James Duluth's commercials where he says he treats folks like family. I remember when I would take you two to the pool. Lord, from the looks of those commercials, he's put his weight on."
And with one run-on sentence we were given our marching orders. As with the logic found in her purchase power, there is also logic and order within the process of the purchase. In an unspoken fashion, we play our parts. I am always relegated to research and wing man. My dad is the good cop possessing the comforting smile and demeanor of a calm and caring hardworking Appalchian native with a charisma and stamina only surpassed by Former President Jimmy Carter. Finally, Estelle swoops in for the kill. Soft and slow with a warm smile, she delivers a final blow that is akin to the beheading of the male praying mantis by its mate. Simply, she enjoys the sport of the hunt and the kill of the purchase.
Returning from the car dealership, my dad's demeanor was unmoved and silent. Estelle looked up from her desk and asked gently, "Well, did you play ball or did the boys just dribble?"
My dad smiled and replied, "They have what you want but it is at another of their lots and they won’t move it for another 45 days." Estelle peaked over her glasses and stopped her working.
At this moment, I realized this is the bizarre manner in which my parents flirt and show affection. Yes, you will see them hold hands, steal a kiss and say rather kind things to each other. Yet, the sparks fly when they tag team a business deal or money transaction. The hunt and kill to them is an aphrodisiac that should be tasted by the protagonists of those recently chaste Mormon-inspired vampire movies.
"Price?" Estelle smirked.
"Not even close," was my dad's groan.
"Do they know I am paying with cash money?" Estelle has said the words "cash money" long before they were adopted by gangsters and rappers.
"I left that part out." My dad's voice was stern, deliberate and a little too much like he was playing a role inspired by Donald Trump and Ron Jeremy.
Silence.
"Be ready at 9:30 tomorrow morning. We have an appointment." Pointing her attention at her wing man, I could see her mouth watering as she picked up her Blackberry and dialed. "Hello Randy, this is Ms. Crisp and I'd like to buy a car. I believe my husband spoke with you earlier today. I'll be in at 9:30 tomorrow and could you have James join us and tell him Estelle said hello." She finished the call and I sat back and marveled at another modern hold up by my parents, Bonnie and Clyde.
Sitting in the paneled office with two car salesmen and James Duluth was tense. Estelle had chauffeured us around in junior high before he got cool and I got chunky. Now, skinnier than most women my age, let alone men, my mind wandered with thoughts of Estelle declaring, "Lord, he's put his weight on." I had not seen James Duluth since my departure from high school. His graying hair and placid skin fell flat as he recounted a story about his wife, their kids and his adventures as a Sunday School teacher. Looking at his shoes,common with thick soles reminiscent of orthopedic prescriptions, I could only think "Well, thank God I am churchless."
The car-dealer-now-church-goer launched in, "Well, what can we do for you little lady? We thought your husband was buying this car."
I wanted to grab his words and quickly stuff them back in his bloated mouth. Was he really this inept? Like a small-time crook who meets the mob boss for the first time, his bravado was both misplaced and insane. Boys, the big guns are here and she's wearing a skirt and carrying a Chloe handbag.
Estelle smiled rather delicately and started, "James you are partially correct. I am small framed and I don't have a penis."
As wing man my job is always to look stern and austere. This becomes incredibly difficult when your mother packs words like cops pack heat. Then she went in for the kill.
"Of my own."
James looked as if Sunday School nor life had prepared him for Estelle. In truth, they probably had not. She continued, "Now here is where you are wrong. I don't need my husband to buy a car for me. Now, if you little boys are ready to talk shop and sell a car, let's get on with this. I have a business to run."
The men sat silently with mouths open and Estelle glanced at me and winked. She continued her proposal. Refusing to pay document charges or transfer assessments, she fairly offered more than the lowest price I had found on the internet and graciously delivered her variable, crossed her legs at the ankles and waited.
James, obviously still not the orator, stuttered "Well, I don't know . . . I mean. . . . I need to . . . what was that price?"
Estelle was deliberate in delivery, "James, if I get up, you will see neither me nor my money." The great hunt, indeed, of squirrels, rabbits, bison and , apparently, car dealers. Like any good hunter, she relished in the moment, sitting still and silently. The room was frozen as if Medusa had just turned the men to stone.
The eldest car dealer stammered, "You gotta deal."
Estelle smiled and giggled as if to say "Thank you. Now, gentlemen, here are your heads."
She retrieved a large stack of bills from her handbag, licked her finger and began to meticulously count. She paused, graciously pretending a demure manner, "I'm sorry. You do take cash money, don't you?"
The car is being delivered on Tuesday.
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