The text message came through at 9:54 AM. I remember the time exactly because I was walking into a 10:00 class and as soon as I read the message I wished I hadn’t. It was from Louis, my partner’s brother in New Jersey.
“Please tell my brother to call his mother,” I read. “It is an urgent matter.”
I was immediately annoyed, not just because Louis has the odd habit of referring to his family in the third person, like he’s not related to them, but because, once again, he was putting me in the middle of whatever domestic drama he had conjured up for that day: why can’t he just text my partner directly? Moreover I was 98% certain that the “urgent matter” was something like “There’s a squirrel in the birdbath,” or something equally mundane, but my partner’s mother, Duckie, is pushing 90 and is still lives alone in New Jersey, so you never know.
I texted my partner: “Louis texted me,” I wrote. “Call Duckie ASAP.” I paused. “He says it’s urgent, ” I wrote, knowing that would send him into orbit. And, feeling satisfied, I went to my class.
I returned home at 11:45 and my partner was still on the phone with Duckie. The conversation was not going well. “That’s a really bad idea.” my partner said. There was a long pause; I counted down from ten; right on cue I heard him say, “Ma, don’t cry.” This was followed by, “Ma? Hello? Ma?” which meant that Duckie had hung up.
My partner looked at me, looked at the clock, clearly decided it was too early for a glass of wine and sighed. “Her basement refrigerator died,” he said shortly. “Again.
I nodded; I know this saga too well. In 1983 Duckie bought a new refrigerator to replace the ancient one she had had for over 30 years. Last year what she still calls the “new refrigerator” developed an alarming rattle and would stop running, often for hours at a time; the writing was on the wall and although Duckie hates to spend money she was finally convinced that her refrigerator’s days were numbered and she bought a new one. Then, always the optimist, she moved the old refrigerator down to the basement.
“It still works most of the time,” said Duckie, ever thrifty. “I can’t just throw it away.”
Duckie liked having an extra refrigerator in the basement and in short order both the refrigerator and the freezer compartments were loaded to the max.
“Is this a good idea?” asked my partner when we were in Jersey last Christmas; he had to yell because the rattling noise, reverberating off the cellar walls, was deafening. “What are you going to do with all this food when the refrigerator dies again?”
“The refrigerator is fine,” said Duckie stoutly. “I think it likes it here in the basement.”
“It’s pretty loud,” I yelled.
“I can’t hear it upstairs,” said Duckie. And that was that.
This spring Duckie’s knee has been giving her trouble and she has not been able to manage the steps down to the cellar for several weeks now. No one is really sure when the basement refrigerator finally croaked but Wednesday when Louis went downstairs to fetch a container of cottage cheese he opened the refrigerator door and almost passed out.
A heated argument ensued, during which Duckie insisted that the refrigerator could be repaired and that the food within could be saved. Louis disagreed, vehemently, and when, predictably, Duckie began to cry Louis texted me:
“Please tell my brother to call his mother,” he wrote. “It is an urgent matter.”