The Sweet by and By by Todd Johnson Page A

is always able to pull it together when she needs to, isn’t that right?”
    She crushes Mister Benny’s head against her cheek. “We’re going to the restaurant!” she squeals.
    “You’re going to need a sweater,” the wife says. “You know you always get cold, even when everybody else is burning up.”
    The wife slides open the closet door, almost violently. Most of what
    is in there are housedresses and nightgowns with the tags still on them and bedroom shoes of every description in piles on the f loor. There are two or three sweaters hanging, and beside them, a couple of dresses each for hot weather and cold. The son helps Bernice into the armchair that was intended for company and stands by the window, rocking from side to side with his hands in his pockets, jangling change or keys.
    The wife buries her head in the closet. “I would give you this navy blue one, but it looks like something is spilled all over the front of it. It needs to go to the cleaners.” She wads it up and throws it on the bed. “All these sweaters do. They all have an odor.” She throws another pile on the bed.
    “We’ll take care of that, Mama,” the son says. He has stopped jan- gling. The wife stares at him, somehow disappointed.
    “This old red one is the only one that’s even fitting to wear. We’ve got to go.”
    Bernice looks at me. “We’re going to the restaurant! You come too, okay?”
    “No, honey, Ann’s going to be back to visit with me after while. She’s showing a house. Y’all go on.” I smile at the wife even though she isn’t the one who invited me.
    She hands the sweater to her husband. “Here Mama, let’s get this on you so you’ll be warm enough,” he says. Bernice hesitates, then lays Mister Benny down on top of the pile of sweaters. It looks like a little nest made especially for him. He is resting peacefully.
    The wife picks up her purse and waits in the doorway. “Are you all coming any time soon?”
    The son sticks out his hand to shake. “Very nice to meet you. Or meet you again I guess,” he wheezes a laugh. “You have a happy Mother’s Day. Let’s go to the car, Mama.”
    Bernice picks up Mister Benny from his bed, and the son almost for- gets to take the pile of clothes until the wife gestures with her chin.
    When she speaks this time, it is in a little girl’s voice. “Now Miss
    Bernice, you know you’re not going to take Mister Benny to the res- taurant. He’ll be just fine right here, and he’ll be right here when you get back.”
    Bernice is silent. Her grip tightens on Mister Benny and she looks at her son, who grins and starts the metallic jangling in his pocket again with his free hand.
    “Miss Bernice?” the wife continues. “If we don’t go ahead, we’re not going to have time to have lunch. We have to get back to the babysitter and then go to church.”
    The son starts to speak. “Greta . . .” he says, but she cuts him off. “Don’t even suggest it, Cameron. I can see it in your eyes and don’t even suggest it. It’s Mother’s Day, and I am not going to sit at a table in public with that worn-out doll and pretend like that’s all right. It’s not.”
    Bernice says, “Mister Benny’s going to the restaurant too, okay?” “No. No, it is not okay. You can leave him for one hour, that’s
    all we’ll be gone. One hour.” The wife raises a finger to point at the son, and several gold bracelets clank together against a large sparkling wristwatch with a pink crocodile strap. “You have spoiled her. That’s what this is about and I don’t know how many times I’ve told you. She’s spoiled.”
    The son leans into Bernice. “Mama, can you please leave Mister Benny this once?”
    Bernice looks at me. Her eyes are red and pleading. “He has to stay with me.”
    “This is ridiculous.” The wife turns to me. “Have you ever in your life?”
    “She’s real tenderhearted. Maybe . . .” She doesn’t let me finish, it’s clear she never intended