Nude Men by Amanda Filipacchi Page A

is at first very glad, but her happiness at spending four days with me fades when she starts taking it for granted. She gets cranky about everything.
    Yes, I did say four days. Lady Henrietta first told me it was just for the weekend, probably because she wanted to give me the bad news in small doses. Once she felt confident I had accepted the idea, she said it was Sara’s Easter vacation, and the more days she, Henrietta, could have alone, the better.
    She gives us a lot of money to spend at Disney World. She says it’s very expensive there.
    At Disney World, everyone looks at Sara. Men look at her because she’s so beautiful. Women look at her out of curiosity, seemingly intrigued. It starts at the hotel, with the sleazy porter. He looks as if he smells bad, though he doesn’t. He has a five o’clock shadow, or even a twenty-four-hour shadow; it wouldn’t surprise me. Perhaps I am judgmental because I don’t like him. The way he looks at Sara as he’s pushing the cart with our bags. He looks at her with too much familiarity. He touches the small of her back when we get out of the elevator. And he asks her impertinent questions, like, “How old are you?”
    “Eighteen,” she answers.
    “Really? You look seventeen.”
    Sara smiles at me.
    “What grade are you in?”
    “Seventh grade.”
    “Really? Isn’t that a little backward?”
    “Yes. I’m not very intelligent.”
    “Hmm. Anyway, ladies only need to be pretty, and that you certainly are. And docile is good too.”
    “You’ve got a great ass,” says my mother to the porter. She puts her hand on his bottom.
    The porter stops walking and looks at her with eyebrows raised. I do so also. Sara is trying not to laugh.
    “Are you married, honey?” my mother asks him.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m not surprised. A cute little prick like you. I’m sure your wife must be proud to have a hunk with such nice buns.”
    And she taps the porter’s bottom before continuing down the hallway. He looks at me.
    I don’t know what to say, so I just nod to him.
    The hairy, sleazy porter, looking confused, continues his journey down the hallway. He puts my mom’s bag in her room, my bag in my room5 an(l then he heads toward Sara’s room. I go with them, not wanting to leave her alone with that man. He does nothing else irritating, to my relief.
     
    S ara is not interested in seeing the Magic Kingdom, which, she asserts, is for babies. She wants to go to EPCOT Center which, the bus driver informs us, stands for Every Person Comes Out Tired. She wants to go to Future World. That’s when my mother tells us what she wants to do. She says she had no desire whatsoever to come to Disney World, that the only reason she came was to spend some time with me, and that therefore we should go to The Living Seas first, as it is the only thing that might put her in a good mood. So that’s what we do. We see big fish swimming in aquariums.
     
    M y seventy-one-year-old mother may seem conventional and proper because she does not like my messy apartment, but she is not ordinary at all. She’s like a little bull. Short and stocky, less fat than muscular. A small rock. Her body looks hard, like if you poked your finger at any part of it, even a presumably mushy part, your finger wouldn’t sink one millimeter. A compact creature. Which is perhaps why, when she runs, her flesh doesn’t jiggle, as one would expect in a person her age. Or perhaps this is due to her running method, very low to the ground, knees bent, “for speed,” she says. She doesn’t bounce. But she can jump, and she does, sometimes, and does it well, even with her short, stubby legs. Children occasionally cross in front of her unexpectedly, pulling toy animals on long leashes. I cover my eyes. But my mother leaps over them smoothly.
    She loves to run, especially when it’s not necessary. Her favorite scenario occurs when she sees people about to get into line ahead of us. She’ll run to beat them to it. When she