about changing the hinges on that door, and I thought of my mouth around her hard nipple, her wet nightgown over my tongue, a tiny bubble of cotton I had to rip the nightgown to get rid of. She had reached over me to click off the light, and the last thing I saw that night was the white underside of her arm. In the dark she smelled of honey and salt and the faint tang of wet metal.
I washed the wineglasses by hand and wiped down the counters. When my father was rehearsing and my brother was noodling around in his room, when I wasn’t too busy with soccer and school, my mother and I cleaned up the kitchen and listened to music. We talked or we didn’t, and she did some old Moms Mabley routines and I did Richard Pryor, and we stayed in the kitchen until about ten.
I called upstairs.
“Do you mind living alone?”
My mother stood at the top of the stairs in a man’s blue terrycloth robe and blue fuzzy slippers the size of small dogs.
“Sweet Jesus, it
is
Moms Mabley,” I said.
“No hat,” she said.
I realized, a little late, that it was not a kind thing to say to a middle-aged woman.
“And I’ve still got my teeth. I put towels in the room atthe end of the hall. The bed’s made up. I’ll be up before you in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.” She came down three steps. “I’m pretending I know. But it is true that I get up earlier than most people. I can make you an omelet if you want.”
“I’m not much of a breakfast man.”
She smiled, and then her smile folded up and she put her hand over her mouth.
“Ma, it’s all right.”
“I hope so, honey. Not that—I’m still sorry.” She sat down on the stairs, her robe pulled tight under her thighs.
“It’s all right.” I poured us both a little red wine and handed it to her, without going up the stairs. “So, do you mind living alone?”
My mother sighed. “Not so much. I’m a pain in the ass. I could live with a couple of other old ladies, I guess. Communal potlucks and watching who’s watering down the gin. It doesn’t really sound so bad. Maybe in twenty years.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Maybe. I think I’m pretty much done meeting people.”
“You’re only fifty-four. You’re the same age as Tina Turner.”
“Yup. And Tina is probably tired of meeting people too. How about you, do you mind living alone?”
“I don’t exactly live alone—”
“You do. That’s exactly what you do, you live alone.And have relationships with people who are very happy to let you live alone.”
“Claudine’s really a lot of fun, Ma. You didn’t get to know her.”
“She may be a whole house of fun, but don’t tell me she inspires thoughts of a happy domestic life.”
“No.”
“That little girl could.”
I told her a few of my favorite Mirabelle stories, and she told me stories I had forgotten about me and my brother drag-racing shopping carts down Cross Street, locking our baby-sitter in the basement, stretching ourselves on the doorways and praying to be tall.
“We never made you guys say your prayers, we certainly never went to church, and we kept you far away from Grammy Ruth’s Never Forgive Never Forget Pentecostal Church of the Holy Fruitcakes. And there you two would be, on your knees to Jesus, praying to be six feet tall.”
“It worked,” I said.
“It did.” She stretched her legs down a few steps, and I saw that they were unchanged, still smooth and tan, with hard calves that squared when she moved.
“You ought to think about marrying again,” I said.
“You ought to think about doing it the first time.”
“Well, let’s get on it. Let’s find people to marry. Broomstick-jumping time in Massachusetts and Paree.”
My mother stood up. “You do it, honey. You find someonesmart and funny and kindhearted and get married so I can make a fuss over the grandbabies.”
I saluted her with the wineglass. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good night. Sleep tight.”
“Good night,
I washed the wineglasses by hand and wiped down the counters. When my father was rehearsing and my brother was noodling around in his room, when I wasn’t too busy with soccer and school, my mother and I cleaned up the kitchen and listened to music. We talked or we didn’t, and she did some old Moms Mabley routines and I did Richard Pryor, and we stayed in the kitchen until about ten.
I called upstairs.
“Do you mind living alone?”
My mother stood at the top of the stairs in a man’s blue terrycloth robe and blue fuzzy slippers the size of small dogs.
“Sweet Jesus, it
is
Moms Mabley,” I said.
“No hat,” she said.
I realized, a little late, that it was not a kind thing to say to a middle-aged woman.
“And I’ve still got my teeth. I put towels in the room atthe end of the hall. The bed’s made up. I’ll be up before you in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.” She came down three steps. “I’m pretending I know. But it is true that I get up earlier than most people. I can make you an omelet if you want.”
“I’m not much of a breakfast man.”
She smiled, and then her smile folded up and she put her hand over her mouth.
“Ma, it’s all right.”
“I hope so, honey. Not that—I’m still sorry.” She sat down on the stairs, her robe pulled tight under her thighs.
“It’s all right.” I poured us both a little red wine and handed it to her, without going up the stairs. “So, do you mind living alone?”
My mother sighed. “Not so much. I’m a pain in the ass. I could live with a couple of other old ladies, I guess. Communal potlucks and watching who’s watering down the gin. It doesn’t really sound so bad. Maybe in twenty years.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Maybe. I think I’m pretty much done meeting people.”
“You’re only fifty-four. You’re the same age as Tina Turner.”
“Yup. And Tina is probably tired of meeting people too. How about you, do you mind living alone?”
“I don’t exactly live alone—”
“You do. That’s exactly what you do, you live alone.And have relationships with people who are very happy to let you live alone.”
“Claudine’s really a lot of fun, Ma. You didn’t get to know her.”
“She may be a whole house of fun, but don’t tell me she inspires thoughts of a happy domestic life.”
“No.”
“That little girl could.”
I told her a few of my favorite Mirabelle stories, and she told me stories I had forgotten about me and my brother drag-racing shopping carts down Cross Street, locking our baby-sitter in the basement, stretching ourselves on the doorways and praying to be tall.
“We never made you guys say your prayers, we certainly never went to church, and we kept you far away from Grammy Ruth’s Never Forgive Never Forget Pentecostal Church of the Holy Fruitcakes. And there you two would be, on your knees to Jesus, praying to be six feet tall.”
“It worked,” I said.
“It did.” She stretched her legs down a few steps, and I saw that they were unchanged, still smooth and tan, with hard calves that squared when she moved.
“You ought to think about marrying again,” I said.
“You ought to think about doing it the first time.”
“Well, let’s get on it. Let’s find people to marry. Broomstick-jumping time in Massachusetts and Paree.”
My mother stood up. “You do it, honey. You find someonesmart and funny and kindhearted and get married so I can make a fuss over the grandbabies.”
I saluted her with the wineglass. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good night. Sleep tight.”
“Good night,
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