Chasing Love

The telephone rang. I hesitated. Curiosity won. My Saturday morning errands could wait. Evelyn Rogosin, my former mother-in-law, was calling from her home in New Jersey. I was amazed, to put it lightly. We hadn't spoken since that strange meeting in her car. "Jonathan looks like a young god. But I don't care for that fellow with him, at all," Evelyn said. "They're on the way to your house, now, and should be in New York in about two hours. Tony is driving them into the city. Thank goodness they've left," she added, her voice sighing with relief, as she notified me of my son's impending arrival. When I heard Evelyn's words, I felt angry that she had stepped so blithely into a situation that was so much more complex than she could imagine. At the same time, I think I knew at that moment, that my quest to reclaim Jonathan was headed totwards defeat. There wasn't much I could say. Everything that I had thought about his adventure into the cult like world of spiritual aspirations had already been voiced and fallen on deaf ears. Now that his grandmother, the grand dame of the family, had given Jonathan her blessing on his chosen path, without having the faintest idea of what was involved, my words would hang in the air as being negative. It was an old story, for their grandmother had always been both a loving angel and a source of wealth in my sons' lives. All children need to be loved unconditionally; yet, there was always the promise of riches that undermined my role as their mother. I didn't take them on Caribbean cruises or buy acres of land for their own farm. Jonathan and a turbaned young man, who was obviously the one Evelyn had mentioned with an expression of distate that was so strong that it had nearly corroded the telephone wires, arrived at my apartment. It was almost a year since I had last seen my son. Whatever he was doing hadn't affected him, at least not at first glance. I was happy to see that he was fine. "Patrick is traveling with me," Jonathan announced, as he came through the door, while at the same time, managing to evade my embrace. "So your grandmother told me," I said. "She 'phoned earlier." Patrick, or at least the name he gave me, was of medium height, slightly built, and had a pleasant, sharp-featured face with appraising, blue eyes. He appeared to be about thirty, some ten years older than Jonathan, and was wearing an Indian raj jacket, topped off with an outlandish, white turban around his head. My son, though also bearded, was dressed in an ordinary summer tee shirt and jeans. Trying to get a handle on the situation, independent of Evelyn's appraisal, I looked from Patrick to my son, and from my son to Patrick. They both stood, watching me. Awkwardness chased away the faint stream of sun drifting through the living room windows.