in those Army
recruitment ads. "You're up early," I say.
"Couldn't sleep," she says. "Do you have any
batteries?"
"On me?" I pat my pockets humorously (/think),
but she just scowls. "Nope. None here."
"Wait," she says. "Aha." Victory--she holds up
the thin cylinder of a double A. By the time I've got the milk carton out of the
fridge, she's pulling a kitchen chair over to the counter and is climbing up.
She shoves aside all of Severin's cans of liquid protein and mystery powders
that are lined up there.
"Good God," I say, and I set down my cereal
bowl and move to spot her. This is what you do as a daughter to Naomi Skye-- you
steady wobbly ladders as she puts up Christmas lights, you grip chairs when she
screws in lightbulbs. You stand close to her jean-clad legs, or robe-clad ones,
you hold on. It's not that she's ever actually had an accident, or fallen or
broken anything, ever.
85
Just that Mom seems perpetually at the edge of
the precarious-almost. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"I am just so sick of it being ten twenty, I
cannot tell you," she says. She reaches up, plucks the kitchen clock off the
wall. She flicks the battery out with her fingernail, puts the new one in, spins
the hands, and sets the clock on the nail again. It's true that it's been ten
twenty for a long time. Weeks, maybe even months. After a while, I guess, you
just stop noticing.
The clock is ticking away with a newfound sense
of purpose. Mom climbs down from the chair. "When you get that envelope today,
just make sure Jane or someone's there when you open it. You don't know this
guy. Maybe he's some kind of sicko."
"Sicko," Chico agrees.
"He's not a sicko," I say. I told Mom about the
envelope last night at dinner, but I didn't think she even really heard. She was
so wrapped up in Bex's tsunami obsession that she brushed it off with an Oh
really? that was an I didn't actually hear that in disguise. I look
for a clean spoon for my cereal, but no one's turned on the dishwasher, so there
are only those spiky-tipped ones for eating grapefruit and Bex's short baby
spoon with Ariel the mermaid on it. I go for Ariel.
"You don't know that," she says. "He might seem
normal, but look at Ted Bundy."
"So, what, there's going to be a bloody knife
in the envelope?"
"Don't even joke," she says.
"No, that white powder terrorists use. I'll
give you a call before I go meet him alone in a dark alley," I say. "Sicko,
sicko," Chico says.
86
I decide to walk to work. First of all, Mom's
get-it-done has been ignited--she's cleaned the junk drawer of old keys and
dried-up pens and a manual for a VCR that died a choking death long ago after a
video got stuck inside, and she's moved on to the pantry, stacking up
nearly-empty-but-never-thrown-
out cracker boxes, stale cereal we all hated,
a plastic bear of honey that's crystallized, and a Fruit Roll-Up that survived
World War II.
Asking her to take me now would be like asking
a tornado to kindly stop for a sec. I can only hope she'll run out of energy in
the kitchen, because I can see me coming home to a bedroom empty of everything
except a stripped mattress.
Anyway, it's spring delicious out, and I don't
mind walking. We had nearly two weeks of sun so far in May, which in the Seattle
area means that any day now, Mother Nature will make you PAY. Better enjoy while
you can. The air smells like juniper and roses and warm cement, and Mrs. Denholm
next door has her sprinkler on already, one of those old-fashioned sorts that
look like a miniature fountain and only cover a three by three area, and Buddy,
the Yeslers' golden retriever, follows me only as far as the mailboxes, like a
good child who stays in the yard like he's told.
Visions of envelopes are dancing in my head, or
maybe not dancing, but walking really fast. I've thought so much about the
envelope that the idea of it is close to being worn and tired, as if it had
stayed up too late having more than its
recruitment ads. "You're up early," I say.
"Couldn't sleep," she says. "Do you have any
batteries?"
"On me?" I pat my pockets humorously (/think),
but she just scowls. "Nope. None here."
"Wait," she says. "Aha." Victory--she holds up
the thin cylinder of a double A. By the time I've got the milk carton out of the
fridge, she's pulling a kitchen chair over to the counter and is climbing up.
She shoves aside all of Severin's cans of liquid protein and mystery powders
that are lined up there.
"Good God," I say, and I set down my cereal
bowl and move to spot her. This is what you do as a daughter to Naomi Skye-- you
steady wobbly ladders as she puts up Christmas lights, you grip chairs when she
screws in lightbulbs. You stand close to her jean-clad legs, or robe-clad ones,
you hold on. It's not that she's ever actually had an accident, or fallen or
broken anything, ever.
85
Just that Mom seems perpetually at the edge of
the precarious-almost. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"I am just so sick of it being ten twenty, I
cannot tell you," she says. She reaches up, plucks the kitchen clock off the
wall. She flicks the battery out with her fingernail, puts the new one in, spins
the hands, and sets the clock on the nail again. It's true that it's been ten
twenty for a long time. Weeks, maybe even months. After a while, I guess, you
just stop noticing.
The clock is ticking away with a newfound sense
of purpose. Mom climbs down from the chair. "When you get that envelope today,
just make sure Jane or someone's there when you open it. You don't know this
guy. Maybe he's some kind of sicko."
"Sicko," Chico agrees.
"He's not a sicko," I say. I told Mom about the
envelope last night at dinner, but I didn't think she even really heard. She was
so wrapped up in Bex's tsunami obsession that she brushed it off with an Oh
really? that was an I didn't actually hear that in disguise. I look
for a clean spoon for my cereal, but no one's turned on the dishwasher, so there
are only those spiky-tipped ones for eating grapefruit and Bex's short baby
spoon with Ariel the mermaid on it. I go for Ariel.
"You don't know that," she says. "He might seem
normal, but look at Ted Bundy."
"So, what, there's going to be a bloody knife
in the envelope?"
"Don't even joke," she says.
"No, that white powder terrorists use. I'll
give you a call before I go meet him alone in a dark alley," I say. "Sicko,
sicko," Chico says.
86
I decide to walk to work. First of all, Mom's
get-it-done has been ignited--she's cleaned the junk drawer of old keys and
dried-up pens and a manual for a VCR that died a choking death long ago after a
video got stuck inside, and she's moved on to the pantry, stacking up
nearly-empty-but-never-thrown-
out cracker boxes, stale cereal we all hated,
a plastic bear of honey that's crystallized, and a Fruit Roll-Up that survived
World War II.
Asking her to take me now would be like asking
a tornado to kindly stop for a sec. I can only hope she'll run out of energy in
the kitchen, because I can see me coming home to a bedroom empty of everything
except a stripped mattress.
Anyway, it's spring delicious out, and I don't
mind walking. We had nearly two weeks of sun so far in May, which in the Seattle
area means that any day now, Mother Nature will make you PAY. Better enjoy while
you can. The air smells like juniper and roses and warm cement, and Mrs. Denholm
next door has her sprinkler on already, one of those old-fashioned sorts that
look like a miniature fountain and only cover a three by three area, and Buddy,
the Yeslers' golden retriever, follows me only as far as the mailboxes, like a
good child who stays in the yard like he's told.
Visions of envelopes are dancing in my head, or
maybe not dancing, but walking really fast. I've thought so much about the
envelope that the idea of it is close to being worn and tired, as if it had
stayed up too late having more than its
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