Read Online Don't Talk to Me About the War by David A. Adler - Free Book Online

but Beth doesn’t. She turns and tells me, “I’m walking home with you so you can tell me what happened at the doctor’s office.”
    “No, you like to read the afternoon papers. You want to know what happened with the soldiers.”
    “I’ll read about them later. Right now I want to know what the doctor said.”
    Beth has never been to our apartment building. I’ve never been to hers. From the outside, most buildings in the Bronx look the same—brick, a few stories high with a metal fire escape crawling up each side and usually tablecloths and laundry hanging from a few windows.
    “This is it,” I say when we come to my building. I open the door for Beth.
    Our building doesn’t have much furniture in the lobby, just a small table and two large cloth-covered chairs that I think some family left when they moved out. The chairs are worn but comfortable. We walk in and see two old women sitting, talking, and waiting for the mailman who comes in the late afternoon. One of the women, the heavy one, seems to do most of the talking.
    “Hello,” I say as we walk past.
    I always greet them, but I don’t know their names and I don’t think they know mine. Apartments are funny like that. We live in the same building but once we close our doors, we’re each in our own private worlds.
    The stairs are at the end of the lobby, on the left. They’re wide at the bottom with a curly metal handrail. Beth sits on the second step and says, “I’ll wait here.”
    I’m about to walk up, when Beth says, “Good luck.”
    “Thanks,” I say, and take her hand.
    I’m a little scared. I wonder what’s waiting for me in my private world. I let go of Beth’s hand and start up the stairs. When I reach our apartment, I unlock the door and listen. No one calls to me. No one is waiting anxiously for me to come home. Either nothing is wrong with Mom and she’s out shopping or celebrating with Dad, or Mom is so sick the doctor is still examining her, or even worse, she was rushed to the hospital.
    Mom’s raincoat is in the small front closet, so she must be home. I find her resting in the big easy chair. The radio is tuned to soft music, not to her soap operas.
    Mom hears me and opens her eyes.
    “Tommy, you’re home.”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Maybe you’ll help me with dinner.”
    “Sure, Mom.”
    Mom holds on to both arms of the chair, pushes herself up, and walks stiffly toward the kitchen. I follow her and stop in the dining area, by the table. The kitchen is too small for both of us. Mom takes a pot from the drawer beneath the counter, puts it in the sink, and fills it with water.
    “Aren’t you going to tell me? What did the doctor say?”
    Mom puts the pot on the stove, on one of the burners, and lights it. Then she turns to me.
    “He thinks I’m tired.”
    “That’s it! You’re just tired?”
    Mom nods. “And I might be depressed.”
    “Depressed! Why? What’s wrong?”
    “What’s wrong! My leg is stiff. My hand shakes. Sometimes my vision is blurry. That’s enough to make anyone depressed.”
    I think about that for a moment, but it doesn’t make sense to me. How could being depressed cause all Mom’s physical problems if it’s the problems that are making her depressed? That’s just one big nasty circle.
    “But Mom, that doesn’t make any sense.”
    “I know. None of this makes any sense to me. I’ve been tired before, but that never gave me the shakes.”
    The water starts to boil. Mom opens a box of elbow noodles and pours them into the pot.
    “I’m making pasta salad. Your father likes that.”
    “I like it, too.”
    “And I’m cooking chicken, but I’ll do that later. I want it ready about six, when Dad gets home.”
    Just then I remember that Beth is waiting for me.
    “I’ll be right back,” I say, and hurry out of the apartment.
    Beth is still sitting on the second step. She’s reading our history book, studying for Wednesday’s test. She sees me coming down the stairs, closes the