Marie the rest of the house, including the study where her mother will be living. “Perfect,” Marie says. And then, looking at me, “You okay?”
“Yeah!”
“Really?”
“Well . . . Yes. Yes. Thank you.”
And then the Ryder truck arrives, a man driving it who’s been hired to help carry stuff in. There wasn’t much, Lydia had assured me: some bedroom furniture, a few kitchen things, linens. The apartment she lived in before had been mostly furnished.
I stand at the window and watch the man climb out of the truck, note with satisfaction that he is huge. I won’t need to help much. He opens the back doors of the truck and pulls out a brass headboard, which glints magnificently in the sun.
“Boy, that bed is old,” Marie says, sipping coffee and standing beside me. “My mother was born in it. And her mother.”
I see a woman in the bed with wavy, dark hair loosened about her head, perspiring, another woman wearing a long skirt and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, standing by to wipe her face with a soft, folded cloth, to speak quietly into her ear, a woman who has had children her self and thus communicates in a higher language.
When I was in labor, David sat beside me eating the dinner the hospital provided and complaining that it was cold. I turned the call light on for the nurse, who, upon entering, asked, “Need something for pain, hon?”
“No, thank you,” I said. And then, pointing to David’s tray, “It’s cold.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll take care of it right away.” She took David’s tray from him, said in a low voice to me, “First things first, right?”
Oh, no, you don’t know him,
I’d wanted to say. But maybe she did.
I see the moving man coming up the walk and I go to the door to meet him. He is probably well over six foot three, and his weight is considerable. He is fat, is the plain truth, and yet I find him extremely pleasant to look at. It has to do with his beautiful black hair, cut in an appealingly shaggy way. And his brown eyes, they’re nice too—golden, almost. He is wearing faded blue jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black suspenders, and red high-top sneakers; no coat. He smells faintly of soap.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.
“Nope.” He smiles at me. Nice teeth.
I smile back. Lean against the doorjamb, arms crossed.
“Did you want me to tell him where to put it, Sam?” Marie asks.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s up—well, here, let me show you.” I lead him up the staircase, conscious of my backside as I always am, leading one damn workman or another upstairs or downstairs. It doesn’t matter who they are: meter man, furnace-repair man, furniture-delivery man: every time I walk in front of them, I can feel them judging my ass. Even if they’re not. But probably they are.
I take him to the study. “This is it.” I move to the window and open the shade. The room fills with light, and, inexplicably, this fills me with a kind of optimism and pride.
The man leans the bed frame gently against the wall, then extends his hand. “My name is King.”
I laugh. “It is?”
“Honest to God. My parents were . . . different.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just, you know . . . Graceland. I’m Sam.”
“So you’ll be Lydia’s roommate?”
“Yes. You know her? Lydia?”
“Just met her. Her and her boyfriend, nice people. They have a lot of class. Something you don’t see much of anymore.” He motions for me to go ahead of him out of the room. “She doesn’t have much stuff. This won’t take long.”
“I made some banana bread, and there’s coffee,” I say. I agree with what he just said about Lydia. Therefore, I will feed him.
Downstairs, I see that Lydia has arrived. She is taking her coat off, adjusting her open-weave cardigan sweater, asking her daughter where the closet is again, and Marie is saying she’s not sure, either.
“I’ll hang that up,” I say, taking
“Yeah!”
“Really?”
“Well . . . Yes. Yes. Thank you.”
And then the Ryder truck arrives, a man driving it who’s been hired to help carry stuff in. There wasn’t much, Lydia had assured me: some bedroom furniture, a few kitchen things, linens. The apartment she lived in before had been mostly furnished.
I stand at the window and watch the man climb out of the truck, note with satisfaction that he is huge. I won’t need to help much. He opens the back doors of the truck and pulls out a brass headboard, which glints magnificently in the sun.
“Boy, that bed is old,” Marie says, sipping coffee and standing beside me. “My mother was born in it. And her mother.”
I see a woman in the bed with wavy, dark hair loosened about her head, perspiring, another woman wearing a long skirt and a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, standing by to wipe her face with a soft, folded cloth, to speak quietly into her ear, a woman who has had children her self and thus communicates in a higher language.
When I was in labor, David sat beside me eating the dinner the hospital provided and complaining that it was cold. I turned the call light on for the nurse, who, upon entering, asked, “Need something for pain, hon?”
“No, thank you,” I said. And then, pointing to David’s tray, “It’s cold.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll take care of it right away.” She took David’s tray from him, said in a low voice to me, “First things first, right?”
Oh, no, you don’t know him,
I’d wanted to say. But maybe she did.
I see the moving man coming up the walk and I go to the door to meet him. He is probably well over six foot three, and his weight is considerable. He is fat, is the plain truth, and yet I find him extremely pleasant to look at. It has to do with his beautiful black hair, cut in an appealingly shaggy way. And his brown eyes, they’re nice too—golden, almost. He is wearing faded blue jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black suspenders, and red high-top sneakers; no coat. He smells faintly of soap.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.
“Nope.” He smiles at me. Nice teeth.
I smile back. Lean against the doorjamb, arms crossed.
“Did you want me to tell him where to put it, Sam?” Marie asks.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s up—well, here, let me show you.” I lead him up the staircase, conscious of my backside as I always am, leading one damn workman or another upstairs or downstairs. It doesn’t matter who they are: meter man, furnace-repair man, furniture-delivery man: every time I walk in front of them, I can feel them judging my ass. Even if they’re not. But probably they are.
I take him to the study. “This is it.” I move to the window and open the shade. The room fills with light, and, inexplicably, this fills me with a kind of optimism and pride.
The man leans the bed frame gently against the wall, then extends his hand. “My name is King.”
I laugh. “It is?”
“Honest to God. My parents were . . . different.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just, you know . . . Graceland. I’m Sam.”
“So you’ll be Lydia’s roommate?”
“Yes. You know her? Lydia?”
“Just met her. Her and her boyfriend, nice people. They have a lot of class. Something you don’t see much of anymore.” He motions for me to go ahead of him out of the room. “She doesn’t have much stuff. This won’t take long.”
“I made some banana bread, and there’s coffee,” I say. I agree with what he just said about Lydia. Therefore, I will feed him.
Downstairs, I see that Lydia has arrived. She is taking her coat off, adjusting her open-weave cardigan sweater, asking her daughter where the closet is again, and Marie is saying she’s not sure, either.
“I’ll hang that up,” I say, taking
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