she died, and her daughter, along with her stubby husband, pulled up in a U-Haul and hauled her things away. My mother and I watched them from the kitchen window one Saturday afternoon. They were bundled in down jackets, stumbling across the front yard as they struggled with an olive green army trunk between them.
That trunk looked so heavy, I wondered what could possibly be in it. Salvaged bricks? Gold doubloons?
When that trunk slipped between them, it tore a gaping hole in the daughter’s jacket, and a breath of feathers flew out. From the kitchen window it looked as if the daughter’s body were a mattress full of fluff, hacked up. I could see her husband pick them out of his eyes, knock them out of his hair, spit them into the wind like a dry, choking snow.
My father was sitting in his La-Z-Boy with an ankle up on his knee, shaking his plaid slipper. “They’re having some trouble over there,” my mother said to him. “Maybe you should offer to help.”
My mother had worried, after Mrs. Lefkowky’s house was emptied out, that it might be sold to someone of poor quality, someone who might put plastic garden ornaments in the yard, someone with sticky children. So I was eager to give her the good news about Phil and his mother. She’d just come from the dentist, of whom she’d spoken highly for years, and often, and she was smiling.
Apparently, Dr. Heine was an attentive dentist. He polished my mother’s teeth like miniature windows, gagging my mother pleasantly with his fat fingers, leaning over her in a silent and intimate embrace, mingling his minty breath with hers. When she opened her mouth wider, his white shoulder pressed into her neck. “Beautiful,” he said, fingering her gums. “You must take good care of these babies.”
My mother would swallow with her mouth open and try to smile, as if he were strangling her with her consent, with her blessing choking her to death. Then he’d hold a mirror up so she could see her teeth for herself, and she looked gorgeous in that mirror—flushed, lovely, dark hair subtly mussed, a bit disheveled. “See you in six months?” Dr. Heine would ask, and there was a throaty touch of longing in his voice.
Once, after an appointment with him, my mother seemed so satisfied at dinner, sang Dr. Heine’s praises so eloquently, that my father finally got up from the table and stomped up the stairs.
“Your father’s jealous of my dentist,” my mother said as if I hadn’t noticed.
“So who are the new neighbors?” she asked, slipping her coat down her arms, feeling the coat closet for a hanger. The living room was brightly static with TV light, and, in it, I might have looked blue faced, drowned to her. I was still chubby. My hair was straight and brown, cut in a bit of a page boy. My eyes were blue:
good coloring
, at least. When and if I melted off some of that fat, I’d have that good coloring, and those good bones, which I got directly from her.
“Phil Hillman, and his mother,” I said. “They’re moving into Mrs. Lefkowsky’s house. Phil is in my class. Phil Hillman.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“He told me today. He told me they bought the house next to ours.”
“How did he know where you lived?” I could see it puzzled and bothered her that a boy knew where I lived. For years, she’d thought of herself as an ocean, and me as a small boat in it.
I shrugged. I said, “He said he saw me in the yard.”
“Do you like him?” she asked, turning her back to me, hanging up the coat. “Not a thug or something?”
“He’s great,” I said. “I like him a lot.” I paused. I wanted to say this gently, knowing what I knew about her, about what I meant to her. “He asked me out. Next Saturday. We’re going to a dance.”
My mother turned toward me again, and her mouth swung open in a small hole of surprise, but she managed to turn it into a yawn. “Well, well,” she said casually, indifferently. “Well,” she said, as if
That trunk looked so heavy, I wondered what could possibly be in it. Salvaged bricks? Gold doubloons?
When that trunk slipped between them, it tore a gaping hole in the daughter’s jacket, and a breath of feathers flew out. From the kitchen window it looked as if the daughter’s body were a mattress full of fluff, hacked up. I could see her husband pick them out of his eyes, knock them out of his hair, spit them into the wind like a dry, choking snow.
My father was sitting in his La-Z-Boy with an ankle up on his knee, shaking his plaid slipper. “They’re having some trouble over there,” my mother said to him. “Maybe you should offer to help.”
My mother had worried, after Mrs. Lefkowky’s house was emptied out, that it might be sold to someone of poor quality, someone who might put plastic garden ornaments in the yard, someone with sticky children. So I was eager to give her the good news about Phil and his mother. She’d just come from the dentist, of whom she’d spoken highly for years, and often, and she was smiling.
Apparently, Dr. Heine was an attentive dentist. He polished my mother’s teeth like miniature windows, gagging my mother pleasantly with his fat fingers, leaning over her in a silent and intimate embrace, mingling his minty breath with hers. When she opened her mouth wider, his white shoulder pressed into her neck. “Beautiful,” he said, fingering her gums. “You must take good care of these babies.”
My mother would swallow with her mouth open and try to smile, as if he were strangling her with her consent, with her blessing choking her to death. Then he’d hold a mirror up so she could see her teeth for herself, and she looked gorgeous in that mirror—flushed, lovely, dark hair subtly mussed, a bit disheveled. “See you in six months?” Dr. Heine would ask, and there was a throaty touch of longing in his voice.
Once, after an appointment with him, my mother seemed so satisfied at dinner, sang Dr. Heine’s praises so eloquently, that my father finally got up from the table and stomped up the stairs.
“Your father’s jealous of my dentist,” my mother said as if I hadn’t noticed.
“So who are the new neighbors?” she asked, slipping her coat down her arms, feeling the coat closet for a hanger. The living room was brightly static with TV light, and, in it, I might have looked blue faced, drowned to her. I was still chubby. My hair was straight and brown, cut in a bit of a page boy. My eyes were blue:
good coloring
, at least. When and if I melted off some of that fat, I’d have that good coloring, and those good bones, which I got directly from her.
“Phil Hillman, and his mother,” I said. “They’re moving into Mrs. Lefkowsky’s house. Phil is in my class. Phil Hillman.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“He told me today. He told me they bought the house next to ours.”
“How did he know where you lived?” I could see it puzzled and bothered her that a boy knew where I lived. For years, she’d thought of herself as an ocean, and me as a small boat in it.
I shrugged. I said, “He said he saw me in the yard.”
“Do you like him?” she asked, turning her back to me, hanging up the coat. “Not a thug or something?”
“He’s great,” I said. “I like him a lot.” I paused. I wanted to say this gently, knowing what I knew about her, about what I meant to her. “He asked me out. Next Saturday. We’re going to a dance.”
My mother turned toward me again, and her mouth swung open in a small hole of surprise, but she managed to turn it into a yawn. “Well, well,” she said casually, indifferently. “Well,” she said, as if
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