Read Online An Atomic Romance by Bobbie Ann Mason - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bobbie Ann Mason
Tags: Fiction
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at work, she seemed able to be right there in the moment. She would gaze straight at him and smile. They would be looking
at
each other as they jockeyed into position. Some women just wanted to close their eyes. But Julia had treated him like a rare individual, and she made him feel that she was thrilled in every way to be with him—their bodies, their minds, their hearts, their histories, their memories, their dreams. Maybe he had never been truly in love before. Entirely immersed in her, he had spun through shifts at work like a weaver at a loom, unaware of repetition, feeling outside of time.
9
Reed tiptoed past the sleeping redhead in the bed near the door. A basket of lilies with a tag sat on her tray table. A curtain separated the two women in the room.
When Reed gave his mother a peck on the cheek, she whispered, “She’s not getting any better. The doctor said she had the dwindles.”
“I believe it.”
“Find my tweezers,” his mother said. “I want you to pluck out this hair on my chin.”
He found the tweezers among her personal things in a drawer, along with a plastic tray of toiletries provided by the hospital. The toothpaste tube appeared to be unused. He didn’t have his reading glasses—despised and clumsy and slightly effeminate—with him, but after redirecting the light, he located the stiff white hair on her chin. When he gave the hair its liberating tug, she winced. He pulled out a few more, aware that he was jerking them too roughly.
“I need to get you a razor, Ma.”
“I don’t want to shave every day.”
A young aide flitted in with a small white paper cup. “Time for your medication, sweetheart.”
“When did that start?” Reed said to the aide. Her collar hid her badge and he couldn’t see her name.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sweetheart. Everybody is sweetheart. Or sugar, or sweetie. Or darling. Where did that come from?”
“We like a little personal touch.” She flipped a quick smile at him and turned to his mother. “This here’s a horse pill, ain’t it, hon? Do you want me to cut it in two?”
“No, that’s O.K.”
Reed’s mother swallowed the pill and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. As she shifted her legs, her gown fell open, and he glimpsed between her legs. “Oops! I took your picture,” she said, with a little titter.
“Bye, sweetheart,” Reed said to the aide as she danced away.
He stared through the doorway a while, holding the image of her blue-clad butt twisting out of sight. Then he turned to his mother.
“Did anybody comb your hair today, Mom?”
“No. Nobody was here.”
“Did they give you a bath?”
“No. Maybe they did.”
He wet a washcloth and rubbed her face. It felt odd to touch his mother’s face—her skin so soft, her cheeks curved like breasts, her mouth hanging open. He got a whiff of her breath, like onions and fish souring together. The dead woman in the dream still invaded his thoughts from time to time. He found himself measuring his life—and his mother’s life, and everything he held dear—in terms of the imagined woman who chose to die. But he always believed his mother had the strength of a steel cable hauling a train up a mountainside. She was the fun in funicular, he thought.
“You’re good to me,” she said, touching his arm.
“Hang in there, Ma,” he said. “I’ve got you covered.”
That was what the TV evangelists said: the Lord has got you covered. If you lose your credit card, he’s got you covered. If you get cancer, he’s got you covered. The cover-your-ass school of theology, Reed thought.
Later, in the lounge, a wide-bodied family gorging on three gigantic pizzas offered him a wedge of pizza.
“Go ahead and eat some,” they urged him. “There’s plenty.”
He shook his head, thinking he would go home later and have some leftover carry-out spaghetti carbonara with a glass of burgundy, if his mother didn’t need him again tonight. His shift wasn’t until seven the next
at
each other as they jockeyed into position. Some women just wanted to close their eyes. But Julia had treated him like a rare individual, and she made him feel that she was thrilled in every way to be with him—their bodies, their minds, their hearts, their histories, their memories, their dreams. Maybe he had never been truly in love before. Entirely immersed in her, he had spun through shifts at work like a weaver at a loom, unaware of repetition, feeling outside of time.
9
Reed tiptoed past the sleeping redhead in the bed near the door. A basket of lilies with a tag sat on her tray table. A curtain separated the two women in the room.
When Reed gave his mother a peck on the cheek, she whispered, “She’s not getting any better. The doctor said she had the dwindles.”
“I believe it.”
“Find my tweezers,” his mother said. “I want you to pluck out this hair on my chin.”
He found the tweezers among her personal things in a drawer, along with a plastic tray of toiletries provided by the hospital. The toothpaste tube appeared to be unused. He didn’t have his reading glasses—despised and clumsy and slightly effeminate—with him, but after redirecting the light, he located the stiff white hair on her chin. When he gave the hair its liberating tug, she winced. He pulled out a few more, aware that he was jerking them too roughly.
“I need to get you a razor, Ma.”
“I don’t want to shave every day.”
A young aide flitted in with a small white paper cup. “Time for your medication, sweetheart.”
“When did that start?” Reed said to the aide. Her collar hid her badge and he couldn’t see her name.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sweetheart. Everybody is sweetheart. Or sugar, or sweetie. Or darling. Where did that come from?”
“We like a little personal touch.” She flipped a quick smile at him and turned to his mother. “This here’s a horse pill, ain’t it, hon? Do you want me to cut it in two?”
“No, that’s O.K.”
Reed’s mother swallowed the pill and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. As she shifted her legs, her gown fell open, and he glimpsed between her legs. “Oops! I took your picture,” she said, with a little titter.
“Bye, sweetheart,” Reed said to the aide as she danced away.
He stared through the doorway a while, holding the image of her blue-clad butt twisting out of sight. Then he turned to his mother.
“Did anybody comb your hair today, Mom?”
“No. Nobody was here.”
“Did they give you a bath?”
“No. Maybe they did.”
He wet a washcloth and rubbed her face. It felt odd to touch his mother’s face—her skin so soft, her cheeks curved like breasts, her mouth hanging open. He got a whiff of her breath, like onions and fish souring together. The dead woman in the dream still invaded his thoughts from time to time. He found himself measuring his life—and his mother’s life, and everything he held dear—in terms of the imagined woman who chose to die. But he always believed his mother had the strength of a steel cable hauling a train up a mountainside. She was the fun in funicular, he thought.
“You’re good to me,” she said, touching his arm.
“Hang in there, Ma,” he said. “I’ve got you covered.”
That was what the TV evangelists said: the Lord has got you covered. If you lose your credit card, he’s got you covered. If you get cancer, he’s got you covered. The cover-your-ass school of theology, Reed thought.
Later, in the lounge, a wide-bodied family gorging on three gigantic pizzas offered him a wedge of pizza.
“Go ahead and eat some,” they urged him. “There’s plenty.”
He shook his head, thinking he would go home later and have some leftover carry-out spaghetti carbonara with a glass of burgundy, if his mother didn’t need him again tonight. His shift wasn’t until seven the next
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