telephone—brilliant, glittering black proof of the inefficacy of yearning. No thought, no architecture of thoughts no matter how intricate, could make that phone ring. Only beauty, youth, charm, money—only those things worked. The rest (goodness, worthiness, the conjuring of desire) was a pitiable substitute for the brute fact of glamour.
And then my mother would turn her hardworking, always shifting, tumbling scrutiny on me. She and I enjoyed a perfect communication, or so she said. I was a man far more mature than the riffraff she was dating. I was beautifully sensitive to the slightest shift in her moods. If I weren't her son, I'd be her best friend—or she'd marry me.
And yet (the wheels whirred faster and faster) without a man to emulate I was in danger of developing abnormally. I mustn't be a mama's boy, I mustn't become effeminate. I mustn't lean on her too much. That was the real reason she was so eager to remarry, to provide me with a suitable male role model. Children of broken homes were known to grow up wounded, their sexuality damaged. "Are you developing normally?" she asked when I was ten.
I told her something that astounded her, though I thought it would please her: "I don't want to go through puberty." I cited my sister. "She's already acting like a nut. I see myself standing on a hill above a lonesome valley I'll never be able to cross. I'll probably never be this calm again."
My sister, my mother and I—three unhappy people, and yet my mother's ceaseless optimism didn't even grant us the dignity of suffering. "Kids," she said, driving us away from school on a weekday, "we're going on vacation. Isn't that wonderful! We're off to Florida! Isn't that exciting?" In every way we had more fun than other people and were superior to them. At Christmastime Mother would count up her cards as though they were a precise numerical rendering of her worth; if someone neglected to send her a card, she'd worry about it, question herself, seem wounded—and then she'd dismiss the offender from her thoughts, even her life ("He wasn't much of a friend. I don't know why I hang around such crummy people").
My sister and I have been left alone in the hotel room all day. Mother is off on a date after work. We've been instructed to take our meals in the dining room downstairs ("I'll be home when I'm home—don't worry about me"). I'm ten, my sister is fourteen. She's interested in being a nurse. She has "sterilized" Mom's scissors and tweezers under hot tap water. Out of her allowance she's bought some gauze in a long roll. She convinces me to lie down and play sick. "You poor guy," she says in a sweet, unfamiliar voice, "just look at this burn!" She is the consoling, sympathetic nurse.
"Yeah, it really hurts. You see, I was boiling some water—"
"Sh-h-h!" she urges me. In real life she's always shutting me up; in the fiction of the hospital she's silencing me in the interest of my recovery. "You'll feel much better once I change your dressing. Please be quiet. I won't hurt you."
We're both bored. It's six on a December night and the sky outside the filmy hotel curtains (they smell of coal smoke) has long been dark. The phone hasn't rung all day— none of us is popular, that's evident. Not my sister, not me, not Mom. "Ouch!" I whine. "That bandage is too tight!"
"It's not!"
"It is so."
"It's not."
"I'm telling you it is so."
"Well, just play with yourself," my sister says, "I don't want to play with you. You wanna know why? Do you? Wanna know why?"
I'm sitting up in bed now, uneasy, wishing I hadn't complained about the bandage.
"I'll tell you why: you smell bad. You do." My sister sticks her face right into mine. One of her barrettes has come loose without her noticing, and suddenly an unexpectedly adult sweep of hair frames her face and caresses her shoulder. She's so close that some of her hair grazes my cheek.
"I do not," I mumble uncertainly. Perhaps I do smell bad. But where is the bad smell coming
And then my mother would turn her hardworking, always shifting, tumbling scrutiny on me. She and I enjoyed a perfect communication, or so she said. I was a man far more mature than the riffraff she was dating. I was beautifully sensitive to the slightest shift in her moods. If I weren't her son, I'd be her best friend—or she'd marry me.
And yet (the wheels whirred faster and faster) without a man to emulate I was in danger of developing abnormally. I mustn't be a mama's boy, I mustn't become effeminate. I mustn't lean on her too much. That was the real reason she was so eager to remarry, to provide me with a suitable male role model. Children of broken homes were known to grow up wounded, their sexuality damaged. "Are you developing normally?" she asked when I was ten.
I told her something that astounded her, though I thought it would please her: "I don't want to go through puberty." I cited my sister. "She's already acting like a nut. I see myself standing on a hill above a lonesome valley I'll never be able to cross. I'll probably never be this calm again."
My sister, my mother and I—three unhappy people, and yet my mother's ceaseless optimism didn't even grant us the dignity of suffering. "Kids," she said, driving us away from school on a weekday, "we're going on vacation. Isn't that wonderful! We're off to Florida! Isn't that exciting?" In every way we had more fun than other people and were superior to them. At Christmastime Mother would count up her cards as though they were a precise numerical rendering of her worth; if someone neglected to send her a card, she'd worry about it, question herself, seem wounded—and then she'd dismiss the offender from her thoughts, even her life ("He wasn't much of a friend. I don't know why I hang around such crummy people").
My sister and I have been left alone in the hotel room all day. Mother is off on a date after work. We've been instructed to take our meals in the dining room downstairs ("I'll be home when I'm home—don't worry about me"). I'm ten, my sister is fourteen. She's interested in being a nurse. She has "sterilized" Mom's scissors and tweezers under hot tap water. Out of her allowance she's bought some gauze in a long roll. She convinces me to lie down and play sick. "You poor guy," she says in a sweet, unfamiliar voice, "just look at this burn!" She is the consoling, sympathetic nurse.
"Yeah, it really hurts. You see, I was boiling some water—"
"Sh-h-h!" she urges me. In real life she's always shutting me up; in the fiction of the hospital she's silencing me in the interest of my recovery. "You'll feel much better once I change your dressing. Please be quiet. I won't hurt you."
We're both bored. It's six on a December night and the sky outside the filmy hotel curtains (they smell of coal smoke) has long been dark. The phone hasn't rung all day— none of us is popular, that's evident. Not my sister, not me, not Mom. "Ouch!" I whine. "That bandage is too tight!"
"It's not!"
"It is so."
"It's not."
"I'm telling you it is so."
"Well, just play with yourself," my sister says, "I don't want to play with you. You wanna know why? Do you? Wanna know why?"
I'm sitting up in bed now, uneasy, wishing I hadn't complained about the bandage.
"I'll tell you why: you smell bad. You do." My sister sticks her face right into mine. One of her barrettes has come loose without her noticing, and suddenly an unexpectedly adult sweep of hair frames her face and caresses her shoulder. She's so close that some of her hair grazes my cheek.
"I do not," I mumble uncertainly. Perhaps I do smell bad. But where is the bad smell coming
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