Maybe you’ve heard the expression, “l’esprit de l’escalier”—essentially, words of the staircase. It’s that perfect rejoinder or put-down you think of only after leaving the scene. In this case, however, my words were prepared well in advance, polished and ready to fly as soon as I arrived at my parents’ home. It was to be a self-righteous declaration denouncing their miserly torpor, their willingness to take my help for granted and give nothing in return.
A list of examples hummed in the background like impatient wasps. There was the time my stepmother found a $20 bill in the parking lot, and picked it up with palpable joy. “Look what I found!” she exclaimed, quickly putting it in her purse. She never thought of sharing it, or of asking if I might like anything while we were at the store, since this was free money.
And what about the time we went out to lunch (it happened to be Veterans Day) and I invited my father as my guest. Before arriving at the restaurant, I'd made it clear that I would be paying for his lunch—and that she could cover herself—even asking if she had cash with her. This may seem a little odd, but my parents have separate accounts, and generally pay for their own purchases. When the check arrived, she just looked at it dumbly, wondering what I was waiting for. It soon became obvious that she had no intention of helping out, so I said, “I didn’t realize you’re a veteran also. Thank you for your service to our country.” She couldn’t have missed my sarcasm, but pretended that I was making a joke.
While both parents qualify as Olympic-level cheapskates, my stepmother has raised the vice to an art form. My dad, at least, has a generous side that occasionally shows itself, but not her. Once, visiting relatives in Miami, my father’s cousin asked Jeannie if she’d like to walk through the local Neiman Marcus. My stepmother was horrified. "I've never gone in there—it’s so expensive!" Cousin Ruth tried to persuade her, saying it was just to look. "They've got such beautiful things; it’s almost like a museum," but Jeannie would have none of it and refused to set foot in a place that charged such outlandish prices.
They deny themselves anything that might seem remotely extravagant. Once, shopping with my father, I noticed avocados on sale for 99 cents each. He always enjoyed avocados, I know, but refused to buy one now. “It’s fine, I don’t really need it,” he said. I ended up buying one for him and putting it in their grocery bag.
In case anyone might be wondering if my parents, like many seniors, live on the edge of poverty, let me put that notion to rest. At the end of every month, they have more than they started with. Their expenses may be somewhat higher now than in the past, but they’re still coming out ahead. Apparently, they're gripped by the fear so common to the elderly, that they might “run out of money.” That certainly could happen if a protracted medical problem were to befall either of them, but even so it would take a while.
My great speech never materialized. As soon as I arrived, I saw them in all their frailty, with their limitations both chosen and imposed and I realized that they’re not going to change—may not even be capable of changing. And I knew that all my sharp, practiced words would only wound them. Remarkably, instead of resentment I felt an odd sense of warmth and pity toward my parents, along with a tremendous relief that I left my words somewhere in the staircase.
