HICKMAN. A few potted plants were scattered across her porch, all dead. The porch light next to the door was covered with spider webs and the husks of moths. I reached out and rapped on the door.
A long while passed and there was no response. I knocked again, much louder. Finally, something rattled behind the door.
Muffled, but distinctly afraid, a woman's voice sounded out from the other side. “Who is it?”
“Mom, it's me.”
“Who?” asked my mother.
“It's me…Jack.”
“Jack?” She sounded confused.
“Mom, it's your son…Jack. Open the door.”
There was a faint, “Oh.” The chain clicked and rattled as she slid it out of the groove. The door swung inward, revealing my mother a few feet beyond the threshold, a shrunken figure in a housecoat. I smelled cigarette smoke and garbage. She was barefoot and her legs were covered with insect bites. Her kinky red hair had washed out to gray and her skin had an ashen quality.
“Oh, Jack,” she said. “It's so turr'ble about your daddy.” She just stood in place after speaking.
I wanted to turn away, to walk back to the car without a word. She would stand in the doorway for a minute, I imagined, confused and mumbling to herself. She'd close the door, go back to the kitchen, and smoke a cigarette. Ramona could not be touched by such a gesture. Her emotions, if she had any, were inaccessible. If I left and never contacted her again she would simply continue to live in the housing complex until her death. She only called me once or twice a year when she managed to get her hands on a phone or acquired a prepaid calling card. She only contacted me to ask for money, saying she'd gotten into a bind and needed cigarettes or toilet paper.
I let out my breath. “Yeah, Mom, it is…it's terrible. He was never happy.”
“No,” she said. “No, he wasn't.” She looked off into space over my shoulder as if trying to remember something.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” she said.
I waited for another second and when she didn't move I took a step up into the apartment. My mother shuffled backward, allowing me to enter. She closed the door and hurried to lock it, awakened into action.
“Mom...it's okay. No one is out there. It's daylight outside and I'm here.”
“Well, you never know about people,” she said, twisting the bolt.
The place was just as it always had been before, maybe worse. There was a path cleared through the jumbled landscape of her belongings, leading from the front door to the living room, then from the living room to the kitchen. I knew that there was a single bedroom and a tiny bathroom in the rear of the unit. She'd piled every imaginable piece of domestic junk along the walls and most of the floor space. The place was filled with broken pieces of furniture, a couple of dead television sets, numerous trash bags full of old clothing, a barbecue pit that was missing its lid, a massive Christmas wreath on a tripod and a number of yard ornaments. The old TV sets looked massive compared to my new Sony.
I stepped closer to my mother, causing her to freeze. Leaning in carefully, I put one arm over her shoulder, hugging her. Her body felt strange to the touch, like it completely lacked muscle tissue.
“Oh,” she said, recognizing the gesture. She smiled in a way that resembled a grimace and said, “Well…”
I made my way along the path to the kitchen without touching anything. Sitting down on one of the wooden captain's chairs there, I perched at the edge of the seat, avoiding contact with the ratty cushion tied to the slats in back. Every square inch of Ramona's dining table was covered with glasses, diet soda cans, ashtrays, food cartons, medicine bottles, celebrity gossip magazines, and equipment related to her books-on-tape setup. She'd acquired the ridiculous tape machine through a program dedicated to helping the blind. After that, being on a mailing list for the blind had opened the door to additional benefits.
She tottered
A long while passed and there was no response. I knocked again, much louder. Finally, something rattled behind the door.
Muffled, but distinctly afraid, a woman's voice sounded out from the other side. “Who is it?”
“Mom, it's me.”
“Who?” asked my mother.
“It's me…Jack.”
“Jack?” She sounded confused.
“Mom, it's your son…Jack. Open the door.”
There was a faint, “Oh.” The chain clicked and rattled as she slid it out of the groove. The door swung inward, revealing my mother a few feet beyond the threshold, a shrunken figure in a housecoat. I smelled cigarette smoke and garbage. She was barefoot and her legs were covered with insect bites. Her kinky red hair had washed out to gray and her skin had an ashen quality.
“Oh, Jack,” she said. “It's so turr'ble about your daddy.” She just stood in place after speaking.
I wanted to turn away, to walk back to the car without a word. She would stand in the doorway for a minute, I imagined, confused and mumbling to herself. She'd close the door, go back to the kitchen, and smoke a cigarette. Ramona could not be touched by such a gesture. Her emotions, if she had any, were inaccessible. If I left and never contacted her again she would simply continue to live in the housing complex until her death. She only called me once or twice a year when she managed to get her hands on a phone or acquired a prepaid calling card. She only contacted me to ask for money, saying she'd gotten into a bind and needed cigarettes or toilet paper.
I let out my breath. “Yeah, Mom, it is…it's terrible. He was never happy.”
“No,” she said. “No, he wasn't.” She looked off into space over my shoulder as if trying to remember something.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” she said.
I waited for another second and when she didn't move I took a step up into the apartment. My mother shuffled backward, allowing me to enter. She closed the door and hurried to lock it, awakened into action.
“Mom...it's okay. No one is out there. It's daylight outside and I'm here.”
“Well, you never know about people,” she said, twisting the bolt.
The place was just as it always had been before, maybe worse. There was a path cleared through the jumbled landscape of her belongings, leading from the front door to the living room, then from the living room to the kitchen. I knew that there was a single bedroom and a tiny bathroom in the rear of the unit. She'd piled every imaginable piece of domestic junk along the walls and most of the floor space. The place was filled with broken pieces of furniture, a couple of dead television sets, numerous trash bags full of old clothing, a barbecue pit that was missing its lid, a massive Christmas wreath on a tripod and a number of yard ornaments. The old TV sets looked massive compared to my new Sony.
I stepped closer to my mother, causing her to freeze. Leaning in carefully, I put one arm over her shoulder, hugging her. Her body felt strange to the touch, like it completely lacked muscle tissue.
“Oh,” she said, recognizing the gesture. She smiled in a way that resembled a grimace and said, “Well…”
I made my way along the path to the kitchen without touching anything. Sitting down on one of the wooden captain's chairs there, I perched at the edge of the seat, avoiding contact with the ratty cushion tied to the slats in back. Every square inch of Ramona's dining table was covered with glasses, diet soda cans, ashtrays, food cartons, medicine bottles, celebrity gossip magazines, and equipment related to her books-on-tape setup. She'd acquired the ridiculous tape machine through a program dedicated to helping the blind. After that, being on a mailing list for the blind had opened the door to additional benefits.
She tottered