Pax Villa

That night, New Year’s Eve, I set out to my mother’s house in Little Haiti in my new car. The day after Christmas, while most people had been out pillaging the malls, I drove my trusty Honda Accord onto the Ford dealership lot and drove off in a Whisper White Thunderbird drop top. My T-bird drew disapproving glances from my mother’s neighbors, two elderly African American women. Sisters, I was told. They sat playing cards on their porch, surrounded by kids and grandkids. Their house was impossible to ignore; the roof was strung with lights, not the politically correct white holiday lights, but red and green, “Alleluia-the-Lord-is-born, Christmas, dammit!” lights.

The first time my mother saw the T-bird, she didn’t hide her disapproval, either. Why would anyone trade a perfectly good ‘05 Honda for a ‘03 Ford, which itself was a throw-back to a ‘57 model? And why would anyone in their right mind buy a car that couldn’t accommodate more than two passengers, maybe a suitcase in the trunk.

Hands on her wide hips, she said, “You can’t go shopping at Costco in that car.”

“Mom, I don’t shop at Costco.”

I lived alone in an apartment with little room to stock dozens of rolls of toilet paper.

Of course, Mom wasn’t done. “It’s a selfish car for a woman who doesn’t hope to have a family.”

I had nothing to say to that.

Mom’s house was lit from within like a lantern, harsh yellow halogen light pouring out of thin jalousie windows. I drove up the driveway and parked behind her SUV, a massive thing with the same vanity plate that made me cringe all through junior high: God 1st. A miniature red and blue flag of the Republic of Haiti hung from the rearview mirror. My mother in a nutshell: God, country, luxury cars, and this house.

The house was a standard 1950s cottage. Mom tried to give it some flair by tacking a portico held up with Greek columns over the front door. I let myself in through a side door, which opened to the laundry room where the paprika-red washer-dryer set I bought her for Christmas was on full display. She was overjoyed when they were delivered, showed them off to her friends. Even so, I knew she missed her old Kenmore, the simplicity of a single-power on/off button, the straightforward soak, wash, and rinse options.

Mom was in the kitchen, scrubbing down a counter that looked sparkling clean to me. The kitchen was a study in beige and browns: beige Formica cabinets, brown laminate counters in a faux-wood grain, cream appliances, and peanut-shell vinyl floors. I’d been trying to get her to take on a remodel, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “What’s wrong with my kitchen, Carline?” she’d ask whenever I brought it up. The short answer was simple: everything. I renovated homes for a living and knew for a fact that a house was only worth the quality of its granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. But that night, as I watched my mother tend to her modest kitchen as if to a masterpiece of modern design, I was moved to tears.

“Bonsoir, ma fille,” she said without looking up from her task. “I was sure you’d be late, running around with friends.”

I kissed her rough cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

“All your favorites.” She flashed a smile that brightened her eyes and made her copper skin glow. I smiled less often and far less effectively than she did. And as the holidays dragged on, I found I had very little left to smile about. My life was a mess, which explained why I’d agreed to spend New Year’s Eve, of all nights, with my mother. In a matter of days, I had managed to break up with everyone who mattered to me, my boyfriend and my best friend—if women in their thirties were allowed boyfriends and best friends.

I didn...