You Think You Know Someone

Today was the day I was dreading for over fifty years. I never wanted it to happen, and yet here we are.

I’m driving up to Bearsville from my little corner of New York City, from a borough you may have heard of called Brooklyn, from a neighborhood called Park Slope that you probably haven’t.

Three hours (and two minutes, but who’s counting?) of my life I can’t get back. I was forced to spend three hours (and two minutes) listening to staticky radio since I forgot to pay my satellite radio bill. Perhaps forgetting is too forgiving a term - I never paid it because I haven’t had an income in months. But that’s a different story.

Why my mother moved to Bearsville is beyond me. This woman, who had never left her corner of the Bronx her entire life, moved to the Catskills, which is a question that she was never able to answer to anyone’s satisfaction, least of all mine.

“Bearsville, Mom?” I asked her in desperation when she called me during one hot summer. “Why the fuck Bearsville?”

“It is a lovely place, dear,” she replied condescendingly, making me feel like I was five again.

“Have you ever been there?” I asked.

“Yes, your father and I were there once when we were in our twenties,” she replied, easing her tone.

“What?” I was incredulous. “When?”

“Oh, dear, there is a lot you do not know about me, you know?”

“I know! You hardly ever tell me anything,” I said, disgusted as I usually wind up when talking to her. “Tell me, then.”

“One day,” she replied. “One day,” she trailed off and then hung up.

“Mom?” I said and then threw my cell phone across the room. Luckily for me, it landed on the sofa with a soft thud.

I had to admit, it was pretty countryside, this little part of Ulster County. Peace signs were plentiful, the old hippies and their offspring cashing in on the mystique of the free-love, rebellious sixties. I guess this is where old stoners are put out to pasture. Contrary to what you might think, Bearsville was not named after the many black bears present within its environs but after a German shopkeeper named Christian Baehr, who built a store near Sawkill Creek. Bearsville was also the home of Bearsville Studios, which is now defunct but saw such musical luminaries as Todd Rundgren, Dave Mathews, and Phish record there. It’s a shame the studio was sold.

My cellphone rang, and I saw it was my sister. “Hey, Mary,” I said as I answered the phone. “I’m almost there. What’s up?”

“Hey,” she replied, in that tired, slow speech pattern she adopted somewhere in her life. “I’m at the house and wanted to see how far away you were.”

I glanced at my GPS. “About 15 minutes out,” I answered, trying to counter her depression with the happiest tone I could muster.

“Oh, good. I’m just sitting in the den with a glass of wine,” she replied. Mary liked her drink, although I’m not sure she would qualify as a bona fide alcoholic. “Carson’s here too,” she added.

I rolled my eyes at that one. Carson and I never got on. I felt he was an arrogant little prick, and he thought I was a plain, vanilla asshole. I never understood what Mary saw in him, other than the money, but for some, I guess, that’s enough.

“See you shortly,” I said and hung up.

Soon after, I turned and pulled into the driveway of my mother’s house. I rolled my eyes for the second time that day as I saw the Cybertruck parked in front of the garage. The ugliest vehicle made today, and second in history only to the Pontiac Aztek, that travesty of a car sold in the early 2000s that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a sports car or an SUV and wound up being neither.

I turned off the engine of my Outback and opened the car door. Warm, forest air greeted me, as did my sister. " Hey, you, look at you, my big brother!” she said, walking down the stairs in a way that reminded me of Dorothy, only if Dorothy was three sheets to the wind. Maybe I was wrong about her drinking, I thought.

“Hey, sis!” I said with about as much enthusiasm as I could muster, glancing up to see Carson standing on the porch, raising his glass to me in an attempt at being cordial. I smiled and waved back as Mary and I hugged. “How have you been?” I asked and immediately regretted it.

“Well, you know, things have been great. We just got back from Greece - Santorini, you know - the place with all the white buildings right on the water?” she explained to me in that condescending way she had. I see she picked that up from Mom.

Carson had made his way down the stairs. I haven’t seen him in a while, but life must have been good to him along the way. His once athletic frame, replete with six-pack abs, had given way to a large, middle-aged paunch. I guess success can do that to a guy. Maybe.

“So, how was Greece?” I asked Mary, turning away from Carson.

“Santorini was great, man,” Carson said, ignoring that I directed my question to my sister. “So beautiful! And the women!” he said, slapping my back in a way much too cordial for our relationship. He had that lascivious look that all those men who fancy themselves playboys get, and I hated it, especially since he was married to my sister.

“That’s great, man, great,” I said, trying to end this conversation quicker than it started.

Mary motioned towards the house, and Carson and I followed her in. Upon entering, I saw that it was nearly empty. Quizzically, I looked at Mary.

“Oh, I suppose you’re wondering about…” she trailed away, waving her hand around the room, wine sloshing in the glass. I stared at her.

“Carson and I were up last week with some movers,” she started before being interrupted.

“We actually hired a junk company to lug away most of the stuff,” he blurted out.

“Carson!” Mary reprimanded him.

“What?” he replied, feigning shock and surprise. “Like he wouldn’t notice?”

“I’m standing right here,” I said in a monotone voice.

OK, it’s not like I wanted any of her stuff. She was always a minimalist, keeping only the bare essentials, preserving everything until there was barely anything left of the item, be it kitchen utensils or clothes.

“I hope you don’t mind, " Mary said sheepishly, and her tone indicated that she had drunk more than the one glass of wine she held in her hand.

I looked up, having been staring at the ground for the last several minutes, wanting to avoid looking into Mary’s eyes and not wanting to look into Carson’s. That man gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“No, not at all,” I said, noting that the sun was beginning to set as a chill crept into the air.

Mary looked again at me and started to speak. Carson, being the misogynistic bastard he was, started to interrupt her. Mary held her hand up and, in some miracle worthy of Christ almighty Himself, Carson stopped.

“There’s the issue of the outside building,” she said. I knew precisely what building she meant. Mom was always very secretive about it whenever I visited and never let me go in.

Not one to be stifled, Carson interrupted her anyway. “We can’t get in…”

Mary, not someone who liked to be one-upped, interrupted him. “There’s a padlock on it, and we didn’t feel it was right to open it without you.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Mary,” I stated, being as honest as possible, perhaps because it was the truth.

“Do you want to open it? Do you have any idea what’s in it?” I asked.

“You know Mom! She was always so protective and never let anyone near it.”

“Well, let’s open it before there is no daylight left at all.”

“Maybe there’s an antique car, or gold bouillon, or loads of cash!” Carson couldn’t hide his glee. I swear that man gets worse by the second. I don’t know how Mary sleeps with him.

I laughed. “Probably not, big boy,” I said, walking towards the shed.

“We found these bolt cutters in the garage,” Mary said as we walked the short distance to the shed. She pointed to the device leaning against the wall of the building.

The building wasn’t large, but not tiny. Big enough as a small bedroom, I guessed. I picked up the bolt cutters and attacked the lock, which showed its age but was not rusty and falling apart as expected.

I tried my best, but after three failed attempts, I tucked my proverbial tail between my legs and let Carson do the honors. He must be good for something.

One try later, and the lock snapped. We all looked at each other. I walked towards the door and undid the latch. Opening the door, I fumbled for a light switch, which, as expected, was just inside the door. I flicked it on.

What I saw was not anything I would have expected in a million lifetimes. To say I was shocked is minimizing my surprise. I turned in astonishment and looked at Mary, whose hands clasped over her mouth. Carson stood with his big gob open wide enough to let a hawk fly in.

“Is nobody going to say it?”

Before us, in a room resplendent in neon red light emanating from the sign hanging over the couch adorned with a white faux fur throw. Our eyes collectively scanned the room, which held the most extensive collection of BDSM equipment I had ever seen in my life. Restraints of every sort and type, sex toys, collars, blindfolds, and stuff, I don’t even know what the hell it was for.

Speechless, we turned to each other and burst out laughing, seeing no other recourse. Finally, Carson deadpanned, “I guess we can’t call Junk Haulers on this,” which only caused Mary and me to laugh even louder.

“Mom,” I said. “apparently had a whole secret life we never knew about.”

All Mary could muster was a squeaky “What the f…” before another wave of laughter hit her.

Oh, and that red neon light? It was from the six-foot sign above the couch that read “Mistress Becky” in her own cursive, beautiful as it was.

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