going to be in big trouble. You will personally wash my clothes.”
Tommy laughed. “Silly Uncle Vic. Mom washes clothes. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t tell that to your mom.” Vic adjusted his grip around Tommy’s thin wrists. “Away we go,” he said and started to spin the boy around. Tommy closed his eyes and put his neck back, reveling in the speed.
A gray Camry bumped up over the edge of the curb into the next driveway. The driver’s door swung open. “Witek, what do you think you are doing? You could kill the boy.” His mother jumped out of the car and scurried across the small lawn. She was dressed in black knit pants with a black blazer over a white shell. A gold cross hung from a chain around her neck. Aside from the brown-and-beige Coach tote bag with its signature “C”s, she could have been dressed for mourning. Well, in a way, Vic realized, she was.
Roxie stirred from her slumber and retreated to Vic’s front stoop. The dog was afraid of Vic’s mother—understandably.
Vic slowed his swinging. “Don’t worry, Mom. Dad used to do this to us kids all the time.”
“Just my point,” his mother shot back. She grabbed Tommy and inspected him closely. “Are your shoulders all right, your wrists? You could have easily broken something.”
“I’m fine, fine, fine, Grandma,” Tommy said in singsong fashion. “We were just playing.”
“Fine, but no playing like that on my watch, young man. Here are the keys.” She held up her key ring. “Go in the house and wash up in the front powder room. Who knows what kind of germs you got playing outdoors. Then come stand by the front door until I come in.”
Tommy ran off to the front door of Vic’s parents’ house, right next door to Vic’s own. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Bye, Uncle Vic.”
Vic waved. “Kids are supposed to play outdoors. They’ve got energy to burn.”
“Like you’re such an expert on kids? We should all be so lucky.” She crossed her arms.
Vic rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for his mother to lecture him on how she wanted some more grandchildren to pass on the family name before she died. The way she talked, you’d think she was closer to eighty than sixty. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned to go back to his own house.
“Hold up. Where’s Basia? Why wasn’t she taking care of Tommy like a good mother?”
“Give Basia a break, Mom. It wasn’t her fault she had to leave for work and you weren’t home.” He felt very protective where his sister was concerned.
“But you know I always go to seven a.m. mass at St. Urzula.”
Vic glanced at his watch. “It must have been an extra-long service. Anyway, you know there’s a perfectly decent Catholic church here in Grantham. There’s no need for you to go all the way to Trenton every day.”
“We’ve been through this before, Witek,” she said. “St. Urzula’s is the old neighborhood church.”
“But your neighborhood—your house—for more than eight years is here,” Vic argued. He didn’t bother to add that it was a house that he had paid for.
“That doesn’t mean I still don’t have ties with my old friends. Besides, I feel comfortable there. And it’s nice to hear the older generation still speaking Polish.”
“Mom, you were born in this country.” As the years went by, his mother seemed to become more and more attached to her Polish heritage, even going back with church groups to various religious sites. Vic didn’t get it, but then there were a lot of things he didn’t get about his mother. “Listen, I respect your choices, but if you’re going to be held up in traffic, could you call me on your cell phone. You carry it, right?”
“Of course, how else would I show everyone the latest photos of Tomasz? In any case, it wasn’t the traffic that held me up. I wanted to speak to Father Antonin about Basia.”
“What about Basia? Is something wrong? I thought her last semester went fine. Better than fine—all As.”
His mother turned
Tommy laughed. “Silly Uncle Vic. Mom washes clothes. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t tell that to your mom.” Vic adjusted his grip around Tommy’s thin wrists. “Away we go,” he said and started to spin the boy around. Tommy closed his eyes and put his neck back, reveling in the speed.
A gray Camry bumped up over the edge of the curb into the next driveway. The driver’s door swung open. “Witek, what do you think you are doing? You could kill the boy.” His mother jumped out of the car and scurried across the small lawn. She was dressed in black knit pants with a black blazer over a white shell. A gold cross hung from a chain around her neck. Aside from the brown-and-beige Coach tote bag with its signature “C”s, she could have been dressed for mourning. Well, in a way, Vic realized, she was.
Roxie stirred from her slumber and retreated to Vic’s front stoop. The dog was afraid of Vic’s mother—understandably.
Vic slowed his swinging. “Don’t worry, Mom. Dad used to do this to us kids all the time.”
“Just my point,” his mother shot back. She grabbed Tommy and inspected him closely. “Are your shoulders all right, your wrists? You could have easily broken something.”
“I’m fine, fine, fine, Grandma,” Tommy said in singsong fashion. “We were just playing.”
“Fine, but no playing like that on my watch, young man. Here are the keys.” She held up her key ring. “Go in the house and wash up in the front powder room. Who knows what kind of germs you got playing outdoors. Then come stand by the front door until I come in.”
Tommy ran off to the front door of Vic’s parents’ house, right next door to Vic’s own. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Bye, Uncle Vic.”
Vic waved. “Kids are supposed to play outdoors. They’ve got energy to burn.”
“Like you’re such an expert on kids? We should all be so lucky.” She crossed her arms.
Vic rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for his mother to lecture him on how she wanted some more grandchildren to pass on the family name before she died. The way she talked, you’d think she was closer to eighty than sixty. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned to go back to his own house.
“Hold up. Where’s Basia? Why wasn’t she taking care of Tommy like a good mother?”
“Give Basia a break, Mom. It wasn’t her fault she had to leave for work and you weren’t home.” He felt very protective where his sister was concerned.
“But you know I always go to seven a.m. mass at St. Urzula.”
Vic glanced at his watch. “It must have been an extra-long service. Anyway, you know there’s a perfectly decent Catholic church here in Grantham. There’s no need for you to go all the way to Trenton every day.”
“We’ve been through this before, Witek,” she said. “St. Urzula’s is the old neighborhood church.”
“But your neighborhood—your house—for more than eight years is here,” Vic argued. He didn’t bother to add that it was a house that he had paid for.
“That doesn’t mean I still don’t have ties with my old friends. Besides, I feel comfortable there. And it’s nice to hear the older generation still speaking Polish.”
“Mom, you were born in this country.” As the years went by, his mother seemed to become more and more attached to her Polish heritage, even going back with church groups to various religious sites. Vic didn’t get it, but then there were a lot of things he didn’t get about his mother. “Listen, I respect your choices, but if you’re going to be held up in traffic, could you call me on your cell phone. You carry it, right?”
“Of course, how else would I show everyone the latest photos of Tomasz? In any case, it wasn’t the traffic that held me up. I wanted to speak to Father Antonin about Basia.”
“What about Basia? Is something wrong? I thought her last semester went fine. Better than fine—all As.”
His mother turned
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