slowed.
His mother’s house loomed into view. It wasn’t as big as some on the street. Its grandness was understated, stable in its limestone and oak. He parked in the driveway and walked to the back door, which was open, and went in.
“Mother,” he called.
Harry checked the empty kitchen. “Mom?”
He took off his coat and draped it over a chair.
“Harold.”
He turned to see her behind him, wearing bright blue rubber boots and pristine gardening gloves. Dressed to go out and tend to the leaves or bulbs. She gave him a kiss.
“I’ll make some tea,” she said. “Or would you like something stronger?”
“Tea is fine.”
His mother was a slight woman, not tall, the same proportions, maybe even the same weight she had been as a debutante almost sixty years ago. Her face was lined, her hair expertly done and dyed a shade that deflected any criticism: not grey, yet not an obvious blonde, or even a pedestrian ash, but some undiscovered note on the visible spectrum that gave her a look of vitality without any hint of forced youth.
She moved around the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “Harold, I must tell you something.”
“Mother, are you okay?” he asked quickly. Perhaps it was her hip. She’d had it replaced and there had been complications. Had an infection crept in?
“I’m moving, Harold. I’m getting out of the house.”
He was dumbstruck. His mother was so intimately tied to the house it seemed inconceivable. Not just the house, but the neighbourhood, its tensions and drama, its stores and experts, the sellers of artisanal cheeses, the helpful girls in the liquor store.
“I’ve found an apartment. It’s very pleasant. Near St. Clair.”
“St. Clair?”
“It borders the cemetery. Charming and private, and I could use both of those qualities.”
“But your whole life—”
“My whole life has been carrying burdens that were not of my making. I am laying those burdens down, Harold.”
It was true that the home was far too big for his mother. Not to mention expensive to maintain. What could the taxes be? But he’d grown up in it, its four dark bedrooms, its splendid yard, the rose bushes, the grand, underused dining room. The kitchen was its most winning feature, renovated expensively to his mother’s specifications, with a black granite countertop nine feet long. This wasn’t the kitchen that Harry had known as a child. That was before kitchens were spectacular showcases, back when they were utilitarian and still occasionally populated by the help. They had breakfast there every morning, his wordless father searching the newspaper for market epiphanies, the room a bit dark, despite its southern exposure. It hadn’t yet been opened up to the yard with the two nine-foot glass doors framed in rosewood and custom-made in Germany, and installed, if Harry remembered correctly, by actual Germans. The doors pivoted on stainless steel rods and were opened with steel cranks. His mother was a good cook—had become a good cook, anyway. He didn’t recall her being much of a cook when he was a boy.
“Who’s going to sell the house for you?” Harry asked.
“It’s already sold. A private sale.”
“Who bought it?” Harry asked numbly.
“An awful little money man.”
“I hope you got a good price. Why didn’t you get something closer, though, one of those apartments near the ravine?”
“I need the distance, Harold.”
“What about Trish Halpern and Amy McPhail … all your friends?”
Felicia’s diction grew especially crisp. “Trish is so toxically self-involved it’s impossible to be with her for anything more than the occasional lunch. She’s been seeing a therapist for forty years and all that’s left of her is ego. And I’ve been listening to Amy talk about her marriage for even longer. I’d happily kill Arnie McPhail just to change the subject. I’d like to move to Tuscany, but I lack the courage.”
His mother had gone to Tuscany for a few months, renting a
His mother’s house loomed into view. It wasn’t as big as some on the street. Its grandness was understated, stable in its limestone and oak. He parked in the driveway and walked to the back door, which was open, and went in.
“Mother,” he called.
Harry checked the empty kitchen. “Mom?”
He took off his coat and draped it over a chair.
“Harold.”
He turned to see her behind him, wearing bright blue rubber boots and pristine gardening gloves. Dressed to go out and tend to the leaves or bulbs. She gave him a kiss.
“I’ll make some tea,” she said. “Or would you like something stronger?”
“Tea is fine.”
His mother was a slight woman, not tall, the same proportions, maybe even the same weight she had been as a debutante almost sixty years ago. Her face was lined, her hair expertly done and dyed a shade that deflected any criticism: not grey, yet not an obvious blonde, or even a pedestrian ash, but some undiscovered note on the visible spectrum that gave her a look of vitality without any hint of forced youth.
She moved around the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “Harold, I must tell you something.”
“Mother, are you okay?” he asked quickly. Perhaps it was her hip. She’d had it replaced and there had been complications. Had an infection crept in?
“I’m moving, Harold. I’m getting out of the house.”
He was dumbstruck. His mother was so intimately tied to the house it seemed inconceivable. Not just the house, but the neighbourhood, its tensions and drama, its stores and experts, the sellers of artisanal cheeses, the helpful girls in the liquor store.
“I’ve found an apartment. It’s very pleasant. Near St. Clair.”
“St. Clair?”
“It borders the cemetery. Charming and private, and I could use both of those qualities.”
“But your whole life—”
“My whole life has been carrying burdens that were not of my making. I am laying those burdens down, Harold.”
It was true that the home was far too big for his mother. Not to mention expensive to maintain. What could the taxes be? But he’d grown up in it, its four dark bedrooms, its splendid yard, the rose bushes, the grand, underused dining room. The kitchen was its most winning feature, renovated expensively to his mother’s specifications, with a black granite countertop nine feet long. This wasn’t the kitchen that Harry had known as a child. That was before kitchens were spectacular showcases, back when they were utilitarian and still occasionally populated by the help. They had breakfast there every morning, his wordless father searching the newspaper for market epiphanies, the room a bit dark, despite its southern exposure. It hadn’t yet been opened up to the yard with the two nine-foot glass doors framed in rosewood and custom-made in Germany, and installed, if Harry remembered correctly, by actual Germans. The doors pivoted on stainless steel rods and were opened with steel cranks. His mother was a good cook—had become a good cook, anyway. He didn’t recall her being much of a cook when he was a boy.
“Who’s going to sell the house for you?” Harry asked.
“It’s already sold. A private sale.”
“Who bought it?” Harry asked numbly.
“An awful little money man.”
“I hope you got a good price. Why didn’t you get something closer, though, one of those apartments near the ravine?”
“I need the distance, Harold.”
“What about Trish Halpern and Amy McPhail … all your friends?”
Felicia’s diction grew especially crisp. “Trish is so toxically self-involved it’s impossible to be with her for anything more than the occasional lunch. She’s been seeing a therapist for forty years and all that’s left of her is ego. And I’ve been listening to Amy talk about her marriage for even longer. I’d happily kill Arnie McPhail just to change the subject. I’d like to move to Tuscany, but I lack the courage.”
His mother had gone to Tuscany for a few months, renting a
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