box at me and the corner bounces off my forehead. I see stars for a few seconds. I rub my head where it hit. The box has left a small impression, but no blood.
“Your dinner’s cold, Joe. I’ve had mine.”
I put the chocolates back into my briefcase as she dishes my dinner. She doesn’t offer to heat it for me, and I’m too frightened to ask. I head over to the microwave to do it myself.
“Your dinner’s cold, Joe, because you let it get cold. Don’t think you’re going to use my electricity to warm it up.”
We walk into the living room and we use her electricity to get the TV working and we sit in front of it. There’s some show on—I’ve seen it before, but don’t know what it’s called. They’re all the same. Bunch of white guys and girls livingin an inner-city complex, laughing at everything that goes wrong for them, and there’s a lot that goes wrong. I wouldn’t be laughing if those things happened to me. I wonder if there’s a complex like that in this city, or even in real life. If so, I wouldn’t mind finding it. According to the TV the women in those complexes are damn sexy. I seem to recognize this episode but can’t be sure it’s a repeat since they do the same thing every week.
Mom doesn’t talk to me while I eat. This is a surprise, because I generally can’t shut her up. She always has something to complain about. Normally it’s the price of something. I’m grateful for the silence, so much so that I consider maybe I should be late more often. The downside is her disappointment hangs over the room. I’m so used to it it’s almost part of the furniture. As soon as I throw the last cold scoop of meatloaf into my mouth she uses the remote to kill the TV, then turns toward me. Her mouth sags open, she bares her teeth, and I can see the start of a sentence forming.
“If your father knew you treated me like this, Joe, he’d be rolling in his grave.”
“He was cremated, Mom.”
She stands up and I shrink back, expecting her to tell me off, but instead she puts her hand out for my plate. “I may as well clean up for you.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Don’t bother.” She grabs my plate and I follow her into the kitchen.
“Do you want me to make you a drink, Mom?”
“What, so I’ll be up all night running back and forth to the toilet?”
I open up the fridge. “Anything in here you want?”
“I’ve had dinner, Joe.”
I need to cheer her up, so I turn the subject toward something in her element. “I was at the supermarket, Mom, and I saw they have orange juice on sale.”
She turns toward me, still scrubbing at my plate, the flesh around her mouth moving aside for her beaming smile. “Really? What brand?”
“The brand you drink.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“In the half gallon?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
I can’t just say three dollars. I have to be accurate. “Two ninety-nine.”
I can see her thinking about it, but I don’t interrupt with the answer. “That’s two forty-four off. Quite a savings. Have you seen my latest jigsaw puzzle?”
It’s actually two forty-six off, but I say nothing. “Not yet.”
“Go and take a look. It’s by the TV.”
I look at the jigsaw puzzle. I mean, really look at it because I know she’ll quiz me on it. A cottage. Trees. Flowers. Sky. Jigsaw puzzles are like sitcoms, I guess—they’re all the fucking same. I head back into the kitchen. She’s drying my plate.
“What did you think?” she asks, using a tone that suggests my answer is important to her, but only as long as it’s the right answer.
“Nice.”
“Did you like the cottage?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the flowers?”
“Colorful.”
“Which ones did you like the best?”
“The red ones. In the corner.”
“The left or right corner?”
“You’ve only done the left corner, Mom.”
Satisfied I’m telling the truth, she puts the dishes away.
Back in the lounge we sit down and continue talking.About what, I have
“Your dinner’s cold, Joe. I’ve had mine.”
I put the chocolates back into my briefcase as she dishes my dinner. She doesn’t offer to heat it for me, and I’m too frightened to ask. I head over to the microwave to do it myself.
“Your dinner’s cold, Joe, because you let it get cold. Don’t think you’re going to use my electricity to warm it up.”
We walk into the living room and we use her electricity to get the TV working and we sit in front of it. There’s some show on—I’ve seen it before, but don’t know what it’s called. They’re all the same. Bunch of white guys and girls livingin an inner-city complex, laughing at everything that goes wrong for them, and there’s a lot that goes wrong. I wouldn’t be laughing if those things happened to me. I wonder if there’s a complex like that in this city, or even in real life. If so, I wouldn’t mind finding it. According to the TV the women in those complexes are damn sexy. I seem to recognize this episode but can’t be sure it’s a repeat since they do the same thing every week.
Mom doesn’t talk to me while I eat. This is a surprise, because I generally can’t shut her up. She always has something to complain about. Normally it’s the price of something. I’m grateful for the silence, so much so that I consider maybe I should be late more often. The downside is her disappointment hangs over the room. I’m so used to it it’s almost part of the furniture. As soon as I throw the last cold scoop of meatloaf into my mouth she uses the remote to kill the TV, then turns toward me. Her mouth sags open, she bares her teeth, and I can see the start of a sentence forming.
“If your father knew you treated me like this, Joe, he’d be rolling in his grave.”
“He was cremated, Mom.”
She stands up and I shrink back, expecting her to tell me off, but instead she puts her hand out for my plate. “I may as well clean up for you.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Don’t bother.” She grabs my plate and I follow her into the kitchen.
“Do you want me to make you a drink, Mom?”
“What, so I’ll be up all night running back and forth to the toilet?”
I open up the fridge. “Anything in here you want?”
“I’ve had dinner, Joe.”
I need to cheer her up, so I turn the subject toward something in her element. “I was at the supermarket, Mom, and I saw they have orange juice on sale.”
She turns toward me, still scrubbing at my plate, the flesh around her mouth moving aside for her beaming smile. “Really? What brand?”
“The brand you drink.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“In the half gallon?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
I can’t just say three dollars. I have to be accurate. “Two ninety-nine.”
I can see her thinking about it, but I don’t interrupt with the answer. “That’s two forty-four off. Quite a savings. Have you seen my latest jigsaw puzzle?”
It’s actually two forty-six off, but I say nothing. “Not yet.”
“Go and take a look. It’s by the TV.”
I look at the jigsaw puzzle. I mean, really look at it because I know she’ll quiz me on it. A cottage. Trees. Flowers. Sky. Jigsaw puzzles are like sitcoms, I guess—they’re all the fucking same. I head back into the kitchen. She’s drying my plate.
“What did you think?” she asks, using a tone that suggests my answer is important to her, but only as long as it’s the right answer.
“Nice.”
“Did you like the cottage?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the flowers?”
“Colorful.”
“Which ones did you like the best?”
“The red ones. In the corner.”
“The left or right corner?”
“You’ve only done the left corner, Mom.”
Satisfied I’m telling the truth, she puts the dishes away.
Back in the lounge we sit down and continue talking.About what, I have
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