of the apartment was open, I could lie on the couch and see what was going on in the kitchen. I opted to flop down there so I could ensure that things didn’t get out of hand.
In the old days Ma often had a gallery at mealtimes. Her kitchen always smelled so good, and my friends enjoyed shooting the breeze with her and serving as the tasting brigade. She was a safe adult, an emissary from the bewildering grown-up world that both fascinated and repelled us. My friend Patsy Waterman could show up smelling like an ashtray and hear from Ma, “What’re you Pats, a moron, frying your lungs with that shit?” whereas the mildest rebuke from her own parents would elicit plans to run away from home. She knew that Ma adored her unconditionally, and if she should wind up in the hospital with a chest full of lung cancer, Ma would be there with containers of Patsy’s favorite vegetarian chili.
Joe leaned against the bookcase in neutral territory halfway between the couch and the kitchen. He’d dipped into the giant bag of goodies for trick-or-treaters and was munching on a gooey popcorn confection Ma had made. Just watching him chew made my jaw throb.
“What can I do to help?” he asked Ma.
“Can you cook?”
He shot a look at me. “I think you’d better ask Anna.”
“No,” I said.
“Then you can’t help,” she said.
The pain in my face had taken on a life of its own by now. I tried to separate it, imagining a self-contained globe of fire that didn’t quite touch me. Nobody was saying anything, and given the way Ma was beheading the broccoli, I figured I’d better make an effort.
“Father Dewbright ask you out?” I had to talk with my lips narrowed, which lent my speech a somewhat sinister quality. Ma looked up uncomprehendingly, so Joe repeated my question.
“He wanted me to go with him on a retreat,” Ma answered, resuming her executionary mission. “I have to give the old guy credit. He hangs in there.”
“Father Dewbright was Ma’s very first customer,” I explained to Joe. Sheets of red rain poured down in front of my eyes and I knew I’d reached my Waterloo as far as conversation was concerned. They’d have to manage without me.
“He was a missionary in Kenya for fifteen years,” Ma said, “and I think he figures he can convert me to his point of view if he hangs in there long enough. Oh, hell, he’s a good old fart.”
I wanted to tell her thank you. I knew she was angry at Joe and that it demanded heroic effort for her to behave with civility. I tried to imagine her from his fresh point of view. She had what my grandma called “peaches-and-cream” skin, and her eyes were a lively blue. Her lips had a girlish shape, but the lines on either side of them made her look older. And the gray hair, of course, which she would never consider coloring.
After that, sleep triumphed. I floated up for a moment when I heard Joe telling Ma about my stitches, that I was brave. Then they were standing over me. I felt Ma’s hand on my forehead, and they were gone again. The next time I came to, they were sitting at the table drinking wine. Fragments of sound passed back and forth between them.
“How come it took you almost three months to call her?” Ma asked. Did she mean me? I swam in a helpless mixture of horror and curiosity.
“I was thinking it over,” Joe said.
“Because of her illness?”
I couldn’t hear the answer, but assumed he was nodding his head.
“Well, what about it?” Ma asked.
I protested, or tried, but they didn’t hear me. Or maybe I only thought I was making noises.
“There was no choice,” Joe said.
“There’s always a choice,” Ma responded.
“It was pretty simple. I just had to see her,” Joe said. “The MS didn’t matter.”
“That’s bullshit. Of course it matters.”
The amazing thing was, I had the most peculiar sense of detachment. All three of us were reduced to characters in some TV drama unrelated to my life.
“You still love her, MS and
In the old days Ma often had a gallery at mealtimes. Her kitchen always smelled so good, and my friends enjoyed shooting the breeze with her and serving as the tasting brigade. She was a safe adult, an emissary from the bewildering grown-up world that both fascinated and repelled us. My friend Patsy Waterman could show up smelling like an ashtray and hear from Ma, “What’re you Pats, a moron, frying your lungs with that shit?” whereas the mildest rebuke from her own parents would elicit plans to run away from home. She knew that Ma adored her unconditionally, and if she should wind up in the hospital with a chest full of lung cancer, Ma would be there with containers of Patsy’s favorite vegetarian chili.
Joe leaned against the bookcase in neutral territory halfway between the couch and the kitchen. He’d dipped into the giant bag of goodies for trick-or-treaters and was munching on a gooey popcorn confection Ma had made. Just watching him chew made my jaw throb.
“What can I do to help?” he asked Ma.
“Can you cook?”
He shot a look at me. “I think you’d better ask Anna.”
“No,” I said.
“Then you can’t help,” she said.
The pain in my face had taken on a life of its own by now. I tried to separate it, imagining a self-contained globe of fire that didn’t quite touch me. Nobody was saying anything, and given the way Ma was beheading the broccoli, I figured I’d better make an effort.
“Father Dewbright ask you out?” I had to talk with my lips narrowed, which lent my speech a somewhat sinister quality. Ma looked up uncomprehendingly, so Joe repeated my question.
“He wanted me to go with him on a retreat,” Ma answered, resuming her executionary mission. “I have to give the old guy credit. He hangs in there.”
“Father Dewbright was Ma’s very first customer,” I explained to Joe. Sheets of red rain poured down in front of my eyes and I knew I’d reached my Waterloo as far as conversation was concerned. They’d have to manage without me.
“He was a missionary in Kenya for fifteen years,” Ma said, “and I think he figures he can convert me to his point of view if he hangs in there long enough. Oh, hell, he’s a good old fart.”
I wanted to tell her thank you. I knew she was angry at Joe and that it demanded heroic effort for her to behave with civility. I tried to imagine her from his fresh point of view. She had what my grandma called “peaches-and-cream” skin, and her eyes were a lively blue. Her lips had a girlish shape, but the lines on either side of them made her look older. And the gray hair, of course, which she would never consider coloring.
After that, sleep triumphed. I floated up for a moment when I heard Joe telling Ma about my stitches, that I was brave. Then they were standing over me. I felt Ma’s hand on my forehead, and they were gone again. The next time I came to, they were sitting at the table drinking wine. Fragments of sound passed back and forth between them.
“How come it took you almost three months to call her?” Ma asked. Did she mean me? I swam in a helpless mixture of horror and curiosity.
“I was thinking it over,” Joe said.
“Because of her illness?”
I couldn’t hear the answer, but assumed he was nodding his head.
“Well, what about it?” Ma asked.
I protested, or tried, but they didn’t hear me. Or maybe I only thought I was making noises.
“There was no choice,” Joe said.
“There’s always a choice,” Ma responded.
“It was pretty simple. I just had to see her,” Joe said. “The MS didn’t matter.”
“That’s bullshit. Of course it matters.”
The amazing thing was, I had the most peculiar sense of detachment. All three of us were reduced to characters in some TV drama unrelated to my life.
“You still love her, MS and
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