dangled
from an exposed beam in the ceiling and began to turn from side to side.
Judy sat down opposite her on a faded blue sofa covered with cat hair. She adjusted her giant red glasses frames. “That’s
a handsome blouse you’re wearing,” she said, peering inquisitively at Wendy. Judy was wearing some kind of tunic sweater and
an “ethnic” necklace with beads the size and shape of dog turds.
“Thanks. I was worried I looked like a giant broccoli floret,” said Wendy.
“I wouldn’t say so,” said Judy.
“Meanwhile, Adam’s father was in a horrible car accident and he’s in a coma. So Adam’s staying up in Boston with him.”
“How terrible,” exclaimed Judy. “Please send the family my best wishes.”
“I will.”
“I hope you’re being supportive of Adam. This must be a difficult period for him.”
“Of course I’m being supportive!” said Wendy, defensive already. At the same time, she felt the urge to shock her mother with
her paucity of goodwill. “Not that Adam’s being very supportive of me these days,” she went on. “I’m paying all the bills
while he pretends to write a screenplay about space aliens with low sperm counts. From what I can tell, he spends half the
time I’m at work smoking pot in the park. Or at least he was before his father’s accident.” (Why did she act so brittle and
unforgiving in front of her mother?)
Judy grimaced disapprovingly. “Wendell—you made a commitment to support Adam’s creative work while you continued at the magazine.
I think it would set a very unfortunate precedent if you went back on your promise to him.”
“Who said anything about going back on my promise?” cried Wendy, growing more irritable by the second. “I’m not getting divorced!
I’m just saying it’s annoying.”
Judy didn’t answer.
“Also, speaking of low sperm count, I can’t get pregnant,” Wendy continued.
“It will happen when it happens,” Judy said evenly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Wendy, who never stopped being hurt that her mother didn’t display the usual desperation
for grandchildren that other people’s parents did. (
I only have two, you know
was among Phyllis’s common refrains at every Schwartz family holiday—to which Adam and Wendy, if they were feeling indulgent,
answered,
Two what? Grandchildren to spoil rotten
was the usual answer, typically delivered with an exaggerated wink and a vaguely sinister grin.)
“It means you waited a long time to have children,” said Judy. “Now you’re just going to have to be patient. And you’re not
going to get any closer to your goal by pressuring Adam, if that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“How do you know what I’ve been doing?” said Wendy, flinching at her mother’s intuition.
“I have no idea what you’ve been doing!”
“Well, then, I’d appreciate it if you stopped guessing.”
Judy grimaced again. It was clear she felt unfairly maligned. “Wendell—I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks. Anyway,” said Wendy, suddenly eager to change topics. “So, what’s new at school?”
Judy cleared her throat. “Well, I’m teaching a graduate seminar called The Matriarchal Impulse in Early-Nineteenth-Century
English Literature. And I have a few absolutely top-notch students this semester, especially a young man named Douglas Bondy,
who’s been working as my research assistant. He’s really an extraordinary person. His mother was a crack addict. He essentially
raised himself. All I can conclude is that his love of learning somehow goes deeper than—”
“There’s a guy in your women’s studies class?” Wendy interrupted. Her mother had a habit of talking up everyone but her own
daughter.
“I’ve had many men in my classes!” declared Judy.
“Oh.”
“And how are things at the magazine?”
“Fine. I just edited a special pullout section on Abu Ghraib.”
Judy lifted her glasses into her silver mop,
from an exposed beam in the ceiling and began to turn from side to side.
Judy sat down opposite her on a faded blue sofa covered with cat hair. She adjusted her giant red glasses frames. “That’s
a handsome blouse you’re wearing,” she said, peering inquisitively at Wendy. Judy was wearing some kind of tunic sweater and
an “ethnic” necklace with beads the size and shape of dog turds.
“Thanks. I was worried I looked like a giant broccoli floret,” said Wendy.
“I wouldn’t say so,” said Judy.
“Meanwhile, Adam’s father was in a horrible car accident and he’s in a coma. So Adam’s staying up in Boston with him.”
“How terrible,” exclaimed Judy. “Please send the family my best wishes.”
“I will.”
“I hope you’re being supportive of Adam. This must be a difficult period for him.”
“Of course I’m being supportive!” said Wendy, defensive already. At the same time, she felt the urge to shock her mother with
her paucity of goodwill. “Not that Adam’s being very supportive of me these days,” she went on. “I’m paying all the bills
while he pretends to write a screenplay about space aliens with low sperm counts. From what I can tell, he spends half the
time I’m at work smoking pot in the park. Or at least he was before his father’s accident.” (Why did she act so brittle and
unforgiving in front of her mother?)
Judy grimaced disapprovingly. “Wendell—you made a commitment to support Adam’s creative work while you continued at the magazine.
I think it would set a very unfortunate precedent if you went back on your promise to him.”
“Who said anything about going back on my promise?” cried Wendy, growing more irritable by the second. “I’m not getting divorced!
I’m just saying it’s annoying.”
Judy didn’t answer.
“Also, speaking of low sperm count, I can’t get pregnant,” Wendy continued.
“It will happen when it happens,” Judy said evenly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Wendy, who never stopped being hurt that her mother didn’t display the usual desperation
for grandchildren that other people’s parents did. (
I only have two, you know
was among Phyllis’s common refrains at every Schwartz family holiday—to which Adam and Wendy, if they were feeling indulgent,
answered,
Two what? Grandchildren to spoil rotten
was the usual answer, typically delivered with an exaggerated wink and a vaguely sinister grin.)
“It means you waited a long time to have children,” said Judy. “Now you’re just going to have to be patient. And you’re not
going to get any closer to your goal by pressuring Adam, if that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“How do you know what I’ve been doing?” said Wendy, flinching at her mother’s intuition.
“I have no idea what you’ve been doing!”
“Well, then, I’d appreciate it if you stopped guessing.”
Judy grimaced again. It was clear she felt unfairly maligned. “Wendell—I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks. Anyway,” said Wendy, suddenly eager to change topics. “So, what’s new at school?”
Judy cleared her throat. “Well, I’m teaching a graduate seminar called The Matriarchal Impulse in Early-Nineteenth-Century
English Literature. And I have a few absolutely top-notch students this semester, especially a young man named Douglas Bondy,
who’s been working as my research assistant. He’s really an extraordinary person. His mother was a crack addict. He essentially
raised himself. All I can conclude is that his love of learning somehow goes deeper than—”
“There’s a guy in your women’s studies class?” Wendy interrupted. Her mother had a habit of talking up everyone but her own
daughter.
“I’ve had many men in my classes!” declared Judy.
“Oh.”
“And how are things at the magazine?”
“Fine. I just edited a special pullout section on Abu Ghraib.”
Judy lifted her glasses into her silver mop,
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