Chapter 23

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!”