It was just before 7:00 p.m. when Martin and Jean arrived at Redeemer Lutheran Church in Webster for Good Friday services. The procession was already in place, but no one buzzed with excitement or moved aside to let them pass into the sanctuary when the Lundeens entered the narthex of the church. On the contrary, Pastor Lars Larson gave an annoyed sigh and grunted at them as they slid past to take their seats.
The church was almost full with parishioners who came from the north side of Burnett County, couples, for the most part, who lived on lakes or acreage in modest homes with their many children. None of the Howe glitz and glamour here. Just good, solid, conservative Lutheran folk.
Redeemer looked like a church is supposed to look – red brick exterior, large stained glass windows, ornate carved wooden altar, pulpit and baptismal fount. Red velvet cushions on the oak pews. Low, inefficient lighting in small candelabra that hovered 15 feet above the congregation. Larson was a popular, but aging pastor who should have retired two years ago, but the church council knew better than to disrupt the serenity of the congregation which liked Pastor Larson just fine and continued to fill the collection plate each Sunday morning. A young assistant pastor had been brought in a year ago to help with the transition for when Larson would ultimately retire, but Pastor Lars held fast and kept control over his reign of the Redeemer Lutheran flock.
Martin’s nose started to twitch as he stifled a sneeze from smelling the perfume worn by the woman sitting in front of him. Before he had a chance to reach for his nose to give it a rub, Jean had a fresh tissue in her hand. Martin took it and gave his nose a wipe. He looked over at his mother to give her a mouthed “thank you”, but her face was straight ahead and her eyes closed. It looked as if she were deep in meditation, but then her mouth crept into a smile, and she gave him a sideways look as she opened one eye a crack and wrinkled her nose. Martin almost laughed out loud.
Jean’s playfulness that began at Risky Dick’s was a refreshing change, but Martin found it unnerving. In all his life, he couldn’t remember ever observing his mother flirt with a man. Not even his father, Archie Lundeen. In fact, when Archie left all those years ago to go hunting, and never returned, his mother never said a word about it.
Martin looked over at his mother as they sang the processional hymn. For the first time, her looked at Jean not as his mother, but as a person. As she sang the verses, he noticed that her skin didn’t have the wrinkles of other 55 year old women. Her hair was full and attractive, if maybe a little too blond. Her wardrobe could use a little help, but Martin was pretty sure that if Oprah came calling to do a make-over, Jean would probably be game to do it.
Jean felt Martin’s eyes on her and she turned her head to look back at him. Her eyes looked amused but curious. “What?” she whispered. Martin smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.”
For the first time in his life, Martin realized his mother was pretty.
+ + +
Martin took his mother home after services, and they made plans to go to the 9:00 a.m. Easter Sunday service. “You don’t have to pick me up, Martin,” Jean said after she gave him a quick hug before getting out of his car when he dropped her off. “I’ll just meet you there around 8:45. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” he called after her as she jumped out of the car, slammed the door and hurried toward the front door, giving him a little wave. “See you Sunday!” he heard her say before she closed and locked her front door.
As he drove back to his apartment, Martin thought about the night, and wondered, again, at the sparks he thought he saw between Don and his mother. It was almost as if Don knew her somehow, like they had met before. But Martin knew that wasn’t possible. One of them would have said something.
Martin was driving into the parking lot by Risky Dick’s when a thought occurred to him. What if Don was playing his mother? What if he was just leading her on? His mother was so naïve, she’d never catch on. Suddenly, Martin’s protective instincts took over, and he decided he needed a beer before retiring for the night.
He threw the gear shift into park, got out of the car, slammed the door of his Mazda a little too hard, marched over to the door of Risky Dick’s, grabbed the door handle and yanked the door open with such force, it hit the wall before closing behind him. He stood in the doorway for a minute, and looked around the room, daring anyone to ask if he had a problem. Then he noticed that all the tablecloths were gone, the candles, the salt and pepper shakers. No Andrea Bocelli on the sound system. Just the regulars huddled over their drinks in various corners of the dark room.
“Did tonight even happen?” he asked himself.
Martin walked over to bar, pulled out a stool, plopped down and waited for Don to appear, which he did in a matter of minutes from the cellar where he was hauling up another keg of beer.
“Martin!” Don said, with obvious delight. “I didn’t expect to see you again tonight. I thought you and your mother…”
“Let’s talk about my mother,” Martin cut him off. “What the hell was going on here tonight?”
Don looked surprised and then frowned. “What do you mean? “
“Well, you do all this stuff, put on the dog, fix the place up, fix yourself up and then flirt with my mom like she’s some sort of…some sort of… babe. For God’s sake, Don, this is my mother!” Martin realized he was almost shouting by the end of his rant, and scowled at the many people who were looking over at their conversation. “Mind your own business!” he shouted at them.
He turned his attention back to Don who was slowly walking around the bar, pulling a bar stool behind him. He sat across from Martin after he pulled them both a Grain Belt.
“I don’t get you, Jimmy Olson,” Don said, shaking his head. “Is it so unusual for someone like me to want to make this place look as nice as possible so that when your mother comes to visit for the first time, she’s impressed rather than breathing down your neck about moving back home?” He took a long sip of his beer, and continued. “And, as for flirting with Jean Lundeen, why the hell shouldn’t I? She’s one beautiful woman and seems to be a lot of fun. Other than raising a son who can be a bit of a prick sometimes, she seems to be quite a capable and interesting woman.”
Martin looked at him, opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped. He saw that Don was looking back at him intently and with a little sadness in his face. Martin realized he’d hurt Don’s feelings. “Don, I’m sorry,” Martin mumbled. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know it even mattered to you that my mother was happy or impressed or anything. I didn’t know you owned the tablecloths and could turn this place into something other than…this.” Martin waved his hand around.
Don shrugged his shoulders. “Well, to be honest, I didn’t own the tablecloths, and I didn’t know until today that this place could be something other than this.” He smiled, reached across the bar and nudged Martin’s shoulder. “For the past year or so, I’ve been toying with the idea of cleaning the place up a bit and making it more respectable. Your mother coming tonight seemed like a good reason to test it out. The surprising treat was finding out how wonderful she is.”
Martin thought back to his realization at church and laughed softly. “I guess I never knew that behind all that annoying motherly behavior was a real person.”
“A real woman, Martin. A real woman.”
Martin shuddered, but nodded. “And Don, I gotta tell you, that pot roast was delicious!”
Friday, March 13, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Chapter 22
While showing Jean his apartment caused Martin some worry, bringing her in to Risky Dick’s caused him major concern. He would have suggested another place, but doing so after she’d made the suggestion would have raised some red flags in Jean’s overly suspicious brain.
As they came around the building and Jean was chattering away about how nice his apartment looked, Martin braced himself for her reaction. He took her hand again and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding her close so she wouldn’t faint once she realized she was having dinner with her son in a place she normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Before Martin could put his hand on the door handle, the door swung open, and a man who looked a lot like Don Wardle, only clean, shaved and dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a crisp white shirt, held the door for them. “Good evening, Martin,” he said with mock formality. “And you must be Mrs. Lundeen.” He gave her a low bow, took her free hand, kissed it and said, “Welcome to my restaurant. My name is Don Wardle. I am so pleased to meet you”
Jean blushed and fluttered back to him, “Why Mr. Wardle, how gallant you are. I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
Don rose and held her hand just one second longer before he said, “Please, call me Don.”
Jean dropped her eyes and said shyly, “Well, you can call me Jean.”
Martin realized that he had gone from leading man to bit player in a matter of seconds within this little exchange. Don escorted Jean over to one of the tables at the center of the room, a table that had mysteriously acquired a red and white checked tablecloth, votive candles and cut glass salt and pepper shakers. Martin looked around and saw that the entire place had been transformed. Tableclothes, votives, the works on every table in the room. A sound system Martin didn't know existed played songs from Andre Bocelli's latest CD. The lighting was low, but you could see in most corners of the room. Instead of a seedy dive, Risky Dick's now looked, and felt, like a country bistro. Still rough around the edges, but a place where one could take his mother for a nice dinner. A couple of regulars sat at the bar, but it was clear that Don had told them to behave themselves.
Martin was going to crack a joke about wondering if he was in the wrong place, but saw the glint in Don’s eye and knew that this was all for Jean and ultimately, her continued acceptance of Martin’s independence. Don came over to Martin, slapped him on the back and said, “Come on now, Martin, don’t just stand there. Sit down and let me tell your mother how happy I am to have you as a tenant.”
Martin sat across from his mother, leaving a chair next to her for Don to pull up and join them. “Mrs. Lundeen,” Don said, but halted dramatically, with a staged shyness, “I mean, Jean…” He looked over at her and winked. She giggled and batted her eyelashes. Martin felt ill.
“Jean, I will tell you, you raised one fine young man here,” Don went on, clearly trying to win her over. “Pays his rent on time, keeps decent hours, no funny business with the ladies, if you know what I mean. And don’t think for a minute that his celebrity status at the Sentinel doesn’t add a little cache to the place.” He winked at her again, making her beam with pride as she looked across the table at Martin.
“I’m so glad to hear that, Don,” she said, with a motherly tone. “You know, I tried to get him to move out months and months ago, but he just felt his dear widowed mother needed his help and protection. Finally, I just said, ‘Dear, it’s time for you to leave the nest and soar like the eagle you are.’ I’m just happy that he’s found a new home that’s worthy of him.”
Martin rolled his eyes and wondered if his mother was demented or just being overly dramatic to impress Don, but he felt it better to let her get away with such a blatant lie, if only to keep the tone of the evening so positive. She made him move out? Good God! It didn’t hit him until much later that she referred to herself as a widow. “What was that all about?” he’d ask himself when reflecting on the night the following week.
“Well, Jean, I’m glad he landed here,” Don replied, keeping up the metaphor. “So what would you two like for dinner tonight?”
+ + +
Martin and Jean sat alone at the table as Don left to prepare their meal choices. Instead of the usual burgers and fries, Don had prepared a menu for the day that included walleye (for Catholics) and pot roast (for the Lutheran Lundeens and not-so-Catholic Catholics). The smell of the pot roast was so divine, neither Jean nor Martin could resist. “If we were Catholic, we'd have to confess this one,” Jean whispered conspiratorially to Don. Then she added, coyly, “Just something else to add to the list, I guess.”
“I like your style, Jean,” Don said. “Care to have a glass of wine with your meal and have a little more to confess?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Martin couldn’t help but understand his blatant flirtation. Something in Jean's expression told him that she understood it, too, and was all too happy to play along.
“Martin, what do you think?” she asked him excitedly. “Should we be naughty and each have a glass?” Since Martin had never seen his mother drink anything other than Communion wine, he was too dumb stuck to say anything, so he just nodded. Jean clapped her hands together happily, laughed and said, “Okay, Don, bring us two glasses of your favorite red wine.”
Don winked at her again and said, “At your service, pretty lady,” and he sashayed back to the bar with a little wiggle to his hips.
“What a lovely man,” Jean gushed. “So charming, and kind of cute…,” she trailed off, looking at him pouring the wine behind the bar.
“Cute, Mother? Are you kidding?” Martin’s face showed disgust, and he couldn’t believe he was observing a courtship ritual that involved his mother, of all people. And Don!
He followed her eyes over to the bar. Cleaned up, in that pressed white shirt and dress pants, he did look better than normal. He wasn’t so greasy looking. And his cologne was expensive and subtle, which was surprising. Martin could see how his mother might think he was “cute”, but hearing her say it made him think he was listening to a menopausal high school girl.
“Well, Don is a nice guy…could stand to lose a few pounds, though” Martin said, trying not to sound too negative. Jean cocked her head, as if trying to assess his physique. “You think so? Looks to me that he’s a man who just likes a good meal,” she replied. “I’ll bet he’s a wonderful cook.”
As they came around the building and Jean was chattering away about how nice his apartment looked, Martin braced himself for her reaction. He took her hand again and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding her close so she wouldn’t faint once she realized she was having dinner with her son in a place she normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Before Martin could put his hand on the door handle, the door swung open, and a man who looked a lot like Don Wardle, only clean, shaved and dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a crisp white shirt, held the door for them. “Good evening, Martin,” he said with mock formality. “And you must be Mrs. Lundeen.” He gave her a low bow, took her free hand, kissed it and said, “Welcome to my restaurant. My name is Don Wardle. I am so pleased to meet you”
Jean blushed and fluttered back to him, “Why Mr. Wardle, how gallant you are. I’m pleased to meet you as well.”
Don rose and held her hand just one second longer before he said, “Please, call me Don.”
Jean dropped her eyes and said shyly, “Well, you can call me Jean.”
Martin realized that he had gone from leading man to bit player in a matter of seconds within this little exchange. Don escorted Jean over to one of the tables at the center of the room, a table that had mysteriously acquired a red and white checked tablecloth, votive candles and cut glass salt and pepper shakers. Martin looked around and saw that the entire place had been transformed. Tableclothes, votives, the works on every table in the room. A sound system Martin didn't know existed played songs from Andre Bocelli's latest CD. The lighting was low, but you could see in most corners of the room. Instead of a seedy dive, Risky Dick's now looked, and felt, like a country bistro. Still rough around the edges, but a place where one could take his mother for a nice dinner. A couple of regulars sat at the bar, but it was clear that Don had told them to behave themselves.
Martin was going to crack a joke about wondering if he was in the wrong place, but saw the glint in Don’s eye and knew that this was all for Jean and ultimately, her continued acceptance of Martin’s independence. Don came over to Martin, slapped him on the back and said, “Come on now, Martin, don’t just stand there. Sit down and let me tell your mother how happy I am to have you as a tenant.”
Martin sat across from his mother, leaving a chair next to her for Don to pull up and join them. “Mrs. Lundeen,” Don said, but halted dramatically, with a staged shyness, “I mean, Jean…” He looked over at her and winked. She giggled and batted her eyelashes. Martin felt ill.
“Jean, I will tell you, you raised one fine young man here,” Don went on, clearly trying to win her over. “Pays his rent on time, keeps decent hours, no funny business with the ladies, if you know what I mean. And don’t think for a minute that his celebrity status at the Sentinel doesn’t add a little cache to the place.” He winked at her again, making her beam with pride as she looked across the table at Martin.
“I’m so glad to hear that, Don,” she said, with a motherly tone. “You know, I tried to get him to move out months and months ago, but he just felt his dear widowed mother needed his help and protection. Finally, I just said, ‘Dear, it’s time for you to leave the nest and soar like the eagle you are.’ I’m just happy that he’s found a new home that’s worthy of him.”
Martin rolled his eyes and wondered if his mother was demented or just being overly dramatic to impress Don, but he felt it better to let her get away with such a blatant lie, if only to keep the tone of the evening so positive. She made him move out? Good God! It didn’t hit him until much later that she referred to herself as a widow. “What was that all about?” he’d ask himself when reflecting on the night the following week.
“Well, Jean, I’m glad he landed here,” Don replied, keeping up the metaphor. “So what would you two like for dinner tonight?”
+ + +
Martin and Jean sat alone at the table as Don left to prepare their meal choices. Instead of the usual burgers and fries, Don had prepared a menu for the day that included walleye (for Catholics) and pot roast (for the Lutheran Lundeens and not-so-Catholic Catholics). The smell of the pot roast was so divine, neither Jean nor Martin could resist. “If we were Catholic, we'd have to confess this one,” Jean whispered conspiratorially to Don. Then she added, coyly, “Just something else to add to the list, I guess.”
“I like your style, Jean,” Don said. “Care to have a glass of wine with your meal and have a little more to confess?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Martin couldn’t help but understand his blatant flirtation. Something in Jean's expression told him that she understood it, too, and was all too happy to play along.
“Martin, what do you think?” she asked him excitedly. “Should we be naughty and each have a glass?” Since Martin had never seen his mother drink anything other than Communion wine, he was too dumb stuck to say anything, so he just nodded. Jean clapped her hands together happily, laughed and said, “Okay, Don, bring us two glasses of your favorite red wine.”
Don winked at her again and said, “At your service, pretty lady,” and he sashayed back to the bar with a little wiggle to his hips.
“What a lovely man,” Jean gushed. “So charming, and kind of cute…,” she trailed off, looking at him pouring the wine behind the bar.
“Cute, Mother? Are you kidding?” Martin’s face showed disgust, and he couldn’t believe he was observing a courtship ritual that involved his mother, of all people. And Don!
He followed her eyes over to the bar. Cleaned up, in that pressed white shirt and dress pants, he did look better than normal. He wasn’t so greasy looking. And his cologne was expensive and subtle, which was surprising. Martin could see how his mother might think he was “cute”, but hearing her say it made him think he was listening to a menopausal high school girl.
“Well, Don is a nice guy…could stand to lose a few pounds, though” Martin said, trying not to sound too negative. Jean cocked her head, as if trying to assess his physique. “You think so? Looks to me that he’s a man who just likes a good meal,” she replied. “I’ll bet he’s a wonderful cook.”
Chapter 21
Martin’s hair was still wet from his two-minute shower as he drove his Mazda into Jean’s driveway, but at least he was on time. He touched the ignition key, but didn’t get a chance to turn it off because Jean opened the door, and called out, “Don’t get out, Honey. I’ll be right there,” and disappeared back into the house, leaving the door ajar.
Martin put the car in park, leaned his head back on the headrest, closed his eyes, took in a big breath of air through his nose and let it out slowly. He was glad to have a quiet moment before Jean descended with all her Jean-ness. The slamming of the front door disrupted the quiet, and he lifted his head to see his mother scurry around the car to the passenger door, waving at him through the windshield. She appeared to be wearing a new dress, though Martin couldn't really tell. One over-embellished polyester garment with a matching short sleeved jacket from J.C. Penney tended to look exactly like the next one after a while.
“Oh, Martin, this is so wonderful,” Jean said as she crawled into the car, a little breathless. “I’ve been primping all day.”
Martin looked over at her as she buckled her seatbelt, and noticed her hair was styled and freshly bleached her trademark blond. “Did you have your hair done at Lady by Lovely? It looks pretty.”
Jean touched her hair, and nodded, obviously pleased that he had noticed. “I did. I was at the salon for almost 4 hours. Such luxury!” She looked over at Martin for the first time. “You look nice. It looks like you just got out of the shower.”
“That’s because I did just get out of the shower,” he said. “I spent the entire day getting my apartment ready for my mother’s visit, and barely had enough time to make it here by 5:30 to pick her up for the grand unveiling.”
Jean’s smile never left her face during the seven minute drive from downtown Siren to Risky Dick’s.
+ + +
Martin was glad that the parking lot was fairly empty when they drove in to Risky Dick’s. Being Good Friday, even the regulars would feel the need to repent and possibly go to church. The place wouldn’t be full until about 8:15 – long after Jean and Martin had finished their dinner and headed to Redeemer Lutheran Church down the highway.
Jean peered out of the car window at the building, trying to get the lay of the land. “Where is your apartment?” she asked, truly confused.
“There’s a stairway on the side. My place is just up the stairs, second door on the right,” Martin answered as he put the car in park. “Come on, Mom, I’m anxious for you to see it.”
Martin climbed out of the car, slammed the door and raced around the hood to open Jean’s door for her. He’d convinced himself that if he killed Jean with kindness, flattery and good manners, she wouldn’t notice the many warts in and around his apartment.
Martin held his hand out to help her out of the car, and placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he walked her through the pothole filled parking lot, trying to keep her navy pumps from getting too muddy. “Now, Mom, you have to be a little careful on these stairs. They are pretty steep. Hold on to the railing.”
As Martin disengaged her hand from his arm, he reached over to the railing to test its strength. It felt strong and didn’t move when he nudged it with his hand. He bent over slightly to look at the construction which he remembered as being much more rickety, and saw a series of bright new nail heads securing the rail better than it had been in years.
Jean grabbed the rail and briskly climbed the steps ahead of Martin. She stood primly by the second door on the right, which had a new mail box attached, as well as a name plate Martin had never seen before. “Martin Lundeen, #2” it said, looking as official as it possibly could given the fact that it was above the biggest dive in Burnett County.
As he went to unlock his door, Martin noticed the exterior of his windows looked as clean as the insides, and he wondered if Sharla had done that when he was busy with something else that afternoon. But then, he realized it couldn’t have been Sharla. She never left the room the entire time they worked.
The squeaking hinges of his door had been oiled, and the door opened easily, allowing Martin and his mother to sweep into his apartment. In addition to the new decorations and freshly clean carpet, Martin could tell that someone had sprayed an extra dose of air freshener in the room, making it smell even cleaner and more inviting than when he had rushed out to pick up Jean.
“Oh, Martin, this place is just lovely!” Jean exclaimed. "The colors are so handsome, so masculine!" He watched her ooh and ahh over every little item he and Sharla had purchased at WalMart that afternoon. Someone had put some new magazines on his bedside table – GQ and The New Yorker – and some fresh flowers on the small coffee table, all intended to create an image of Martin Lundeen for a mother who wanted desperately to believe her son was living a sophisticated life in a quiet, affordable efficiency on the outskirts of town.
As they walked down the stairs to have dinner at Risky Dick’s, Martin thought to himself, “Somehow, I’m going to have to thank Don for all of this.”
Martin put the car in park, leaned his head back on the headrest, closed his eyes, took in a big breath of air through his nose and let it out slowly. He was glad to have a quiet moment before Jean descended with all her Jean-ness. The slamming of the front door disrupted the quiet, and he lifted his head to see his mother scurry around the car to the passenger door, waving at him through the windshield. She appeared to be wearing a new dress, though Martin couldn't really tell. One over-embellished polyester garment with a matching short sleeved jacket from J.C. Penney tended to look exactly like the next one after a while.
“Oh, Martin, this is so wonderful,” Jean said as she crawled into the car, a little breathless. “I’ve been primping all day.”
Martin looked over at her as she buckled her seatbelt, and noticed her hair was styled and freshly bleached her trademark blond. “Did you have your hair done at Lady by Lovely? It looks pretty.”
Jean touched her hair, and nodded, obviously pleased that he had noticed. “I did. I was at the salon for almost 4 hours. Such luxury!” She looked over at Martin for the first time. “You look nice. It looks like you just got out of the shower.”
“That’s because I did just get out of the shower,” he said. “I spent the entire day getting my apartment ready for my mother’s visit, and barely had enough time to make it here by 5:30 to pick her up for the grand unveiling.”
Jean’s smile never left her face during the seven minute drive from downtown Siren to Risky Dick’s.
+ + +
Martin was glad that the parking lot was fairly empty when they drove in to Risky Dick’s. Being Good Friday, even the regulars would feel the need to repent and possibly go to church. The place wouldn’t be full until about 8:15 – long after Jean and Martin had finished their dinner and headed to Redeemer Lutheran Church down the highway.
Jean peered out of the car window at the building, trying to get the lay of the land. “Where is your apartment?” she asked, truly confused.
“There’s a stairway on the side. My place is just up the stairs, second door on the right,” Martin answered as he put the car in park. “Come on, Mom, I’m anxious for you to see it.”
Martin climbed out of the car, slammed the door and raced around the hood to open Jean’s door for her. He’d convinced himself that if he killed Jean with kindness, flattery and good manners, she wouldn’t notice the many warts in and around his apartment.
Martin held his hand out to help her out of the car, and placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he walked her through the pothole filled parking lot, trying to keep her navy pumps from getting too muddy. “Now, Mom, you have to be a little careful on these stairs. They are pretty steep. Hold on to the railing.”
As Martin disengaged her hand from his arm, he reached over to the railing to test its strength. It felt strong and didn’t move when he nudged it with his hand. He bent over slightly to look at the construction which he remembered as being much more rickety, and saw a series of bright new nail heads securing the rail better than it had been in years.
Jean grabbed the rail and briskly climbed the steps ahead of Martin. She stood primly by the second door on the right, which had a new mail box attached, as well as a name plate Martin had never seen before. “Martin Lundeen, #2” it said, looking as official as it possibly could given the fact that it was above the biggest dive in Burnett County.
As he went to unlock his door, Martin noticed the exterior of his windows looked as clean as the insides, and he wondered if Sharla had done that when he was busy with something else that afternoon. But then, he realized it couldn’t have been Sharla. She never left the room the entire time they worked.
The squeaking hinges of his door had been oiled, and the door opened easily, allowing Martin and his mother to sweep into his apartment. In addition to the new decorations and freshly clean carpet, Martin could tell that someone had sprayed an extra dose of air freshener in the room, making it smell even cleaner and more inviting than when he had rushed out to pick up Jean.
“Oh, Martin, this place is just lovely!” Jean exclaimed. "The colors are so handsome, so masculine!" He watched her ooh and ahh over every little item he and Sharla had purchased at WalMart that afternoon. Someone had put some new magazines on his bedside table – GQ and The New Yorker – and some fresh flowers on the small coffee table, all intended to create an image of Martin Lundeen for a mother who wanted desperately to believe her son was living a sophisticated life in a quiet, affordable efficiency on the outskirts of town.
As they walked down the stairs to have dinner at Risky Dick’s, Martin thought to himself, “Somehow, I’m going to have to thank Don for all of this.”
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