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.”