Mrs. McLoughlin's Lunch

A shrimp salad story

Mrs. McLoughlin always arrived before Mom left for work. Shorter than her by inches, putting her somewhere near five feet, and ancient but probably in her mid-sixties, she hustled Mom out the door, excited to begin cleaning our already clean house.

Few people intimidated Mom. Clever, street smart, sassy, she stood her ground. She never backed off from truths no one else was willing to speak or hear. She’d feel bad if she knew her assertions were a little hurtful—for instance, to her daughters. She’d say it was for the best: It was better to know than not. And yet, people invariably gravitated toward her, gave her leeway, or—like her daughters—made it their life’s work to prove her wrong. They loved her even if she thought they didn’t.

Mrs. McLoughlin was the one person she treated with a rare deference. Mom respected her independence from her sons who thought she was too old to work. She recognized her skills and superiority in keeping our house above even her standards. If Mrs. McLoughlin asked for a special beeswax polish or scrub, Mom searched the city for them. Most of all, Mom adored that they were cut from the same cloth, Irish women possessing a vast quantity of wit and strength.

It was the best day of the week when Mrs. McLoughlin came to our house. Mom always hurried home around noon from her job at the bank up the street to serve her favorite dish— shrimp salad mixed with a precise amount of onions, celery, paprika, salt, and pepper, and bound by a rich mayonnaise. She served it upon the good china, heaped on a bed of the freshest iceberg lettuce. The women sat at the kitchen table enjoying the salad and cups of strong tea while trading opinions about ways to tidy up the rest of the world. If anyone else was home, they knew there wouldn’t be enough salad for them, nor would they be given entrance to their conversation. After the salad and tea cups were empty, Mom washed and dried them, put them away in the cabinet. Then she’d hug Mrs. McLoughlin and reluctantly returned to her job.

My brother drove Mrs. McLoughlin home when she was satisfied her work was completed. A few hours later Mom stepped inside her house and stood still for a breath, taking the measure of her private landscape. These were the years when the strains of her impoverished childhood began to catch up to her, when alcohol increasingly sapped her sassiness and narrowed her world. But for this one day of immaculate order, she experienced a small measure of blessed relief, a chore Mrs. McLoughlin might not have known she accomplished, but I hope she did.