watched them eye her when we rode the subways and buses, and whenever we went to visit relatives, there was always a new man, a friend of so-and-soâs waiting hopefully to be introduced. But she would not entertain any manâs company. And I was left with Leon.
I killed the hours in the back of that tiny shop. The woman at the counter didnât bother me. After I finished my patty I bought a bun and cheese and played with it. I wasnât ready to go home just yet, but eventually I would have to face her. I didnât know if my motherwas still at the rented hall, out somewhere looking for me, or already home and waiting. I had no idea what would happen between us when I finally made it back.
But on any other day, I knew how it would be when I got home. After a day of family duties that it would never occur to her not to perform, my mother would go through the house and head for her bedroom. There sheâd undress in front of the mirror, revealing herself slowly.
A tissue from a box of Kleenex would take away her outside smile, leaving her house lips in its place. Sheâd pick up the brush off her dresser and pull it through her hair, not one hundred times, but just enough to quell the itch in her scalp and to direct the thick, unbending hair into order. My mother would shrink in front of the mirror as her shoes came off. She wouldnât bother to get her slippers. The rest of the afternoon and evening would see her barefoot. Small curling toes with fading paint would guide her to the kitchen, where sheâd fill our kettle with water and would light a flame under it. All this would be done without sound. She would have had enough in the street and in the living rooms of all the relatives she had visited. She would leave the kettle to its own devices and settle on the couch in the living room. There sheâd sink into the couch as if dissolving, feeling at this moment that she could leave the world and never look back. Then my mother would think of me. First she would wonder what I was up to and hope I was minding myself. She would wonder if I was behaving well. Maybe, for one moment, sheâd think of my father and wish she hadnât left him. Sheâd get up and walk to the kitchen to turn off the kettle. And thatâs where sheâd be when I returned. When she heard me enter, sheâd call out and ask me how my day went, and I would tell her fine.
pan is dead
Blue sent letters, begging letters, meant to soften a small space in our motherâs heart. The letters were frequent, relentless, more punctual than bills. They slipped in with the gas and electric bills, the phone bill and the rent reminder, long number-ten envelopes mixed in with the short fat ones the credit card people sent. For months, Blueâs letters came from a rehab center in upstate New York, all addressed to our mother. Then one came from Brooklyn addressed to my brother, Peter. Blue thought he was being slick, but our mother knew what he was doing.
âIâm supposed to believe that all of a sudden he wants to see his son? What about all those years before? He must think Iâm all kinds of a fool,â our mother said, finally deciding to read the last of the letters. She would have us know that she was not all kinds of a fool. She was no longer a foolish young girl willing to let Blue lead her by the nose. âI was a fool for him once and look what it got me,â she said, looking at Peter.
A few days after opening the first one, our mother softened. We came home one day to find her slowly going through them. They were stacked on the kitchen tables in two piles. She didnât look up when we came in; she didnât even notice us when we turned on the TV in the living room and glued ourselves in front of it. She just sat there reading. She burst out laughing in the middle of one letter, put it down, and shook her head at it. Much later, when I turned back to look at her, I saw that sheâd
I killed the hours in the back of that tiny shop. The woman at the counter didnât bother me. After I finished my patty I bought a bun and cheese and played with it. I wasnât ready to go home just yet, but eventually I would have to face her. I didnât know if my motherwas still at the rented hall, out somewhere looking for me, or already home and waiting. I had no idea what would happen between us when I finally made it back.
But on any other day, I knew how it would be when I got home. After a day of family duties that it would never occur to her not to perform, my mother would go through the house and head for her bedroom. There sheâd undress in front of the mirror, revealing herself slowly.
A tissue from a box of Kleenex would take away her outside smile, leaving her house lips in its place. Sheâd pick up the brush off her dresser and pull it through her hair, not one hundred times, but just enough to quell the itch in her scalp and to direct the thick, unbending hair into order. My mother would shrink in front of the mirror as her shoes came off. She wouldnât bother to get her slippers. The rest of the afternoon and evening would see her barefoot. Small curling toes with fading paint would guide her to the kitchen, where sheâd fill our kettle with water and would light a flame under it. All this would be done without sound. She would have had enough in the street and in the living rooms of all the relatives she had visited. She would leave the kettle to its own devices and settle on the couch in the living room. There sheâd sink into the couch as if dissolving, feeling at this moment that she could leave the world and never look back. Then my mother would think of me. First she would wonder what I was up to and hope I was minding myself. She would wonder if I was behaving well. Maybe, for one moment, sheâd think of my father and wish she hadnât left him. Sheâd get up and walk to the kitchen to turn off the kettle. And thatâs where sheâd be when I returned. When she heard me enter, sheâd call out and ask me how my day went, and I would tell her fine.
pan is dead
Blue sent letters, begging letters, meant to soften a small space in our motherâs heart. The letters were frequent, relentless, more punctual than bills. They slipped in with the gas and electric bills, the phone bill and the rent reminder, long number-ten envelopes mixed in with the short fat ones the credit card people sent. For months, Blueâs letters came from a rehab center in upstate New York, all addressed to our mother. Then one came from Brooklyn addressed to my brother, Peter. Blue thought he was being slick, but our mother knew what he was doing.
âIâm supposed to believe that all of a sudden he wants to see his son? What about all those years before? He must think Iâm all kinds of a fool,â our mother said, finally deciding to read the last of the letters. She would have us know that she was not all kinds of a fool. She was no longer a foolish young girl willing to let Blue lead her by the nose. âI was a fool for him once and look what it got me,â she said, looking at Peter.
A few days after opening the first one, our mother softened. We came home one day to find her slowly going through them. They were stacked on the kitchen tables in two piles. She didnât look up when we came in; she didnât even notice us when we turned on the TV in the living room and glued ourselves in front of it. She just sat there reading. She burst out laughing in the middle of one letter, put it down, and shook her head at it. Much later, when I turned back to look at her, I saw that sheâd
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