unmistakably dyed hair. Though she was fat now, her nose was still her dominant feature; it looked ready to weigh anchor from her face at any moment.
“I’ll believe it,” I told her. “What happened?”
She gave me a sharp look. “Look, there’s no need to get snotty.” Then she sighed deeply, shifted in her chair, and took a sip of her drink. “They’re going to cancel my show.”
Every weekday morning for the last twelve years, from nine to ten a.m., the local talk radio station broadcast The Mother Galina Psychic Hour. People called in with questions—“Should I quit my job?” and “Is he the man for me?” and “What color should I paint my house?”—and my mother, working with a team of what she termed “spirit advisers,” answered them, often so deftly and probingly the caller would break into tears. “What you need to do,” she said several times a week, “is get to the real question.” She was very, very good. And she was right: I couldn’t believe they’d cancel the show.
“Why would they do a thing like that?”
My mother shook her head. Her earrings, fat chunks of amber with ants in them, swung back and forth. They matched her hair, which was an extraordinary brassy color. “They say they want a change, that it’s been twelve years and I’ve answered everyone’s questions. They’re thinking of putting a shrink in that spot. A shrink! What do they think I do?”
“Well, they’re making a big mistake.”
“Obviously, Naomi.” She stared into her drink again, brooding. “I’m the only reason people listen to that godawful Morning Show. Do they think anyone wants to hear those two buffoons complain about town council meetings?”
I took a long slug of my wine—it was terrible, like cough medicine—and when I put my cup back down again, I noticed that there was a newspaper sticking out of my mother’s tote bag. It was neat, tightly folded. She must have picked it up on her way over and not had time to read it.
“Look, there’s Troy,” said my mother, waving. “Troy! Over here!”
Troy smiled, waved back, but didn’t move. He was talking to a young woman in a blue blouse.
“Lecher,” said my mother. “Hold on a minute, I’ve got to talk to him.” She pushed her chair back and struggled up. She’d been having trouble getting around lately: a bunion operation last year, and all that extra weight.
When she was gone I slid out her newspaper and flattened it out on our table. Wind ruffled the pages, and I weighted them with our drinks. This was the headline:
BONES FOUND IN TOWN OF WALLAMEE:
CRIME OR ARCHAEOLOGY?
POLICE INVESTIGATING
And there it was: a full-color picture of the clearing by the lake. A big yellow earthmover, like the one I’d followed that morning, was parked next to a pile of rocks and dirt. Some official-looking men were standing around, not far from the old falling-down barn. I brushed my fingers over it, disbelieving.
“That Troy!” said my mother, back already. “You’d think he…”
I looked up at her, startled.
“What’s the matter?” she said quickly.
I looked down again, took the drinks off the newspaper, and began to fold it back up. I hadn’t had a chance to see whether the skeleton was a woman, or a man, or what. “Hmm?”
She pulled her chair out, eased herself back into it, and smiled. It was a long, knowing, absolutely devastating smile. My mother had built her career on the effects of this look; it could make you think, She knows me better than anyone in the world. It could make you want to give her everything in your wallet. Of course, I was used to it. I had spent my life steeling myself against it.
“You look,” she said, still smiling, “exactly like you did that day you came home from school and had wet your pants. Do you remember that? You told me you’d fallen into a puddle, but oh, the look on your face!”
“I did fall into a puddle,” I told her, outraged.
Her smile wavered just slightly. “Oh,
“I’ll believe it,” I told her. “What happened?”
She gave me a sharp look. “Look, there’s no need to get snotty.” Then she sighed deeply, shifted in her chair, and took a sip of her drink. “They’re going to cancel my show.”
Every weekday morning for the last twelve years, from nine to ten a.m., the local talk radio station broadcast The Mother Galina Psychic Hour. People called in with questions—“Should I quit my job?” and “Is he the man for me?” and “What color should I paint my house?”—and my mother, working with a team of what she termed “spirit advisers,” answered them, often so deftly and probingly the caller would break into tears. “What you need to do,” she said several times a week, “is get to the real question.” She was very, very good. And she was right: I couldn’t believe they’d cancel the show.
“Why would they do a thing like that?”
My mother shook her head. Her earrings, fat chunks of amber with ants in them, swung back and forth. They matched her hair, which was an extraordinary brassy color. “They say they want a change, that it’s been twelve years and I’ve answered everyone’s questions. They’re thinking of putting a shrink in that spot. A shrink! What do they think I do?”
“Well, they’re making a big mistake.”
“Obviously, Naomi.” She stared into her drink again, brooding. “I’m the only reason people listen to that godawful Morning Show. Do they think anyone wants to hear those two buffoons complain about town council meetings?”
I took a long slug of my wine—it was terrible, like cough medicine—and when I put my cup back down again, I noticed that there was a newspaper sticking out of my mother’s tote bag. It was neat, tightly folded. She must have picked it up on her way over and not had time to read it.
“Look, there’s Troy,” said my mother, waving. “Troy! Over here!”
Troy smiled, waved back, but didn’t move. He was talking to a young woman in a blue blouse.
“Lecher,” said my mother. “Hold on a minute, I’ve got to talk to him.” She pushed her chair back and struggled up. She’d been having trouble getting around lately: a bunion operation last year, and all that extra weight.
When she was gone I slid out her newspaper and flattened it out on our table. Wind ruffled the pages, and I weighted them with our drinks. This was the headline:
BONES FOUND IN TOWN OF WALLAMEE:
CRIME OR ARCHAEOLOGY?
POLICE INVESTIGATING
And there it was: a full-color picture of the clearing by the lake. A big yellow earthmover, like the one I’d followed that morning, was parked next to a pile of rocks and dirt. Some official-looking men were standing around, not far from the old falling-down barn. I brushed my fingers over it, disbelieving.
“That Troy!” said my mother, back already. “You’d think he…”
I looked up at her, startled.
“What’s the matter?” she said quickly.
I looked down again, took the drinks off the newspaper, and began to fold it back up. I hadn’t had a chance to see whether the skeleton was a woman, or a man, or what. “Hmm?”
She pulled her chair out, eased herself back into it, and smiled. It was a long, knowing, absolutely devastating smile. My mother had built her career on the effects of this look; it could make you think, She knows me better than anyone in the world. It could make you want to give her everything in your wallet. Of course, I was used to it. I had spent my life steeling myself against it.
“You look,” she said, still smiling, “exactly like you did that day you came home from school and had wet your pants. Do you remember that? You told me you’d fallen into a puddle, but oh, the look on your face!”
“I did fall into a puddle,” I told her, outraged.
Her smile wavered just slightly. “Oh,
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