to start...” before Mom appeared (again!) and
asked you whether you planned to stay for dinner.
At least you managed to pay attention
to me for a minute. "Girl trouble?" you asked.
Maybe to get your attention and maybe
because Mom was there, I said, "something like that." (In a sense
that was true - at least it was part of the problem.)
As usual you didn't want to leave me hanging, so
you said, "Since you work at that library, not far from me, what d'you say
we get together and have a talk one of these evenings, like in the good old
days?"
I said, "Great." I wanted to set
it up with you for the following night, but Mom had already dragged you into
the dining room.
I didn't give up. I stuck
around during the whole meal and after, until we all went out to see you to
your car - that is, all except for Dad, who said goodbye to you in the house
and started clearing the table (and gobbling up the leftovers). Mom
walked next to you. Aunt Ida walked behind you and I was behind her.
I could swear Mom was trying to whisper something to you about Aunt Ida,
but Aunt Ida was well versed in family intrigue and stuck close by until her
eagerness landed her in the rose bed. Mom rushed back to help her up -
probably because she felt guilty for conspiring with you. I took a few
big steps to get past them both and finally caught up to you.
You
were already fed up with the visit, or else peeved at something Mom had said to
you. You were as patient as usual, but you didn't seem too interested or
enthusiastic.
"So, what
is it Ronny," you said, "a matter of love. . ?"
"No, a matter of...” I searched
for a word that would express what was happening, and "fear" was the
only one I could come up with.
As usual, you placed your hand on my
shoulder. A large, heavy hand, yet not oppressive. Your lips parted
as if you were about to say something, but Mom was already behind us (I knew it
without her making a sound, without my turning around, just from something that
flickered across your eyes) and you hesitated.
Finally you said, "Actually, there's not much
difference between the two. When it's a matter of love and fear, the
question is usually whether to respond or not...”
That sounded right, but it didn't
solve any of my problems. Mom, however, reacted nervously - maybe because
she was afraid I'd said something about something she'd rather forget.
Aunt Ida was leaning on her arm, and she gingerly passed her over to my
arm.
"Take her inside," she said in a manner
that left no room for argument.
I led Aunt Ida along the path.
Suddenly she stopped and motioned me closer.
"Bad things are going on here, Ronny, very
bad things." I nodded and started to walk a little faster before she could
start in with one of her confounded explanations, but she kept mum until we got
inside.
Mom came in a little after I heard
your car pull away. She was very uptight and right away started bickering
with Aunt Ida over something unimportant. Dad went off to sleep, and I
also went off to my room. Aunt Ida was still upset, and as I dozed off I
could hear her rummaging around restlessly in the living room. Later that
night, I woke to find her standing over my bed.
"Bad things are going on," she repeated.
I turned the light on. She was
wearing a heavy brown coat over her nightgown. Her neck and chest were as
crumpled as used wrapping paper. But her breasts, glimpsed through the
torn neckline, were smooth, beautiful. I cast my eyes down, so as not to
see. She took it to be something else.
"Don't fall asleep now, Ronny, don't fall
asleep," she insisted, pulling the blanket off me. "We have to
see where she's going."
The word "she" changed
everything. I leapt out of bed. Aunt Ida raced ahead down the hall.
At the entrance to the kitchen she ducked, so as not to be visible
through the window of the dining alcove. We crouched forward on
asked you whether you planned to stay for dinner.
At least you managed to pay attention
to me for a minute. "Girl trouble?" you asked.
Maybe to get your attention and maybe
because Mom was there, I said, "something like that." (In a sense
that was true - at least it was part of the problem.)
As usual you didn't want to leave me hanging, so
you said, "Since you work at that library, not far from me, what d'you say
we get together and have a talk one of these evenings, like in the good old
days?"
I said, "Great." I wanted to set
it up with you for the following night, but Mom had already dragged you into
the dining room.
I didn't give up. I stuck
around during the whole meal and after, until we all went out to see you to
your car - that is, all except for Dad, who said goodbye to you in the house
and started clearing the table (and gobbling up the leftovers). Mom
walked next to you. Aunt Ida walked behind you and I was behind her.
I could swear Mom was trying to whisper something to you about Aunt Ida,
but Aunt Ida was well versed in family intrigue and stuck close by until her
eagerness landed her in the rose bed. Mom rushed back to help her up -
probably because she felt guilty for conspiring with you. I took a few
big steps to get past them both and finally caught up to you.
You
were already fed up with the visit, or else peeved at something Mom had said to
you. You were as patient as usual, but you didn't seem too interested or
enthusiastic.
"So, what
is it Ronny," you said, "a matter of love. . ?"
"No, a matter of...” I searched
for a word that would express what was happening, and "fear" was the
only one I could come up with.
As usual, you placed your hand on my
shoulder. A large, heavy hand, yet not oppressive. Your lips parted
as if you were about to say something, but Mom was already behind us (I knew it
without her making a sound, without my turning around, just from something that
flickered across your eyes) and you hesitated.
Finally you said, "Actually, there's not much
difference between the two. When it's a matter of love and fear, the
question is usually whether to respond or not...”
That sounded right, but it didn't
solve any of my problems. Mom, however, reacted nervously - maybe because
she was afraid I'd said something about something she'd rather forget.
Aunt Ida was leaning on her arm, and she gingerly passed her over to my
arm.
"Take her inside," she said in a manner
that left no room for argument.
I led Aunt Ida along the path.
Suddenly she stopped and motioned me closer.
"Bad things are going on here, Ronny, very
bad things." I nodded and started to walk a little faster before she could
start in with one of her confounded explanations, but she kept mum until we got
inside.
Mom came in a little after I heard
your car pull away. She was very uptight and right away started bickering
with Aunt Ida over something unimportant. Dad went off to sleep, and I
also went off to my room. Aunt Ida was still upset, and as I dozed off I
could hear her rummaging around restlessly in the living room. Later that
night, I woke to find her standing over my bed.
"Bad things are going on," she repeated.
I turned the light on. She was
wearing a heavy brown coat over her nightgown. Her neck and chest were as
crumpled as used wrapping paper. But her breasts, glimpsed through the
torn neckline, were smooth, beautiful. I cast my eyes down, so as not to
see. She took it to be something else.
"Don't fall asleep now, Ronny, don't fall
asleep," she insisted, pulling the blanket off me. "We have to
see where she's going."
The word "she" changed
everything. I leapt out of bed. Aunt Ida raced ahead down the hall.
At the entrance to the kitchen she ducked, so as not to be visible
through the window of the dining alcove. We crouched forward on
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