engineers, son.”
“So you say.”
“So I know. Oh, do what you like, I won’t be around long enough to see what becomes of you anyway.”
“Mother . . .” Brows furrowed, he stands up. Just below his diaphragm, his stomach begins to ripple in little fluttering spasms. Bracing both palms on the terrace rail, he looks out over the dark blue Hudson. Firecrackers are exploding somewhere off to the north, probably in Fort Washington Park. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You’re not even sixty-five years old.”
“Am too. I’m seventy. Seventy-one.”
“Mother! And for all these years . . .”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she says, then leans over the small table, her nose hovering above the glass of bourbon, shifting six inches to hover and twitch above the dish of pills. “What shall it be today, oh what shall it be . . . ?”
“Must we go through this every time I come?”
“The bourbon? Or the barbiturates? Bourbon? Or barbiturates? Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe . . .”
“I should be going.”
“You only just got here!”
“Have to show my face at a parade or two.”
“Do you enjoy all that?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I have plans, Mother.”
“And what might those be, Alexander?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you everything I’m doing.”
“No. You don’t need to. But I’d hoped you might want to.”
“All right, Mother. I’ve decided to take over all of the criminal rackets in New York City—that’s all five boroughs—and with the money from that . . . well, I’m not quite sure yet.”
“Oh Lex, really. I don’t find this at all amusing. Now, sit down!”
He smiles and remains standing.
“I’d always thought we had a special bond, you and I. Seeing what we went through together. Fifteen years of hell. But no matter what, I always had you. And I liked to believe that you had me.”
“I did. I still do.”
“But you don’t love me. You’ve never loved me.”
“Mother, that’s not fair.”
“Ha! Fair.” She plucks out a dark green pill from the candy dish. “Barbiturate? Or bourbon?”
“For God’s sake!”
“Bourbon,” she says and takes another sip. “I was thinking just earlier today, don’t ask me why—but do you recall that pot-metal spaceship, that toy I got for you once at a Woolworth’s in Madison, Wisconsin?”
“Columbus, Ohio. And it wasn’t a Woolworth’s, it was a Kresge’s.”
“You remember it? Red and yellow with tiny little portholes?”
“Of course.”
“Do you also remember how I was so despondent one day, feeling so worn out from everything, all the running, and your father was already sick, hardly ever working—do you remember?”
“You were always feeling worn out, Mother.”
“Oh, Lex, you haven’t grown up to be the kindest man, have you?”
“You were saying ?”
“That I found you on the rug this one day playing with that little spaceship and I got down there with you . . . you remember that?”
“No.”
“No. Well, I said, ‘Honey, wouldn’t it be nice if we could both just climb into that spaceship and blast off—go to another planet, just you and me?’ I was sick of everything. ”
His hands, Lex realizes, are trembling again.
“I said, ‘Let’s just you and me get in your spaceship and blast off!’ And you said, ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but there’s only room for one.’ ” She laughs. “ ‘I’m sorry, Mother, there’s only room for one.’ You really don’t remember?”
“I really don’t remember.”
She nods. “Always the solemn little boy.”
“Practical.”
“And practical. Yes. Well, run along, my solemn and practical little boy, you’ll be late for all your picnics and parades.” She scoops up several pills and, with a tiny wince, puts them all in her mouth. Washes them down with bourbon. “And happy Independence Day to you too, Lex,” she says, turning away her face, then tipping it back, full in the sun.
4
On Tuesday evening, July 9, 1935,
“So you say.”
“So I know. Oh, do what you like, I won’t be around long enough to see what becomes of you anyway.”
“Mother . . .” Brows furrowed, he stands up. Just below his diaphragm, his stomach begins to ripple in little fluttering spasms. Bracing both palms on the terrace rail, he looks out over the dark blue Hudson. Firecrackers are exploding somewhere off to the north, probably in Fort Washington Park. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You’re not even sixty-five years old.”
“Am too. I’m seventy. Seventy-one.”
“Mother! And for all these years . . .”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she says, then leans over the small table, her nose hovering above the glass of bourbon, shifting six inches to hover and twitch above the dish of pills. “What shall it be today, oh what shall it be . . . ?”
“Must we go through this every time I come?”
“The bourbon? Or the barbiturates? Bourbon? Or barbiturates? Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe . . .”
“I should be going.”
“You only just got here!”
“Have to show my face at a parade or two.”
“Do you enjoy all that?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I have plans, Mother.”
“And what might those be, Alexander?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you everything I’m doing.”
“No. You don’t need to. But I’d hoped you might want to.”
“All right, Mother. I’ve decided to take over all of the criminal rackets in New York City—that’s all five boroughs—and with the money from that . . . well, I’m not quite sure yet.”
“Oh Lex, really. I don’t find this at all amusing. Now, sit down!”
He smiles and remains standing.
“I’d always thought we had a special bond, you and I. Seeing what we went through together. Fifteen years of hell. But no matter what, I always had you. And I liked to believe that you had me.”
“I did. I still do.”
“But you don’t love me. You’ve never loved me.”
“Mother, that’s not fair.”
“Ha! Fair.” She plucks out a dark green pill from the candy dish. “Barbiturate? Or bourbon?”
“For God’s sake!”
“Bourbon,” she says and takes another sip. “I was thinking just earlier today, don’t ask me why—but do you recall that pot-metal spaceship, that toy I got for you once at a Woolworth’s in Madison, Wisconsin?”
“Columbus, Ohio. And it wasn’t a Woolworth’s, it was a Kresge’s.”
“You remember it? Red and yellow with tiny little portholes?”
“Of course.”
“Do you also remember how I was so despondent one day, feeling so worn out from everything, all the running, and your father was already sick, hardly ever working—do you remember?”
“You were always feeling worn out, Mother.”
“Oh, Lex, you haven’t grown up to be the kindest man, have you?”
“You were saying ?”
“That I found you on the rug this one day playing with that little spaceship and I got down there with you . . . you remember that?”
“No.”
“No. Well, I said, ‘Honey, wouldn’t it be nice if we could both just climb into that spaceship and blast off—go to another planet, just you and me?’ I was sick of everything. ”
His hands, Lex realizes, are trembling again.
“I said, ‘Let’s just you and me get in your spaceship and blast off!’ And you said, ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but there’s only room for one.’ ” She laughs. “ ‘I’m sorry, Mother, there’s only room for one.’ You really don’t remember?”
“I really don’t remember.”
She nods. “Always the solemn little boy.”
“Practical.”
“And practical. Yes. Well, run along, my solemn and practical little boy, you’ll be late for all your picnics and parades.” She scoops up several pills and, with a tiny wince, puts them all in her mouth. Washes them down with bourbon. “And happy Independence Day to you too, Lex,” she says, turning away her face, then tipping it back, full in the sun.
4
On Tuesday evening, July 9, 1935,
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