Naomi, honestly! Why did you look so ashamed, then? I’m your mother, for God’s sake; you don’t have to fib.”
I shook my head, refusing to say another thing on the subject. Suddenly I was beginning to doubt my own version of events; it seemed possible that I had lied all those years ago and had fooled myself into believing otherwise. I guzzled my wine, furious.
“Ha!” said my mother. “You know I’m right.”
Fortunately, she seemed to have forgotten what had started the quarrel in the first place, and sat smugly drinking her martini. We were quiet for several long minutes, looking out over the lake, where motorboats with their engines turned off drifted slowly by and fishermen cast lines across the calm water. It was a beautiful evening, but I felt irritable and uncomfortably cold. All around us, glasses clinked and people laughed and chattered. My mother sighed. “Oh, Naomi. I can’t believe summer’s over already. A whole winter without my radio show will be the death of me, it really will.” She gave me a sorrowful look.
I was still angry, but reached out and patted her knee anyway. “Oh, Mama. You’ll never die.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Oh, well, I certainly hope that’s not true,” she said.
We walked down Line Drive in the darkening evening, my mother leaning into me. Her feet had never quite recovered from her bunion surgery; she walked with a rolling, precarious gait, like a child on new roller skates. It pleased me that she needed my help. The weight and heat of her body made me nostalgic; I thought of falling asleep on her lap when I was a child. Although that, to be honest, didn’t happen very often.
“You’re getting fat,” she said, prodding my hip.
“I am fat.”
We crossed into Train Line. Ahead of us, the queue of people waiting for Circles stretched right around the lecture hall and down toward the cafeteria. It was the time of day when light-colored clothes seem luminescent—shirts and skirts and socks glowed palely against the gray wood of Fox Hall. My mother had to stop and hitch up her panty hose. People turned and watched, then politely looked away.
Tony K., the hypnotist, was guarding the door. He was new to Train Line, but he had somehow insinuated himself into everything. He had a large belt buckle shaped like a sea turtle and a bad, overlong haircut. He’d already given the Sunday lecture twice, shown up at every picnic and barbecue and message service, and was angling to get himself a workshop next summer. It was galling, especially since he was such an unpleasant person. Every time he opened his mouth, all I could look at were his terrible, battered teeth.
“Miss Galina!” he yelped when he saw my mother. “Let me help you to your table. You’re at number six tonight.”
“That’s all right, Tony. Naomi’s got me. You man your post.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave me a wink. I didn’t understand it at all. “Table two, Naomi.” He gave us a bow and opened the door with a flourish.
“That man has no dignity,” said my mother, when we were inside.
A dozen or so card tables were set up in the lecture hall, each with four or five chairs and a squat white candle in the center of it. The candles were the only lighting. In the interest of being aboveboard, none of the tables had tablecloths. Otherwise, it would have felt very much like entering an elegant, though barnlike, restaurant.
“Here I am, Naomi,” said my mother, panting a little. “Get me a chair, would you?”
I pulled out an old wooden chair, the kind I liked.
“No! Not one of those. A metal chair. How many times have I told you?”
A few people turned and looked at us. I helped my mother into her chair, kissed her cheek, and quickly made my way to table two. It was farther over, near the back corner. Its candle was nearly done, the flame tall and smoking. I put my sweater on the back of the chair and went up front to get a fresh candle.
As I wove my way around the tables,
I shook my head, refusing to say another thing on the subject. Suddenly I was beginning to doubt my own version of events; it seemed possible that I had lied all those years ago and had fooled myself into believing otherwise. I guzzled my wine, furious.
“Ha!” said my mother. “You know I’m right.”
Fortunately, she seemed to have forgotten what had started the quarrel in the first place, and sat smugly drinking her martini. We were quiet for several long minutes, looking out over the lake, where motorboats with their engines turned off drifted slowly by and fishermen cast lines across the calm water. It was a beautiful evening, but I felt irritable and uncomfortably cold. All around us, glasses clinked and people laughed and chattered. My mother sighed. “Oh, Naomi. I can’t believe summer’s over already. A whole winter without my radio show will be the death of me, it really will.” She gave me a sorrowful look.
I was still angry, but reached out and patted her knee anyway. “Oh, Mama. You’ll never die.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Oh, well, I certainly hope that’s not true,” she said.
We walked down Line Drive in the darkening evening, my mother leaning into me. Her feet had never quite recovered from her bunion surgery; she walked with a rolling, precarious gait, like a child on new roller skates. It pleased me that she needed my help. The weight and heat of her body made me nostalgic; I thought of falling asleep on her lap when I was a child. Although that, to be honest, didn’t happen very often.
“You’re getting fat,” she said, prodding my hip.
“I am fat.”
We crossed into Train Line. Ahead of us, the queue of people waiting for Circles stretched right around the lecture hall and down toward the cafeteria. It was the time of day when light-colored clothes seem luminescent—shirts and skirts and socks glowed palely against the gray wood of Fox Hall. My mother had to stop and hitch up her panty hose. People turned and watched, then politely looked away.
Tony K., the hypnotist, was guarding the door. He was new to Train Line, but he had somehow insinuated himself into everything. He had a large belt buckle shaped like a sea turtle and a bad, overlong haircut. He’d already given the Sunday lecture twice, shown up at every picnic and barbecue and message service, and was angling to get himself a workshop next summer. It was galling, especially since he was such an unpleasant person. Every time he opened his mouth, all I could look at were his terrible, battered teeth.
“Miss Galina!” he yelped when he saw my mother. “Let me help you to your table. You’re at number six tonight.”
“That’s all right, Tony. Naomi’s got me. You man your post.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave me a wink. I didn’t understand it at all. “Table two, Naomi.” He gave us a bow and opened the door with a flourish.
“That man has no dignity,” said my mother, when we were inside.
A dozen or so card tables were set up in the lecture hall, each with four or five chairs and a squat white candle in the center of it. The candles were the only lighting. In the interest of being aboveboard, none of the tables had tablecloths. Otherwise, it would have felt very much like entering an elegant, though barnlike, restaurant.
“Here I am, Naomi,” said my mother, panting a little. “Get me a chair, would you?”
I pulled out an old wooden chair, the kind I liked.
“No! Not one of those. A metal chair. How many times have I told you?”
A few people turned and looked at us. I helped my mother into her chair, kissed her cheek, and quickly made my way to table two. It was farther over, near the back corner. Its candle was nearly done, the flame tall and smoking. I put my sweater on the back of the chair and went up front to get a fresh candle.
As I wove my way around the tables,
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