the principle of fighting is that my fist contains a certain amount of momentum, and pain occurs when my fist encounters an immovable object—in this case your face. But let’s say that I swing at you with all my strength and put behind my punch the whole of my weight and
you simply step out of the way
. What will happen to me?”
“I can only guess,” AnnaLee said.
“That’s exactly right. I’d simply fall down. And that’s what would happen to Grandma as well, if you simply stepped out of the way of her blows.”
“All right, Langston.” AnnaLee smoothed her hair back, ineffectually, and tried to gather herself up enough to stand.
“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”
“I mean I’m stepping out of your way. Now if you want to help me, take some Comet cleanser to that downstairs bathroom sink.”
“Mama, Grandma Wilkey will
never
go into our bathroom, not ever.”
“She will if you don’t clean it.”
*
The bathroom was worse than Langston had expected; more porcelain had chipped away from the sink and the toilet seemed to be listing toward the basement. Langston pulled the shower curtain closed on the invincible black mold that grew in the tiles, and straightened up the tragic little throw rug in front of the tub. It had once been an expensive rug, but the edges of it had been shredded by generations of cats, all currently deceased. The sink was just a small basin attached to the wall with nothing hiding the pipes beneath it. In the corner under the sink AnnaLee kept a bucket of cleaning supplies, and even they weren’t glamorous. There were no fancy nozzles or interesting bubbles or surgeon general’s warnings: just Comet cleanser and the kind of toilet bowl cleaner desperate criminals tended to drink in prison. Langston scrubbed the porcelain and the fixtures, which were reversed, so that when one turned the tap that said hot, one actually got cold. She scrubbed with an energy she preferred not to examine, because it contained a protective pity for her mother that made her wretched.
The mirror was the door of a white metal medicine cabinet from the fifties, covered with toothpaste splotches and beginning to lose its silver at the edges. Langston used the old hand towel that hung on a hook above the sink to clean the mirror, then dug through the little cabinet next to the toilet where AnnaLee kept linens, looking for a more attractive towel. She found a lovely red one, clearly intended for Christmas, and draped it so the holly didn’t show.
There was a knock at the door. Langston glanced at her watch; it was three fifteen.
*
Grandma Wilkey sat on the very edge of the couch, so that as little as possible of her person touched the nubbly brown upholstery. Langston could tell her grandmother didn’t want to lean back against the afghan AnnaLee had placed on the back of couch, which was made from little knitted squares, put together by Nan Braverman. Nan had chosen colors she thought would match AnnaLee and Walt’s furniture, and unfortunately, she had been correct. The army green, red, brown, and yellow squares, mixed together in the most frantic ways, resembled nothing more than a terrible gastric event involving a pizza. The afghan threw Langston into a tailspin, too, but her grandmother’s all too obvious disdain was irritating.
“Perhaps you’ve noticed the lovely afghan behind you, Grandma.”
“Where’s your mother?” Grandma Wilkey demanded, smoothing out the cream-colored linen skirt over her knees.
“Nan Braverman made it just a year before she passed away. She was a fine woman. Salt of the earth.”
“She knew I was coming, didn’t she?”
“Mama’s just getting dressed, I think. You are quite, quite early.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Grandma Wilkey twisted around and looked at the stairway. “Where’s your mother?” Her voice was growing progressively shriller as she aged, and she spoke more loudly as her hearing deteriorated. Langston could
you simply step out of the way
. What will happen to me?”
“I can only guess,” AnnaLee said.
“That’s exactly right. I’d simply fall down. And that’s what would happen to Grandma as well, if you simply stepped out of the way of her blows.”
“All right, Langston.” AnnaLee smoothed her hair back, ineffectually, and tried to gather herself up enough to stand.
“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”
“I mean I’m stepping out of your way. Now if you want to help me, take some Comet cleanser to that downstairs bathroom sink.”
“Mama, Grandma Wilkey will
never
go into our bathroom, not ever.”
“She will if you don’t clean it.”
*
The bathroom was worse than Langston had expected; more porcelain had chipped away from the sink and the toilet seemed to be listing toward the basement. Langston pulled the shower curtain closed on the invincible black mold that grew in the tiles, and straightened up the tragic little throw rug in front of the tub. It had once been an expensive rug, but the edges of it had been shredded by generations of cats, all currently deceased. The sink was just a small basin attached to the wall with nothing hiding the pipes beneath it. In the corner under the sink AnnaLee kept a bucket of cleaning supplies, and even they weren’t glamorous. There were no fancy nozzles or interesting bubbles or surgeon general’s warnings: just Comet cleanser and the kind of toilet bowl cleaner desperate criminals tended to drink in prison. Langston scrubbed the porcelain and the fixtures, which were reversed, so that when one turned the tap that said hot, one actually got cold. She scrubbed with an energy she preferred not to examine, because it contained a protective pity for her mother that made her wretched.
The mirror was the door of a white metal medicine cabinet from the fifties, covered with toothpaste splotches and beginning to lose its silver at the edges. Langston used the old hand towel that hung on a hook above the sink to clean the mirror, then dug through the little cabinet next to the toilet where AnnaLee kept linens, looking for a more attractive towel. She found a lovely red one, clearly intended for Christmas, and draped it so the holly didn’t show.
There was a knock at the door. Langston glanced at her watch; it was three fifteen.
*
Grandma Wilkey sat on the very edge of the couch, so that as little as possible of her person touched the nubbly brown upholstery. Langston could tell her grandmother didn’t want to lean back against the afghan AnnaLee had placed on the back of couch, which was made from little knitted squares, put together by Nan Braverman. Nan had chosen colors she thought would match AnnaLee and Walt’s furniture, and unfortunately, she had been correct. The army green, red, brown, and yellow squares, mixed together in the most frantic ways, resembled nothing more than a terrible gastric event involving a pizza. The afghan threw Langston into a tailspin, too, but her grandmother’s all too obvious disdain was irritating.
“Perhaps you’ve noticed the lovely afghan behind you, Grandma.”
“Where’s your mother?” Grandma Wilkey demanded, smoothing out the cream-colored linen skirt over her knees.
“Nan Braverman made it just a year before she passed away. She was a fine woman. Salt of the earth.”
“She knew I was coming, didn’t she?”
“Mama’s just getting dressed, I think. You are quite, quite early.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Grandma Wilkey twisted around and looked at the stairway. “Where’s your mother?” Her voice was growing progressively shriller as she aged, and she spoke more loudly as her hearing deteriorated. Langston could
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