Maroon's Mob

I love her. I love her and she’s going to be mine. 

Those were the thoughts that tore through my mind when I first saw her. I was at Sarah’s, eating with my mom. We always went to Sarah’s on Thursday nights. It was our little tradition. 

Perhaps, in reality, it was the only time I suffered the company of my own mother. 

On the other side of the restaurant sat a loud and obnoxious table full of people I’d never seen before. Most of the customers that went to Sarah’s were regulars, so it was highly unusual to see an entire table of new faces. Besides her, there was one other woman at the table, the rest were men. They had multiple bottles of wine and were sharing appetizers. I was mesmerized, I couldn’t look away. She ate so delicately, her big eyes wandered lightly around the table, a smile teased at her lips. She silently observed the loud group around her. 

My mother spoke, but I wasn’t listening. 

There was a flourish in my peripheral vision, and I finally came to. The waiter had removed the menu from the table and walked away. I looked incredulously at my mother. 

“What, you weren’t gonna let me order?” I said to her. 

She narrowed her eyes at me, “What are you so involved in?”

“I- huh?” It was all I could do to keep my eyes from wandering, “What are you talking about? Involved in? What are you accusing me of?”

“What am I talking about? What the hell are you looking at? That’s what I’m talking about!” she unraveled her silverware and placed the napkin in her lap, “Unless there’s something you are involved in that I should know about!”

I thought about all the unsavory things I was involved in that would raise the hairs on the back of my mother’s neck. 

“I am involved in nothing out of the ordinary, mother.”

I assumed this response would placate her, but she just stared at me. 

“What? What’s your problem now?”

Her eyes flicked down and returned to my face with such conviction that I realized what she wanted. I grabbed my silverware and made a big show of unwrapping it. I put the napkin over my lap. 

“So, what did you order for me?”

“I decided that I wanted pizza.”

I knew this meant she ordered a single small sized pizza and expected us to share it. Cheapskate. 

I rolled my eyes, “Did you at least get a kind that I would also enjoy?”

“I ordered you a salad.”

“Mother!”

“What is your problem?” she said.

I wondered if she noticed the shirt I wore was tight around the arms and neck. Not because I had gained weight, mind you, but simply because she was the one who bought it, and she was still in denial about me having grown into a proper adult. 

Of sorts. 

Regardless, the ill-fitting shirt didn’t help my anxiousness nor my level of accumulating moisture. I pulled vigorously at the collar.

My mother’s eyes flashed anger at me, “I spoke to your father this morning.”

Don’t worry, she was only angry that I was pulling on her gracious gift. I released the shirt collar and returned my hands to their idle position, properly crossed in my lap. 

She continued, “He asked for money again.”

It was always the same. Like clockwork, every other Thursday my mother attacked me with the information that she’d spoken to my father, which meant that he had asked her for money, which then meant that she would ask me for money. Then, she bullied me into submission and I gave her the money so she could give it to him. 

“How much did he ask for this time?” I huffed and crossed my arms defensively, which was obviously an act that I expected my mother to play along to. 

I was met with a stony silence and I realized I had been too involved in my own thoughts that I wasn’t looking at her. I wasn’t looking at anything, really. I didn’t want to look at them, at her. So, I looked at my mother instead. 

Her eyes were watery and her chapped lips seemed to quiver, although I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it. Her lips were always chapped, every time I saw her, even though I always offered her lip balm and once or twice slipped one into her purse. 

“Did something happen?” I asked. 

“Oh,” she shook her head and brought her napkin to her face, “It’s that woman again!”

“Woman?”

I couldn’t hold it back anymore, I meant to only glance over, but when I did, she was already looking at me. 

I thought she would look away once we made eye contact, but she didn’t. Her hair was dark and curly, it framed her face beautifully and made her look dainty and slim. Her lips were a deep color of red, tinted with, perhaps, purple? Maroon, was that the name? Or perhaps the color was called burgundy?

It’s silly, but I started referring to her in my mind as Maroon then, so ensnared was I by her lips.  

Maroon’s dress was black. In fact, I noticed then that all the people in her party wore black. They were also dressed to the nines. I saw Sarah’s diner as a more casual affair. Even my mother and I always showed up wearing the clothes we wore that day. I couldn’t imagine decking myself out in a crisp black suit to come eat pasta or salad. Or pizza, I suppose I should mention. 

The man sitting next to Maroon noticed then that she was no longer engaged with the table. He looked first into her face and then followed her gaze, staring straight at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t seem to be a happy one. 

He turned from me and leaned toward Maroon. He pushed aside Maroon’s thick hair and pressed his lips to her ear. His hand looked huge. His everything looked huge. He seemed to be all muscle. His suit was tight around his arms, but in an intimidating way, and not in a - his mother bought a shirt the same size as those he wore as a teenager - sort of way. 

Maroon laughed and spoke to the man and I strained my ears to hear what her voice sounded like but the restaurant was too loud. The man put his arm around her and she looked away from me and at him instead. It felt like my heart was shriveling up. 

Another flourish in my vision and the waiter stood there at our table, pizza and salad in hand. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?” 

Ma’am? I blinked and turned my attention back to my poor mother, who was dabbing her eyes. 

“Yes, yes,” she waved her napkin at the waiter, “I’m fine, just leave me be.”

The waiter plunked the food down and drifted away like they were never even there in the first place. 

I watched her in astonishment while I tried to remember what we had been talking about. 

Oh right, my father. The money. Same old stuff. Why was she so upset? This was a tactic I had never seen before. 

I said, “Don’t worry mother, I’ll give you the money, just tell me how much you need.”

“It’s not about money Henry, I told you it’s about that woman!” Her tears were all dry now at the sight of her pizza, which she took such a forceful bite of I worried briefly for her dentures. 

“Woman?” I said again, and my eyes shot to Maroon.

I almost jumped out of my seat. Maroon was looking right at me. I worried the whole process would repeat again but this time she quickly turned her gaze away. I was able to avert my eyes as well but instead of looking at my mother, I looked down at my salad. I had understood the gist of what my mother was saying. 

“Is it the same one as before?” I asked tentatively and busied myself with drowning my salad in dressing.  

“It is my understanding that this is the same woman as before,” my mother answered in between bites of pizza, “I think it’s getting serious this time.”

“Well.. that’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Henry, it’s all just so new, isn’t it?”

My parents were getting divorced. It wasn’t fair that my father asked my mother for money every other week, when he was the one out there meeting new people but living in our house. My mother’s house. The house I grew up in. The house he now lived in alone. 

My mother is old, but she’s gone back to work. No one cares, not even her son, who peddles drugs and tries not to get STDs at the college parties he goes to every weekend. Parties he knew he was too old to keep going to. But hey, at least he gave her a measly couple hundred every other damned Thursday. 

Anyway.

I’ve done bad things. I’ve been in bad places before with bad people. Bad situations where people got hurt, got into things they shouldn’t’ve, things that the average person would likely deem regrettable. 

I might even admit to regretting some of it myself, some day. 

But I had never seen a dead body before. I had also never dealt with a real, legitimate mob, but somehow that sounds less impressive. 

What happened next just might have convinced me to get my act together. 

I’m not entirely sure how it all went down, but I do remember the bright headlights that shone through the windows of the restaurant when a car rolled easily into the parking lot. Later, the news had said that it was one mob attacking the other. Italians, I guess. It also turned out that Maroon and her mob were regulars at Sarah’s, they just never showed up on Thursdays. The news suspected the attack wasn’t entirely a surprise. 

Three men with big guns busted through the door and started shooting anything that moved. I don’t know if I jumped or fell out of my chair but I ended up on the ground and I just laid there, hoping I wouldn’t get shot. I searched frantically for Maroon, and was shocked to find her holding a gun and shooting at the intruders.

I wished I was beside her until the big man who had whispered in her ear fell onto the ground like a giant, muscley bag of potatoes.

It was over as fast as it had begun, and I’ll never know why the opposing group only sent three people to take on Maroon’s mob. 

All was quiet for a moment, and with a start I remembered I hadn’t been sitting at my table by myself. 

On the floor a few feet away, was my mother. 

My mother. 

Her little oval wire glasses had been knocked off of her face and she sat there on the ground, squinting at the world around her. There was a small gash on her forehead that was beaded with thick globs of blood. She was fine, mostly, but she looked scared. 

Then there was noise and people were yelling, screaming, running. A couple of regular restaurant patrons had been hit, I didn’t pay attention to the part of the news that said how many or if they lived. Only two of Maroon’s mob were killed. The surviving mob members quickly gathered themselves and carried their wounded away. 

Maroon headed for the door but stopped when she saw me. She glided toward me and held out her hand. I grabbed it and stood up and then didn’t let go. It was cold and sweaty. 

She didn’t let go either. Her eyes glistened. 

“My love,” she said. 

My heart was pounding out of my chest, “Please, your name?”

“Aphrodite.”

It seemed like a cruel joke, and when I looked pleadingly into her face she laughed, her expression kind. 

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “next time.”

Yeah, so what?

Did you really think there was a next time?

No, of course not. And you’d be right. There wasn’t a next time. I never saw her again. 

I returned to my mother and found her glasses. We sat back at our table and I was glad to see that the pizza had survived the scuffle. I handed my mother the best slice and picked up a piece for myself.