Jane closed the door on the dining room after a last, admiring look, to keep the cats and Willard out of the room, and she tackled the broccoli.
“Anything I can do?" Mike asked, coming in the kitchen door. "By the way, Mrs. Nowack said parsley is passé and she's doing a pineapple and Chinese mustard sauce for the ham."
“Parsley is passé? How dare she?" Jane said with a grin. "I'm the hostess with the mostest today."
“Be careful," Mike said, pouring himself a soft drink and sitting down at the table.
“Of what?"
“Of getting too cocky.”
Jane went on cutting broccoli flowerettes. "Are we talking about me or you?"
“Me, I guess," Mike admitted. "School?" Jane asked.
“Yeah. Do they send my grades to you, like they did in high school?"
“Either that or you'll send them to me. Won't you?”
He nodded. "You're not gonna like them much. All C's, unless some instructors take pity on me."
“Oh, Mike," Jane said, knowing she sounded terribly disappointed in spite of her resolve to be supportive. "You were a straight-A student in high school."
“Yeah, but I knew why I was doing it. I was working at getting A's so I could get into college and now I'm there and don't know why. See what I mean?"
“Not exactly."
“I don't know what's next… why I'm doing this… where I'm headed."
“But you know wherever you're headed you need a college degree to get there.”
“Sure. But in what? One of my nerdy roommates knows he wants to be an accountant so he's taking all these math and business courses besides the basic stuff and he's acing everything. Mom, he doesn't know the difference between a fork and a spoon, but he knows what he wants to be. Another one is taking all this science stuff and likes it so much he wants to talk about it all the time. Genes and DNA and that. I'm just taking all this dumb college freshman stuff. English, algebra, earth science. I've already aced those in high school."
“And now you're getting C's in the same things? They're that much harder?"
“No, the courses aren't hard at all. In fact, some are a lot easier than high school. It's just 'cause they're so boring. I want to be really, really interested in something. I want to be like John, spouting about double helixes because I think they're so neat I can't keep it to myself."
“But Mike, you're interested in — and knowledgeable about — a lot of things."
“Uh-huh. Too many. I'm pretty good at sports, but I don't have dreams about making touchdowns. I can play a couple instruments, but I'm not good enough to make it my life's work. I know all the grammar rules and have big chunks of Macbeth memorized, but you can't make a living with that stuff. Besides, I don't want to.”
Jane dumped the broccoli flowerettes into a bowl and started peeling the stalks and cutting them into slices. "Okay, I'm getting the picture. Yesterday I was asking Shelley for advice and she said she'd like to be the wise woman and give it to me, but had none. I feel sort of the same way. But I do have a few suggestions.”
“Yeah?"
“First, get the grades in the dumb courses u "Yeah, I know that. I will. Piece of cake, really."
“Second, get it out of your head that you have to decide right now what you're going to be for the rest of your life. You've got at least two years before you have to even pick a major — and even then you can change it. Third, go get the college catalog. I saw a copy in your room when I was cleaning it up after Thanksgiving."
“Why the catalog?"
“Because I want you to go through it and mark the weirdest courses you can find and take at least two of them every semester. If they're upper level and you can't actually enroll for credit, at least you can audit them. It doesn't matter if your first two years of required courses take two and a half or three years. There's enough money in the trust I set up for you with your dad's life insurance money to spring for an extra year if you want.”
Mike went upstairs with what Jane imagined was a little bit of a spring in his step. He returned to the kitchen with the catalog open. He was laughing to himself.
“Here's a good one. 'The History of Armor: From Leather to Kevlar.' "
“Sign up for it," Jane said, dumping the broccoli stems in the pot of water that was now at the boil.
“Omigawd!" Mike exclaimed. "How aboutthis one: 'Mortuary Science: Chemistry, Cosmetics, and Counseling.' I can't believe it."
“I sure hope that's not something you'd take and want to blab about at home. Although it would probably go over great in a dorm.”
Mike found courses in gender bias in the military, an art class called "Color and Psychology," a history class titled "Catherine the Great: Was She?", a course in flower arranging ("Flower arranging?" Jane exclaimed. "Are there parents actually paying for their kids to take that?"), and several revolting-sounding premed courses.
“Mom, you're great!" Mike finally said. "Even if I don't take any of this stuff, you've sure made me feel a lot better." He bounced off to his room, still flipping through the course catalog.
Am I great? Jane wondered. No, probably not. But she was doing her best and if her best was just making her son feel better about himself, that wasn't too shabby an accomplishment. And who could tell — it might turn out that Mike would actually want to be a mortician, or an armor-maker.
She tossed the broccoli flowerettes into the steamer sitting over the boiling stems and started the white sauce.
Seven
Jane went on checking off items on her oh-so‑ efficient list. By three o'clock she was feeling that hosting the caroling party was no big deal and with a little organizational effort, she could entertain more often. Possibly quite spectacularly.
She managed to put out of her mind the many other times she'd believed herself to be highly organized only to discover that she'd omitted some vital consideration. Once, with a houseful of people, several of whom had occasion to use the bathroom, she'd run out of toilet paper. Another time she prepared to start the coffee for a party as the first guest arrived and realized the coffee can contained only a few disgusting crumbs. On both these occasions Shelley had bailed her out.
But this time, she truly believed she was prepared for anything that could happen.
She was wrong.
At quarter after three, Mel called. "I've just picked my mom up from the airport and she's dying to meet you," he said. "Is this a good time?”
Jane had never really wanted to meet Mel's mother. He always spoke of her very fondly and Jane could find no specific fault with what she'd heard about Addie VanDyne. It just amounted to a vague uneasiness.
But she said, "It's a perfect time. I don't have to put the potato casseroles in until—" She consulted her list. " — five-fifteen.”
This didn't make much sense to Mel, but he didn't question her. "I think we may have a slight problem," he said. "I'll tell you about it when we get there.”
In her current cocky mood, the concept of a slight problem didn't trouble Jane. She was Woman, she could cope. Little problems were mere trivialities: She quickly threw together a big green salad. This was marked as a four o'clock job, but it probably wouldn't wilt too badly if done a bit early. She glanced out the window while tearing lettuce and noticed that it had begun to snow again. Big, fluffy white flakes that were quickly covering the ground, but melting on the street. If it didn't get a lot colder and glaze over, the snow would be nice, adding a very traditional Christmas touch to the party.