hinge. All aches are psychosomatic, aren't
they?
I
can tell my interviewer is feeling sympathetic at this moment because, though
his face remains frozen in that blank look of reception, he is not pushing my
elbow off his person. He is restraining his prissiness. Even to the extent of
letting sympathy seep into his voice as he says, "She left you just like
that, huh? No warning, no discussion, just up and walked out, just like
that."
"Just
like that," I agree. "She took the kids. Boy, the books they'll write some day."
"And
they're all still in their teens."
"The Sargasso Sea of the teens," I say. "In their teens. The penal colony of
the teens. I remember my tee— No, I don't! Memory begone !"
"There's
something back there, isn't there?" my interviewer asks me. “Something
that explains everything that followed. That's what it's all about, isn't
it?"
This
knee is too bony, too gray-clad, too prissy. I
withdraw my friendly elbow, I turn away —not toward the pool!—I turn back, I find my place on the teleprompter of my
eyelids, I say, “Marcia."
“Yes?"
“She
left."
“Yes."
“I
gave her the house, three pints of blood, and Ventnor Avenue , and after that Buddy and I moved into a
place out on the beach."
“Buddy
again? Just the two of you?"
“Heck,
no," I say, smiling at the memory. Well, the beginning of the memory,
anyway. “I got to fulfill an old dream. I brought my mom and dad out to live
with me."
FLASHBACK 15
The
bedroom was small and square, with off-white walls and blond wood floor and
very prominent electric outlets, prominent because the room was not yet
furnished. The only objects in it were two white wooden kitchen chairs without
arms, facing each other. On one stood a portable TV set, its black wire
reaching back to a cable outlet low on the wall. To one side, plate-glass doors
showed a broad gray wood deck in blinding sunlight, with the broad gray Pacific
heaving like chicken soup beyond.
The
room's interior door—flush, painted white—opened and Jack entered, smiling,
sweating, awkward, trying to please, ushering in his mom and dad. Mom was short
and buxom, round-faced, jolly; she wore an old print dress and a gray cardigan.
Her hands were full of snapshots. Dad, short and skinny and dry, wore white
shirt and black pants and shoes, all too big for him. His face had a collapsed
look around the mouth.
"And
this is your room!" Jack
exclaimed, pumping up his enthusiasm, giving one of the very few poor performances
of his acting career, Gesturing madly at the bare walls, the white chairs, the
ocean outside, he said, “Furniture's going to be delivered by noon! All brand new!"
Mom
had been waiting impatiently for Jack to shut up or at least pause for a
breath. When he finally did so, she shuffled toward him, holding up snapshots,
saying, “Here's cousin Rosie with the twins. And here's the twins with Blair's dog. And this is the Flynns'
new car.''
“TV,"
Dad said.
As
Jack smiled and nodded and stared glaze-eyed at Mom's photographs, Buddy
entered, smiling, hands clasped in front of him, nodding like the co-host he
was, and Dad crossed the room to switch on the television set and seat himself
expectantly on the edge of the other chair.
“Great reception here, Dad,'' Jack told him.
The
picture blossomed on the screen. Dad leaned forward to start switching
channels.
Mom
held up more snapshots. “Here's the laurel tree out behind Margaret's house.
Look how
they?
I
can tell my interviewer is feeling sympathetic at this moment because, though
his face remains frozen in that blank look of reception, he is not pushing my
elbow off his person. He is restraining his prissiness. Even to the extent of
letting sympathy seep into his voice as he says, "She left you just like
that, huh? No warning, no discussion, just up and walked out, just like
that."
"Just
like that," I agree. "She took the kids. Boy, the books they'll write some day."
"And
they're all still in their teens."
"The Sargasso Sea of the teens," I say. "In their teens. The penal colony of
the teens. I remember my tee— No, I don't! Memory begone !"
"There's
something back there, isn't there?" my interviewer asks me. “Something
that explains everything that followed. That's what it's all about, isn't
it?"
This
knee is too bony, too gray-clad, too prissy. I
withdraw my friendly elbow, I turn away —not toward the pool!—I turn back, I find my place on the teleprompter of my
eyelids, I say, “Marcia."
“Yes?"
“She
left."
“Yes."
“I
gave her the house, three pints of blood, and Ventnor Avenue , and after that Buddy and I moved into a
place out on the beach."
“Buddy
again? Just the two of you?"
“Heck,
no," I say, smiling at the memory. Well, the beginning of the memory,
anyway. “I got to fulfill an old dream. I brought my mom and dad out to live
with me."
FLASHBACK 15
The
bedroom was small and square, with off-white walls and blond wood floor and
very prominent electric outlets, prominent because the room was not yet
furnished. The only objects in it were two white wooden kitchen chairs without
arms, facing each other. On one stood a portable TV set, its black wire
reaching back to a cable outlet low on the wall. To one side, plate-glass doors
showed a broad gray wood deck in blinding sunlight, with the broad gray Pacific
heaving like chicken soup beyond.
The
room's interior door—flush, painted white—opened and Jack entered, smiling,
sweating, awkward, trying to please, ushering in his mom and dad. Mom was short
and buxom, round-faced, jolly; she wore an old print dress and a gray cardigan.
Her hands were full of snapshots. Dad, short and skinny and dry, wore white
shirt and black pants and shoes, all too big for him. His face had a collapsed
look around the mouth.
"And
this is your room!" Jack
exclaimed, pumping up his enthusiasm, giving one of the very few poor performances
of his acting career, Gesturing madly at the bare walls, the white chairs, the
ocean outside, he said, “Furniture's going to be delivered by noon! All brand new!"
Mom
had been waiting impatiently for Jack to shut up or at least pause for a
breath. When he finally did so, she shuffled toward him, holding up snapshots,
saying, “Here's cousin Rosie with the twins. And here's the twins with Blair's dog. And this is the Flynns'
new car.''
“TV,"
Dad said.
As
Jack smiled and nodded and stared glaze-eyed at Mom's photographs, Buddy
entered, smiling, hands clasped in front of him, nodding like the co-host he
was, and Dad crossed the room to switch on the television set and seat himself
expectantly on the edge of the other chair.
“Great reception here, Dad,'' Jack told him.
The
picture blossomed on the screen. Dad leaned forward to start switching
channels.
Mom
held up more snapshots. “Here's the laurel tree out behind Margaret's house.
Look how
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