much as being left alone. Standing in the middle of a nightclub, filled with baubles. Tired out, overweight.
But because I adored her, my fury was greater. "Hello!" I said, waving my hand in front of her face. "Anybody home?" But my mother was still in her trance. "Listen, Ma, you've got to understand what I'm trying to do! After all, you did marry my father, who, from what I can gather, was an artist."
"An artist," my mother said, blinking. "Oh, well . . . if you want to look at it that way. I married him because he could play the violin and I was fed up with Vassar. At the time he was playing with Django Reinhardt ... I met him during Christmas vacation in Paris."
"I don't care to hear this story again," I said.
"I was supposed to be studying French. All the girls fell for him, though physically he wasn't a paragon of beauty, with his large nose and shock of dirty blond hair, a Northern Italian who smelled of garlic. Actually, you take after him."
"Mother, what are you talking about," I said. I was insulted.
----
"Lay off trying to tease me at this time. You know I don't have much of a sense of humor when it comes to myself. Ten years ago I could have been a male model. What a different life I would have been leading now. But you always encouraged me in my artistic ambition."
"I think I'm pregnant," my mother said, looking at the ceiling. "I don't know what to do. I've always had a healthy appetite, but this is different. ..."
"Once again you're changing the subject on me!" I said. "Well, Mother, I've told you for years to go on a diet."
"This is a different kind of fatness," my mother said. "This is the kind of weight gain due to something being alive inside my stomach."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"At my age I'm embarrassed to go to a doctor."
That's the kind of logic my mother always thought was acceptable. "Ma, what makes you think you're pregnant?" I said.
"A few months ago, visiting Andrea at her summer place in Maine, I had an affair with a young man. He was an instructor at Berkeley in the politics of television, and we had sexual intercourse twice, without using birth control. Neither time was very much fun."
"I thought, Ma, that you said you had been through the menopause."
"I never paid much attention to that sort of thing."
For a few minutes neither of us said anything, each occupied with our own thoughts. I supposed, if she went ahead and actually had this baby, that I would offer to take care of it and raise it as my own child. Would she have done the same for me? This was doubtful; besides, I would never let any child of mine fall into her hands. It wouldn't be so bad. My brother, my son. I would name the kid Achilles, it could talk to me while I painted.
And I might have opened my mouth to make my offer had not my mother opened her mouth to insult me once again.
"I can't go on worrying about you forever, Marley," she said.
----
"You're twenty-nine years old and haven't gotten any more mature since you were ten. I wonder if I should have given you more vitamins."
"Crazy old bat!" I said. "Old cow! Who asked you to worry about me? You're the one who screwed up your life and mine!"
My mother was like a little kid with a lot of toys, and I was just a toy she had forgotten about a long time ago. Once in a while she saw me up on the back of the shelf. When I was a kid, I waited for the times when she would dust me off. Then it was great, it made up for all the rest.
But I thought I had worked through all this. I hadn't meant to snarl at her; I really didn't want her bucks, nor did I need them. I didn't mind not eating, it was part of what I had chosen for myself. "Oh, that's not to say, Ma," I added guiltily, "that you didn't always make me feel capable of doing anything. I have to hand it to you for that. You had confidence in me— and look how I turned out, a genius of the first degree!"
This was a compliment of the highest order. But all my mother said, looking at the floor and not at my
But because I adored her, my fury was greater. "Hello!" I said, waving my hand in front of her face. "Anybody home?" But my mother was still in her trance. "Listen, Ma, you've got to understand what I'm trying to do! After all, you did marry my father, who, from what I can gather, was an artist."
"An artist," my mother said, blinking. "Oh, well . . . if you want to look at it that way. I married him because he could play the violin and I was fed up with Vassar. At the time he was playing with Django Reinhardt ... I met him during Christmas vacation in Paris."
"I don't care to hear this story again," I said.
"I was supposed to be studying French. All the girls fell for him, though physically he wasn't a paragon of beauty, with his large nose and shock of dirty blond hair, a Northern Italian who smelled of garlic. Actually, you take after him."
"Mother, what are you talking about," I said. I was insulted.
----
"Lay off trying to tease me at this time. You know I don't have much of a sense of humor when it comes to myself. Ten years ago I could have been a male model. What a different life I would have been leading now. But you always encouraged me in my artistic ambition."
"I think I'm pregnant," my mother said, looking at the ceiling. "I don't know what to do. I've always had a healthy appetite, but this is different. ..."
"Once again you're changing the subject on me!" I said. "Well, Mother, I've told you for years to go on a diet."
"This is a different kind of fatness," my mother said. "This is the kind of weight gain due to something being alive inside my stomach."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"At my age I'm embarrassed to go to a doctor."
That's the kind of logic my mother always thought was acceptable. "Ma, what makes you think you're pregnant?" I said.
"A few months ago, visiting Andrea at her summer place in Maine, I had an affair with a young man. He was an instructor at Berkeley in the politics of television, and we had sexual intercourse twice, without using birth control. Neither time was very much fun."
"I thought, Ma, that you said you had been through the menopause."
"I never paid much attention to that sort of thing."
For a few minutes neither of us said anything, each occupied with our own thoughts. I supposed, if she went ahead and actually had this baby, that I would offer to take care of it and raise it as my own child. Would she have done the same for me? This was doubtful; besides, I would never let any child of mine fall into her hands. It wouldn't be so bad. My brother, my son. I would name the kid Achilles, it could talk to me while I painted.
And I might have opened my mouth to make my offer had not my mother opened her mouth to insult me once again.
"I can't go on worrying about you forever, Marley," she said.
----
"You're twenty-nine years old and haven't gotten any more mature since you were ten. I wonder if I should have given you more vitamins."
"Crazy old bat!" I said. "Old cow! Who asked you to worry about me? You're the one who screwed up your life and mine!"
My mother was like a little kid with a lot of toys, and I was just a toy she had forgotten about a long time ago. Once in a while she saw me up on the back of the shelf. When I was a kid, I waited for the times when she would dust me off. Then it was great, it made up for all the rest.
But I thought I had worked through all this. I hadn't meant to snarl at her; I really didn't want her bucks, nor did I need them. I didn't mind not eating, it was part of what I had chosen for myself. "Oh, that's not to say, Ma," I added guiltily, "that you didn't always make me feel capable of doing anything. I have to hand it to you for that. You had confidence in me— and look how I turned out, a genius of the first degree!"
This was a compliment of the highest order. But all my mother said, looking at the floor and not at my
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