twenty-four-hour supermarket, and do some quick shopping. The guy behind the counter is so tired he shortchanges me, but I’m having such a good day I don’t point it out. Heart racing, I walk to Mom’s house. Standing on the sidewalk I suck in a deep breath. The air tastes like salt. I look up at the dark sky. Is there any way of avoiding this? Short of hospitalization, the answer is no. I knock on the front door. Two minutes go by, but I know she’s not in bed because the lights are on. I don’t knock again. She’ll open it when she’s ready.
After a few minutes I hear footsteps approaching. I straighten up, not wanting her to correct my slouch, and start smiling. The door shudders, the hinges squeak, and a small gap appears.
“Do you know what time it is, Joe? I got worried. I nearly called the police. Nearly called the hospital. Do you not care about my broken heart?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
The safety chain stops the door from opening any further. My mom, God bless her, put the safety chain on her door four years ago when the “neighborhood kids” stole her money. But she put the chain going up and down, not side to side, so all any intruder needs to do to unhook it is put his finger inside and lift. She closes the door, removes the chain, and opens it back up. I take a step inside, bracing myself, because I know it’s coming.
She clips me around the ear. “Let that be a lesson to you, Joe.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You never come and see me anymore. It’s been a week since you were last here.”
“I was here last night, Mom,” I say, and I’ve had conversations like this with her before, and will have more of them until the day she dies.
“You were here last Monday.”
“And it’s Tuesday now.”
“No, it’s Monday. You were here last Monday.”
I know better than to argue, but I do point out once more that today is Tuesday.
She clips me around the ear. “Don’t talk back to your mother.”
“I’m not talking back, Mom, I’m just telling you what day it is.”
She raises her hand and I quickly apologize, and she finally seems appeased by the gesture. “I cooked meatloaf, Joe,” she tells me, lowering her hand. “Meatloaf. That’s your favorite.”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I open up the supplies I brought with me, and pull out a bunch of flowers. I hand them to her. No thorns this time.
“They’re beautiful, Joe,” she says, her face beaming with excitement.
She leads me through to the kitchen. I set my briefcase down on the table, open it up, and look at the knives inside. Look at the gun too. My hand rests on the handle of the Glock, and I try to take some strength from it. Mom puts the flowers into a vase, but doesn’t put in any water. The rose from yesterday is gone. Perhaps she thought it was a week old. She reaches up into a cupboard and grabs hold of a packet of aspirin, and drops one into the vase.
“It keeps them alive longer,” she says, turning and winking at me, as if she’s letting me in on a family secret. “I saw it today on a TV show.”
“You still have to add water,” I point out.
“I don’t think so,” she says, frowning.
“I’m sure of it,” I tell her.
She looks uncertain. “I’ll try it my way this time,” she says, “and your way next time if it doesn’t work. How does that sound?”
I tell her it sounds fine. I don’t tell her that adding aspirin to flowers in water doesn’t make a lick of difference anyway.
“I brought something else for you, Mom.”
She looks over at me. “Oh?”
I pull out a box of chocolates and hand it to her.
“You trying to poison me, Joe? Are you trying to put sugar into my cholesterol?”
Oh, Christ. “I’m just trying to be nice, Mom.”
“Well, be nice by not buying me chocolates,” she says, looking really annoyed at me.
“But Coke has sugar in it, Mom.”
“Are you being smart?”
“Of course not.”
She throws the
After a few minutes I hear footsteps approaching. I straighten up, not wanting her to correct my slouch, and start smiling. The door shudders, the hinges squeak, and a small gap appears.
“Do you know what time it is, Joe? I got worried. I nearly called the police. Nearly called the hospital. Do you not care about my broken heart?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
The safety chain stops the door from opening any further. My mom, God bless her, put the safety chain on her door four years ago when the “neighborhood kids” stole her money. But she put the chain going up and down, not side to side, so all any intruder needs to do to unhook it is put his finger inside and lift. She closes the door, removes the chain, and opens it back up. I take a step inside, bracing myself, because I know it’s coming.
She clips me around the ear. “Let that be a lesson to you, Joe.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You never come and see me anymore. It’s been a week since you were last here.”
“I was here last night, Mom,” I say, and I’ve had conversations like this with her before, and will have more of them until the day she dies.
“You were here last Monday.”
“And it’s Tuesday now.”
“No, it’s Monday. You were here last Monday.”
I know better than to argue, but I do point out once more that today is Tuesday.
She clips me around the ear. “Don’t talk back to your mother.”
“I’m not talking back, Mom, I’m just telling you what day it is.”
She raises her hand and I quickly apologize, and she finally seems appeased by the gesture. “I cooked meatloaf, Joe,” she tells me, lowering her hand. “Meatloaf. That’s your favorite.”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I open up the supplies I brought with me, and pull out a bunch of flowers. I hand them to her. No thorns this time.
“They’re beautiful, Joe,” she says, her face beaming with excitement.
She leads me through to the kitchen. I set my briefcase down on the table, open it up, and look at the knives inside. Look at the gun too. My hand rests on the handle of the Glock, and I try to take some strength from it. Mom puts the flowers into a vase, but doesn’t put in any water. The rose from yesterday is gone. Perhaps she thought it was a week old. She reaches up into a cupboard and grabs hold of a packet of aspirin, and drops one into the vase.
“It keeps them alive longer,” she says, turning and winking at me, as if she’s letting me in on a family secret. “I saw it today on a TV show.”
“You still have to add water,” I point out.
“I don’t think so,” she says, frowning.
“I’m sure of it,” I tell her.
She looks uncertain. “I’ll try it my way this time,” she says, “and your way next time if it doesn’t work. How does that sound?”
I tell her it sounds fine. I don’t tell her that adding aspirin to flowers in water doesn’t make a lick of difference anyway.
“I brought something else for you, Mom.”
She looks over at me. “Oh?”
I pull out a box of chocolates and hand it to her.
“You trying to poison me, Joe? Are you trying to put sugar into my cholesterol?”
Oh, Christ. “I’m just trying to be nice, Mom.”
“Well, be nice by not buying me chocolates,” she says, looking really annoyed at me.
“But Coke has sugar in it, Mom.”
“Are you being smart?”
“Of course not.”
She throws the
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