Rhinestones in the Rough

Irene DiBello first spoke to Tess Gergen in late September of 1997. Of course, like all the other mothers at the day care, Irene already knew who Tess was. Tess was the popular mother with the staff. She knew all about their private lives and would remember each in detail. “How was the picnic? Is your grandmother out of the woods yet? Didn’t I tell you that hotel was great!” Tess helped them clean up, she volunteered on her days off. People just loved Tess. She was outspoken and friendly, whereas Irene was unspoken and reserved; she kept pretty much to herself. Single parents don’t have much time for friendships (at least this single parent didn’t). On more than one occasion, though, she’d seen Tess arguing with a staff member, and today was such a day. Tess was talking loudly, yelling really, at an aide, whom she’d seemed to worship just the day before. It seems her Michael had been left out of something or other—again. “You know how sensitive he is. You just can’t do that kind of stuff. We’ve been through this.” The girl was silent; she had no recourse, no defense. And even if she had, it wouldn’t have been heard anyway. Just let me get out of here, Irene thought. Public humiliation, hers or anyone else’s, was not something she was up for after another exhausting day at school. She excused herself, since the imposing Tess was blocking the cubbies, and sneaked around her pretending not to hear. She hustled Joey from the play room and as she headed up the steps toward the door, turned slightly and shot the aide a commiserating glance. People just liked Irene. She’d thought she’d made a clean getaway, nap pad and four-year-old in tow, when she heard a voice behind her, “Hey, Joey’s mom!” Irene automatically assumed she was about to accuse Joe of doing something awful to her precious Michael, like coughing in his direction or making too many baskets in b-ball or some other affront to Michael’s delicate sensibilities. Joey wasn’t an aggressive child, but he could hold his own. Michael? Let’s just say a four-year-old with all the symptoms of roid rage without the roid is not a pretty sight to behold. But Joey played with Michael all the time even though he complained about him. Was she raising a masochist or does he see something she doesn’t? Irene braced herself and said cheerily, “Hello, Michael’s mom.” Tess was an imposing woman in all manner of appearance. She was rather large and carried herself regally. She had shoulder-length reddish brown hair that she wore partially up in front, Gibson-girl like. She habitually wore floral flowing calve-length dresses that accentuated yet somehow flattered her size. Irene felt she was rather turn-of-the century. She wasn’t coiffed and coordinated (Irene liked that); yet she had an evanescence, a soft-edged quality, as if she’d just emerged from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Irene, on the other hand, felt she was nondescript. Average all around—average height, average weight—average. And that was fine by her. She wore bifocals—with the line--and had brown hair flecked with gray with reddish tips, the result of a dye job she was too busy (lazy) to keep up with. She wasn’t quite the type to sport curlers to the supermarket (you’d still see that around here sometimes), but at least curlers in the afternoon held the promise of curls in the evening. But that wasn’t going to happen either. She didn’t put too much thought into clothes either. Slacks, usually slightly high-water, and a jacket completed her school “uniform.” She was clean and that was enough. Case in point: her thirteenth birthday present, a yellow sweater that ended up with a pink splotch from an ill-timed forkful of spaghetti sauce. “Ma!!” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, wear it. It’s clean…it’s just stained.” Ma didn’t put up with much. It’s funny how the smallest things can shape our whole lives. As Tess walked toward Irene, she said, “Hi, hi, hi. I’m Tess and this is Michael.” She held Michael in front of her by way of introduction and he didn’t look pleased. “I’m sure Joey has mentioned him.” Oh yes, he has, Irene thought. “Yeah sure.” Irene was certain at this point that she was about to be pulled into the incident that she’d just witnessed, but to Irene’s relief, Tess simply invited Joe to Michael’s birthday party the following Saturday. “Do you know where we live?’ asked Tess. Why would I know where you live, thought Irene. Should everyone know where you live? “I’m afraid not, uh, no.” “I’ll write down the directions and put them in Joey’s cubby for you tomorrow.” “That’d be fine. We’ll see you Saturday.” Irene began to put Joe into his car seat, then turned and yelled after Tess, “What does he like?” but Tess was semi-dragging Michael to the car, talking sharply but not quite audibly to the little apple who seemed not to have fallen far from the tree.