the kid’s so stupid he says, “Who?”
“You know who,” the Mommy said. “She’s young, too. I just saw the two of you looking at clothes. You were holding her hand, so don’t lie.”
And the kid was so stupid he didn’t know to just run away. He couldn’t begin to even think about the very definite terms of her parole or the restraining order or why she’d been in jail for the past three months.
And switching bottles of blond into boxes for redheads and bottles of black into boxes for blondes, the Mommy said, “So do you like her?”
“You mean Mrs. Jenkins?” the boy said.
Not closing the boxes just perfect, the Mommy was puttingthem back on the shelf a little messed up, a little faster, and she said, “Do you like her?”
And like this is going to help, our little stooge said, “She’s just a foster mom.”
And not looking at the kid, still looking at the woman smiling on the box in her hand, the Mommy said, “I asked you if you liked her.”
A shopping cart rattled up next to them in the aisle and a blond lady reached past to take a bottle with a blond picture but a bottle of some other color inside it. This lady put the box in her cart and got away.
“She thinks of herself as a blonde,” the Mommy said. “What we have to do is mess with people’s little identity paradigms.”
What the Mommy used to call “Beauty Industry Terrorism.”
The little boy looked after the lady until she was too far away to help.
“You already have me,” the Mommy said. “So what do you call this foster one?”
Mrs. Jenkins.
“And do you like her?” the Mommy said, and turned to look at him for the first time.
And the little boy pretended to make up his mind and said, “No?”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Do you hate her?”
And this spineless little worm said, “Yes?”
And the Mommy said, “You got that right.” She leaned down to look him in the eyes and said, “How much do you hate Mrs. Jenkins?”
And the little cooz said, “Lots and lots?”
“And lots and lots and lots,” the Mommy said. She put herhand for him to take and said, “We have to be fast. We have a train to catch.”
Then leading him through the aisles, tugging his boneless little arm toward daylight outside the glass doors, the Mommy said, “You are mine. Mine. Now and forever, and don’t you ever forget it.”
And pulling him through the doors, she said, “And just in case the police or anybody asks you later on, I’m going to tell you all the dirty, filthy things this so-called foster mother did to you every time she could get you alone.”
Chapter 10
Where I live now, in my mom’s old house, I sort through my mom’s papers, her college report cards, her deeds, statements, accounts. Court transcripts. Her diary, still locked. Her entire life.
The next week, I’m Mr. Benning, who defended her on the little charge of kidnapping after the school bus incident. The week after, I’m public defender Thomas Welton, who plea-bargained her sentence down to six months after she was charged with assaulting the animals in the zoo. After him, I’m the American civil liberties attorney who went to bat with her on themalicious mischief charge stemming from the disturbance at the ballet.
There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call it jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.
“How is Victor doing?” my mom asks me on my next visit.
Whoever I am. Whatever public defender du jour.
Victor
who?
I want to ask.
“You don’t want to know,” I say. It would break your heart. I ask her, “What was Victor like as a little boy? What did he want from the world? Did he have any big goal he dreamed about?”
At this point, how my life starts to feel is like I’m acting in a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by real
“You know who,” the Mommy said. “She’s young, too. I just saw the two of you looking at clothes. You were holding her hand, so don’t lie.”
And the kid was so stupid he didn’t know to just run away. He couldn’t begin to even think about the very definite terms of her parole or the restraining order or why she’d been in jail for the past three months.
And switching bottles of blond into boxes for redheads and bottles of black into boxes for blondes, the Mommy said, “So do you like her?”
“You mean Mrs. Jenkins?” the boy said.
Not closing the boxes just perfect, the Mommy was puttingthem back on the shelf a little messed up, a little faster, and she said, “Do you like her?”
And like this is going to help, our little stooge said, “She’s just a foster mom.”
And not looking at the kid, still looking at the woman smiling on the box in her hand, the Mommy said, “I asked you if you liked her.”
A shopping cart rattled up next to them in the aisle and a blond lady reached past to take a bottle with a blond picture but a bottle of some other color inside it. This lady put the box in her cart and got away.
“She thinks of herself as a blonde,” the Mommy said. “What we have to do is mess with people’s little identity paradigms.”
What the Mommy used to call “Beauty Industry Terrorism.”
The little boy looked after the lady until she was too far away to help.
“You already have me,” the Mommy said. “So what do you call this foster one?”
Mrs. Jenkins.
“And do you like her?” the Mommy said, and turned to look at him for the first time.
And the little boy pretended to make up his mind and said, “No?”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Do you hate her?”
And this spineless little worm said, “Yes?”
And the Mommy said, “You got that right.” She leaned down to look him in the eyes and said, “How much do you hate Mrs. Jenkins?”
And the little cooz said, “Lots and lots?”
“And lots and lots and lots,” the Mommy said. She put herhand for him to take and said, “We have to be fast. We have a train to catch.”
Then leading him through the aisles, tugging his boneless little arm toward daylight outside the glass doors, the Mommy said, “You are mine. Mine. Now and forever, and don’t you ever forget it.”
And pulling him through the doors, she said, “And just in case the police or anybody asks you later on, I’m going to tell you all the dirty, filthy things this so-called foster mother did to you every time she could get you alone.”
Chapter 10
Where I live now, in my mom’s old house, I sort through my mom’s papers, her college report cards, her deeds, statements, accounts. Court transcripts. Her diary, still locked. Her entire life.
The next week, I’m Mr. Benning, who defended her on the little charge of kidnapping after the school bus incident. The week after, I’m public defender Thomas Welton, who plea-bargained her sentence down to six months after she was charged with assaulting the animals in the zoo. After him, I’m the American civil liberties attorney who went to bat with her on themalicious mischief charge stemming from the disturbance at the ballet.
There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call it jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.
“How is Victor doing?” my mom asks me on my next visit.
Whoever I am. Whatever public defender du jour.
Victor
who?
I want to ask.
“You don’t want to know,” I say. It would break your heart. I ask her, “What was Victor like as a little boy? What did he want from the world? Did he have any big goal he dreamed about?”
At this point, how my life starts to feel is like I’m acting in a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by real
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