The Stepmother: A Chicago Memory

     For no particular reason, the other day I thought of John. He was a friend from my elementary school days back in Chicago. On my block lived my best friend Kenny, Howard, our mutual friend and sometime object of torment because he was German and took himself too seriously at times, the Scott brothers and an assortment of minor characters who interacted with us on occasion. But John was not part of the gang since he lived a few blocks away and didn’t mix with any of them. In fact, they didn’t get along with each other at all. I remember one winter when Kenny threw a slushball at John and knocked his glasses off. John was crying and I had to sympathize with him because I knew that it really had to sting. I had walked him home that day and we talked about it. Kenny could be really pigheaded sometimes. Anyway, John and I shared many interests and I would come over to his house to build models together. Anyone who has ever painted “flesh” on olive drab soldier figures knows what a hassle it is to cover the dark plastic and make it look good. John’s solution was novel - he painted them with gloss black and proudly proclaimed them to be “Congolese” troops. There was not a hint of racism in what he said, he just liked the idea. He was kind of rough around the edges and gave the impression of being tough, but I think that was in part because he lived with his dad, a widower who didn’t know how to impart more refined behavior. He felt awkward talking to John about some topics and thought what John needed was a mother’s touch.

     John’s father was lucky. He had met someone and after a period of seeing each other, they married. I remember her as a tall woman with red hair and a kind face. She always seemed nervous that John would not accept her as a stepmother and tried to reassure him through her kindness and consideration. I don’t remember John saying much about her, at least not anything negative or mean, but the effect on him was palpable. He was happy. The moment that crystalized that for me was at a parents meeting held at school. I was there with my mother and she had sat next to John’s stepmother and they struck up a conversation. As my mother related to me later, this poor woman was on pins and needles. Each student had to stand up in front of the crowd and introduce his or her parent and she had no idea how John would introduce her. I can only imagine the anxiety she felt. What I do remember is how John introduced her. As he stood up in front of everyone, he gestured toward her with an outstretched hand, his face beaming and eyes shining. “I’d like to introduce you to my mom!”