bear to lose him now.”
She was bawling over Goofy! I couldn’t believe it! “You think Al’s going to leave you because you won’t share bed and board with his mother?”
“You may not understand this, John, but it was hard for me to let anybody get close, after so many years. Now that I’ve done it, I’m not taking any chances,” she said.
“Jesus, don’t you have any pride?” I said. That was really mean, I know. Like I said before, sometimes when I know what will hurt people, I can’t stop myself from saying it. I’ve noticed, though, that I’m hardly the only person with this affliction. And at least I feel pretty crappy afterward.
She looked like she wanted to slap my face, but she didn’t. Of course. That would mean touching me. Instead she just stood up and walked out.
I started thinking about what had happened at the table—Al leaning over and rubbing her shoulder. It wasn’t whether or not they were having sex that was shocking. It was that he was allowed to touch her. He’d done it so casually, and she’d accepted it without a twinge—this had not been the first time. Did the guy even realize what that meant? He’d actually made contact! Broken through the invisible barrier. He was allowed to touch my mother, and I wasn’t !
For some reason that hurt so damn much, I felt like crying myself. But, of course, I didn’t. I probably don’t even remember how.
Chapter Six
“I thought you might like to order in tonight, John. Maybe Chinese for a change.”
I didn’t know what was going on. Dad had been weird ever since he picked me up. We’d had the same Friday evening routine for a hundred years now: He pulls up in the Lexus, I’m waiting behind the door with my duffel bag, he honks, I sprint down the sidewalk and hop in the front seat. He doesn’t even have to turn the motor off. He also doesn’t have to talk to my mother, which is just fine with her too.
But today it was different. I was waiting as usual, the car pulled up, I sprinted, but he was out of the car by the time I was halfway down the sidewalk.
“Just wanted to say hello to your mother, John. Give her my congratulations.”
He passed me as he walked up to the front door and knocked. I didn’t go along, but I did watch. I was half afraid Mom would open the door and pass out; I didn’t know when she’d last seen the guy. She did rock back on her heels a little, but then she steadied.
Dad was being a jolly good fellow; I could hear him blowing on about how wonderful it was she’d found someone and how he hoped she’d be happy, yadda, yadda, yadda. His best wishes … If Mom said anything, I couldn’t hear it. In another minute Dad sailed back down the sidewalk with a determined look on his face, smacking his hands together. He’d gotten that job done.
We were always pretty quiet in the car. Dad would turn on NPR and listen to the news. Sometimes he’d comment on some natural disaster or political upheaval, and I’d feel obliged to murmur a noncommittal response. I don’t know why I can’t stand talking to him; I guess because I know he’d like me to. He’d probably like me to read all those dumb books his company publishes so we could have stimulating, literary conversations.
Since we’re driving against the traffic that time of day, and since Dad drives like a bat out of hell anyway, we usually make it back to Marlborough Street in record time. But today he’d come up with this cuckoo idea of stopping for takeout before going back to his place. We’d have to eat in private. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that. No restaurant noise to cover our silence, no menus to pretend to be interested in, no customers to pretend to watch. What would we do ?
I was so distraught I gave in to the Chinese food idea. It’s my father’s favorite cuisine, so I naturally opt for almost anything else even though I like Chinese just fine. He called the order in on his car phone—(I’m glad practically
She was bawling over Goofy! I couldn’t believe it! “You think Al’s going to leave you because you won’t share bed and board with his mother?”
“You may not understand this, John, but it was hard for me to let anybody get close, after so many years. Now that I’ve done it, I’m not taking any chances,” she said.
“Jesus, don’t you have any pride?” I said. That was really mean, I know. Like I said before, sometimes when I know what will hurt people, I can’t stop myself from saying it. I’ve noticed, though, that I’m hardly the only person with this affliction. And at least I feel pretty crappy afterward.
She looked like she wanted to slap my face, but she didn’t. Of course. That would mean touching me. Instead she just stood up and walked out.
I started thinking about what had happened at the table—Al leaning over and rubbing her shoulder. It wasn’t whether or not they were having sex that was shocking. It was that he was allowed to touch her. He’d done it so casually, and she’d accepted it without a twinge—this had not been the first time. Did the guy even realize what that meant? He’d actually made contact! Broken through the invisible barrier. He was allowed to touch my mother, and I wasn’t !
For some reason that hurt so damn much, I felt like crying myself. But, of course, I didn’t. I probably don’t even remember how.
Chapter Six
“I thought you might like to order in tonight, John. Maybe Chinese for a change.”
I didn’t know what was going on. Dad had been weird ever since he picked me up. We’d had the same Friday evening routine for a hundred years now: He pulls up in the Lexus, I’m waiting behind the door with my duffel bag, he honks, I sprint down the sidewalk and hop in the front seat. He doesn’t even have to turn the motor off. He also doesn’t have to talk to my mother, which is just fine with her too.
But today it was different. I was waiting as usual, the car pulled up, I sprinted, but he was out of the car by the time I was halfway down the sidewalk.
“Just wanted to say hello to your mother, John. Give her my congratulations.”
He passed me as he walked up to the front door and knocked. I didn’t go along, but I did watch. I was half afraid Mom would open the door and pass out; I didn’t know when she’d last seen the guy. She did rock back on her heels a little, but then she steadied.
Dad was being a jolly good fellow; I could hear him blowing on about how wonderful it was she’d found someone and how he hoped she’d be happy, yadda, yadda, yadda. His best wishes … If Mom said anything, I couldn’t hear it. In another minute Dad sailed back down the sidewalk with a determined look on his face, smacking his hands together. He’d gotten that job done.
We were always pretty quiet in the car. Dad would turn on NPR and listen to the news. Sometimes he’d comment on some natural disaster or political upheaval, and I’d feel obliged to murmur a noncommittal response. I don’t know why I can’t stand talking to him; I guess because I know he’d like me to. He’d probably like me to read all those dumb books his company publishes so we could have stimulating, literary conversations.
Since we’re driving against the traffic that time of day, and since Dad drives like a bat out of hell anyway, we usually make it back to Marlborough Street in record time. But today he’d come up with this cuckoo idea of stopping for takeout before going back to his place. We’d have to eat in private. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that. No restaurant noise to cover our silence, no menus to pretend to be interested in, no customers to pretend to watch. What would we do ?
I was so distraught I gave in to the Chinese food idea. It’s my father’s favorite cuisine, so I naturally opt for almost anything else even though I like Chinese just fine. He called the order in on his car phone—(I’m glad practically
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