Al Roker's Sweetheart

Fiction / No shade to America's favorite weatherman

Note: This is fiction. I write fiction too. I just haven’t published any in… years? I welcome your thoughts. Let’s use that creative writing degree, yeah?

It was 5:45 a.m., and the curtains in Marianne’s bedroom glowed blue with the faint September sun. She had been awake for at least 15 minutes already, but hadn’t opened her eyes yet. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to the day.

No one in the house would be awake yet; not for at least another hour. At any other point in her life, she’d be up out of bed, making coffee, feeding the dog. She would enjoy the quiet of the sunrise hours, reading the paper in her huge, overstuffed easy chair. She called it her throne, even with its scratched up left-hand side and its slightly broken reclining mechanism. Archie Bunker could eat his heart out. Marianne Pearson was the boss.

Now she wasn’t doing that. She didn’t get to pad downstairs, avoiding the creaky steps on the stairs like a cat burglar. She didn’t get to stand before the kitchen window and watch the cardinal couple dance around the bird feeder, trying to understand what they were saying with their sharp, metallic chirps. Her bones were too fragile, her movements too unsteady, and everyone in her life - she couldn’t think of a single person she knew that did not share this concern - was utterly terrified she would break a hip.

Today was Marianne’s 100th birthday. Somehow, for some godforsaken reason, she was still alive, and with most of her marbles still in her possession. Her daughter Bonnie proudly told people she was “sharp as a tack” and “a real spark plug,” neither of which sounded particularly accurate to Marianne. She had her wits about her, certainly, but she hadn’t felt sharp or sparky in quite a while.

Marianne opened her eyes. The curtains had turned from deep dawn blue to a color halfway between daylight and gray. She glanced over at the clock radio. It was 6:15 now. Bonnie would be up soon, and would help her downstairs.

She looked at the book on her nightstand; the glasses needed to read it next to it, though even with the glasses it was difficult these days. A cup of water. A box of tissues. Various pill bottles. A lavender-scented pillow spray meant to create calm, whatever that means, gifted in the toe of a stocking last Christmas; used once, perhaps twice, when something didn’t smell right.

A thought passed through her mind, followed quickly by a firm decision: She could get downstairs on her own. She could do it. If she took a wrong step and tumbled down the stairs, it would be fine to die on the day she turned 100.

She sat up, and slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed. She could see the outline of her LL Bean slippers a few feet away, and beyond that, the door. That was a good goal. Get to the slippers, put them on, and then get to the door.

If Al was here, she thought, he’d get up with me. He’d get the door for me. He’d help. The image of finding him flashed through her mind; hand over his stomach, slumped in the driver seat, a tub of butter pecan ice cream melting in a grocery bag in the backseat of their old red Saturn sedan. That was nearly 30 years ago.

She put her feet on the floor, and pushed herself up with her hands, standing still for a few moments when she was finally upright. She grabbed the cane near the bed and inched her way toward the slippers. She was close enough to the wall to flip the ceiling light on, and grab the sweater from the hook on the back of the door.

It felt good to do it alone. She had done most things alone for the better part of two decades; she had successfully lived alone into her early 90s, resisting the demands of Bonnie, who had lived in Atwood most of her life, and Albert Junior, who left Maine when he turned 18 and never returned. The idea of living in some retirement village or facility was just about the most distasteful thing she could imagine. She hated living in the dormitories in college. Too cramped. Too much supervision. Too little privacy. She wasn’t going to do that again.

She grabbed the door and pulled it open, and faced the hallway toward the stairs, gripping the door frame. She had lived in this house for 47 years. Once both kids were out of college she and Al moved out of their little old home on Dartmouth Street and into something they both liked better. Al was the cheapest man she’d ever known, but the one time he really splurged was on the Craftsman, a bungalow built the year she was born, with a big front porch and a sunny sitting room and wild rose bushes all along the side.

Marianne was not moving out of the house, that was certain, so Bonnie moved in. With Pete, her second husband, a blank slate of a man aside from the Patriots and fishing. Mom needs help, Bonnie said, and she wanted to be sure she got the Craftsman when Mom died. That second part was unsaid, but it was plenty loud to Marianne. That she’d made it another eight years wasn’t part of the plan.

She was grateful to her daughter, to be sure. And she loved her, of course. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t also resent her. Just a little bit. You can have the right feeling and the wrong feeling at the same time. You just don’t say the wrong one out loud.

She took a first step into the hallway, steadying herself on the wall. The bedroom door suddenly swung open, and Bonnie appeared, her face registering shock at the sight of her 100-year-old mother.

“Mom!” she hissed, just above a whisper. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be walking around on your own!”

“I wanted to go downstairs,” Marianne said. “You weren’t up yet.”

“You scared the crap out of me,” Bonnie said. “Just… just stay there. I’m gonna go pee and then I’ll come downstairs with you. Jesus, Mom. Don’t do that. You just scared me to death.”

Bonnie darted into the bathroom and shut the door. Marianne stood outside, listening to her pee. One time, when Bonnie was six, she let her go into a bathroom at a restaurant alone, and when she didn’t come out after five minutes she banged on the door to ask her if she was OK. An enormous man opened the door and said he was just fine, ma’am, and Marianne felt a tug at her skirt to see her daughter, who had gone into the women’s room, of course, and not the men’s. The entire kitchen burst out laughing.

The door swung open and Bonnie emerged, hair and teeth brushed.

“Happy birthday, mom,” she said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, dear,” Marianne said. “I really hope you don’t make too much of a fuss today.”

“It’s a big day,” Bonnie said. “We have to make a little bit of a fuss.”

“I suppose so,” she replied.

They began the laborious process of coming downstairs, finally landing in the living room and getting Marianne settled in her throne. Bonnie clicked on the TV and navigated to NBC, where “The Today Show” was just starting. She filled the coffeemaker and pressed the button, bringing a cup - milk only, no sugar - to Marianne a few minutes later.

“So, everyone’s coming over at 11, remember?” Bonnie said, as she started pulling food out onto the counter. “Jenny is going to be here a little earlier than that to help set up, and she’s bringing the cake up from Portland. Whenever Pete gets up I’m going to have him hang up the banner. And Margo and Patrick are bringing that mac and cheese that everyone likes, with the Cheez-Its on top? That was so good. Remember that, Mom, from Memorial Day? You said you really liked it?”

“I suppose so,” Marianne said. “If you say so.”

“Well, I know you like macaroni and cheese, Mom, since you used to make it all the time. And I’ve got chips and dip, and a salad, and then the lobster rolls. Do you want anything else, Mom?”

“I wish you wouldn’t have spent all that money on lobster rolls,” she said. “It’s too much. Lobster is so expensive.”

“You sound like Dad. Hey, it’s Albert’s money. That’s all he can do these days, is just send money, and spend money. I still can’t believe he managed to fly out for this. And anyway, it’s only enough for ten of them. Jenny won’t eat it. The kids won’t eat it. I can’t imagine not eating lobster if someone else is paying for it,” she said, chuckling.

13 people, Marianne thought. 20 years ago, there would have been three times that for a birthday party. Today, it was Bonnie and Pete and Jenny, the only grandkid on the East Coast. The neighbors and their kids. Cousin Esther. Albert, who paid for the lobster. She hadn’t seen him in months.

“Sue and Bill are coming today, Mom, remember?” Bonnie said. “They’re driving all the way up for it.”

They were her best friend Betsy’s kids, and she loved them. They were warm, and funny, and didn’t have an ounce of nonsense about them. Sue and Bonnie were friends as children, but now they seemed like night and day, with Sue’s travels to faraway places and masters degree, and Bonnie’s disinterest in most of that. It always made Marianne a little sad to see them; in that way that sadness can also be nice. Betsy died six years ago. Most of her friends were dead, she thought. The parties were so small now. She was the only one left.

“The Today Show” people nattered on in the background. She tried to avoid the news, for the most part. After Watergate, she decided that most politicians were not to be trusted, no matter how nice they seem or how much they promise. The current president was a nightmare, even though Bonnie seemed to like him. Bonnie, in Marianne’s estimation, was a poor judge of character, considering her first husband and the boyfriends after that, none of whom were particularly skilled at having good jobs or being good fathers or not eyeballing attractive waitresses. Pete wasn’t much of an improvement. Not too bright. Not too interesting. Not too anything. Not that she’d ever say that to Bonnie.

Bonnie said the president sent birthday cards to people turning 100. She did not want a birthday card from that man in the White House. She would throw it in the trash. She would tell Bonnie to dump coffee grounds and cat shit on it. She would give her a piece of her mind. She would summon the anger she used to feel, when Al would chide her for getting her nails done, or when she worked in classifieds at the Atwood Register and the ad salesmen would laugh uproariously when she said she enjoyed reading John Updike and William Faulkner, as if she was too stupid to read big, important books. Sometimes, she’d say something. Mostly, she didn’t.

Perhaps, these days, she was too frail to be taken seriously. She felt like a doll sometimes, dressed up in cozy clothes, waited on and carted around to be shown off. 100 years old, they said. You must know the secret. You must feel pretty lucky to have lived this long. Marianne wasn’t sure about that. She didn’t want to die, per se, but living was getting annoying.

“Hey Mom,” Bonnie said, a knowing tone in her voice. “You should pay attention to the TV in a minute.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because you might see somebody you recognize!” She set down a plate on the TV tray next to the chair, with two pieces of toast on it, slathered with butter and honey.

Marianne grimaced.

“What happened? Did someone die?”

“No, Mom, I just think something nice is going to be on in a second,” Bonnie said.

Marianne looked back at the TV, which presently was showing a commercial for toilet paper. Everybody talked so fast. Everybody was trying to sell you prescription drugs, or laundry detergent, or expensive new cars. Did ads ever actually get anyone to buy anything, she wondered. Was Tide really better today than it was 50 years ago?

“The Today Show” came back from break, the four anchors sharing a couch. Bonnie dropped the knife she was using to slice up cheese, and it clattered to the floor. “Watch, Mom! Watch!”

A gigantic jar of Smucker’s strawberry jam spun into frame, as Al Roker’s genial voice spoke in voiceover.

“A very happy 100th birthday to Marianne Pearson of Atwood, Maine, who raised two beautiful children including daughter Bonnie, who says her mother is a sweetheart. Marianne says the secret to life is to enjoy everything as much as you can!”

Bonnie nearly jumped for joy.

“You see, Mom? We got you on TV for your 100th birthday! And actually on your birthday, too! Everybody’s going to see it. What do you think?”

Marianne was stumped. She struggled to respond.

“Well, that’s… nice, dear.”

“Nice? It’s amazing! That’s national television, Mom. You’re famous! I got in touch with them weeks ago. I told them all about you. They were so excited to put you on,” Bonnie said. “Al Roker called you a sweetheart.”

Marianne glanced up at her daughter, now standing over her chair, awaiting praise and gratitude.

“I don’t think I’m a sweetheart,” Marianne said. “I don’t think he was right about that.”

“I’m the one who told him,” Bonnie replied. “I called you a sweetheart. Come on, Mom.”

“I had a lot more to do in my life than be a sweetheart. Nobody knows anything about me. Certainly not Al Roker. And apparently not you, either,” Marianne said.

Bonnie’s face fell.

“Well jeez, Mom, maybe I should cancel the party, if you’re in such a bad mood,” she said.

“I like to read. I love to read. I always have. You could have told him that. And I like movies, too, even though we never watch them. I used to love to go to the movies. And I had a job, you know. I had a couple jobs. I made sure you kids had fun. I have a college degree, too. There’s a lot about me you don’t know. I don’t even think you care,” Marianne said, her voice shaking. “I’m 100 years old and everybody that knew me is gone. You just want to get me on TV for yourself. I think this birthday party is for you, really, Bonnie.”

“The Today Show” people kept on nattering. Bonnie was silent for a moment.

“It’s too late to cancel now,” she said. “I’m going to go take a shower. Happy birthday, Mom.”

Bonnie stomped up the stairs. The cheese knife still lay on the kitchen floor.

Marianne stared at her hands. That was too mean, she thought. I went too far. Even if it was true. She hadn’t been to the movies in years.

She looked out the window at the big maple tree in the yard, just starting to turn red. How far along is it, she thought - is it actually really fall yet? She put her hands on either side of the chair, and pushed herself up. She was going to go outside and see for herself.

She opened the front door, the bright morning sun flooding into the front hallway. It was a gorgeous September day, the kind that Al would have called picture-perfect. She stepped onto the porch, and got herself down the three steps to the walkway. No problem. A few leaves had fallen. Pumpkins were already out at Margo and Patrick’s. She remembered when the Higgins family lived at that house. One time John Higgins came home drunk and slipped on the ice and laid there helpless, calling for his wife Martha to rescue him. She laid into him. She nearly left him there. Good for her.

She kept walking, her cane keeping her upright. She turned onto the sidewalk and headed down Oak Street, slowly shuffling toward downtown. She was still in her pajamas. She didn’t care. She might go get a doughnut at Miller’s. She might go to the library. She might walk toward the water and see if the ducks were out. The sun was warm and golden on her skin, and somewhere, someone was mowing a lawn. She heard Bonnie off in the distance, shouting frantically. She was already halfway to Main Street, and it felt good to be out on her own. It’s my birthday, she thought. It’s my birthday.