church if it was a Sunday. I never met him. He died a month before I was born, “from shame,” Grammy supposedly told Delilah. Had there been someone to point a gun at he would have seen to it that a wedding to his knocked-up daughter would have occurred, but my dad was apparently just, “some guy passing through.”
I’ve been told by both of them that Grammy tried to get Mom to come home after I was born, but on her terms. Which, knowing Delilah, was pretty much like saying don’t come home. Grammy tried to help out with me—and later, with Billy—but her help always came with a lot of questions: “Is Mandy getting enough calcium?” “Why don’t you get her shoes with some arch support?” that would send Delilah into a rage: “I am perfectly capable of taking care of my own Goddamn children!” (She was not.) Which would make Grammy tear up.
While it wasn’t a frequent occurrence, being around Grammy and Mom at the same time felt like standing in an electrical storm. I told myself that I didn’t mind that Grammy had attempted, not so quietly, to wash her hands of Mom. A part of me needed to know such a thing was possible.
“Vera says hello,” I ventured as Grammy wrapped her sandwich in wax paper. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop in earlier.”
She nodded me over to the table as she lay down a crisp linen placemat. I took a seat. Cold tea was poured over crackling ice and two Stella D’Oros were taken from the jar. I could never reconcile that Mom had grown up with things like full cookie jars. Although, as she’d be the first to tell you a few drinks down, it wasn’t the cookie jars she was running away from, so much as their getting thrown at the wall. My grandfather’s impatience for Delilah being Delilah didn’t start at my conception.
Grammy stood at the end of the table while I took a long sip. The fact that she wasn’t joining me or returning to her coffee meant that I was to explain myself. I searched for a spin on my failed departure.
She spoke instead, “Your Momma should have left you well enough alone in Miami.”
“Pardon?”
“You were getting yourself settled. She had no right to rope you back into this mess.” So she knew. She shook her head, her face pulled downward by the pregnancy, her daughter compounding a disaster Grammy had failed to contain the first two times.
“She didn’t. I came back on my own.”
She studied me for signs of lying, looking no more relieved at finding none. “I’m between things,” I said quickly, cringing. We both knew where I’d gotten that phrase. The disappointment in her eyes was unbearable. Averting them, mine landed on the newspaper at the other end of the table. Tom Davis. I craned to read the headline. Tom Davis Running for Watkins’ Seat. “On my way, I mean.” I would have said anything to make our present circumstances not be what they were. “To something pretty different, actually.”
She waited for me to continue.
I wanted it to be true. “In government.”
“Government?”
“Yes, that guy was speaking at the hotel where I was working.” I pointed at the paper. “Tom Davis? Well, he’s running to take over from Watkins, who—”
“Yes, I saw it on the news—these politicians are disgusting.”
“It’s a last minute thing so there’s a lot going on.” It was last minute. There probably was a lot going on. I mitigated the risk of failing her lie detector. “I’m going to join the campaign.”
She took this in. We both did. It was so outside my wheelhouse I might as well have said I was developing an app.
“So then you’re just passing through?” She weighed the credulity of my proclamation, but I
I’ve been told by both of them that Grammy tried to get Mom to come home after I was born, but on her terms. Which, knowing Delilah, was pretty much like saying don’t come home. Grammy tried to help out with me—and later, with Billy—but her help always came with a lot of questions: “Is Mandy getting enough calcium?” “Why don’t you get her shoes with some arch support?” that would send Delilah into a rage: “I am perfectly capable of taking care of my own Goddamn children!” (She was not.) Which would make Grammy tear up.
While it wasn’t a frequent occurrence, being around Grammy and Mom at the same time felt like standing in an electrical storm. I told myself that I didn’t mind that Grammy had attempted, not so quietly, to wash her hands of Mom. A part of me needed to know such a thing was possible.
“Vera says hello,” I ventured as Grammy wrapped her sandwich in wax paper. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop in earlier.”
She nodded me over to the table as she lay down a crisp linen placemat. I took a seat. Cold tea was poured over crackling ice and two Stella D’Oros were taken from the jar. I could never reconcile that Mom had grown up with things like full cookie jars. Although, as she’d be the first to tell you a few drinks down, it wasn’t the cookie jars she was running away from, so much as their getting thrown at the wall. My grandfather’s impatience for Delilah being Delilah didn’t start at my conception.
Grammy stood at the end of the table while I took a long sip. The fact that she wasn’t joining me or returning to her coffee meant that I was to explain myself. I searched for a spin on my failed departure.
She spoke instead, “Your Momma should have left you well enough alone in Miami.”
“Pardon?”
“You were getting yourself settled. She had no right to rope you back into this mess.” So she knew. She shook her head, her face pulled downward by the pregnancy, her daughter compounding a disaster Grammy had failed to contain the first two times.
“She didn’t. I came back on my own.”
She studied me for signs of lying, looking no more relieved at finding none. “I’m between things,” I said quickly, cringing. We both knew where I’d gotten that phrase. The disappointment in her eyes was unbearable. Averting them, mine landed on the newspaper at the other end of the table. Tom Davis. I craned to read the headline. Tom Davis Running for Watkins’ Seat. “On my way, I mean.” I would have said anything to make our present circumstances not be what they were. “To something pretty different, actually.”
She waited for me to continue.
I wanted it to be true. “In government.”
“Government?”
“Yes, that guy was speaking at the hotel where I was working.” I pointed at the paper. “Tom Davis? Well, he’s running to take over from Watkins, who—”
“Yes, I saw it on the news—these politicians are disgusting.”
“It’s a last minute thing so there’s a lot going on.” It was last minute. There probably was a lot going on. I mitigated the risk of failing her lie detector. “I’m going to join the campaign.”
She took this in. We both did. It was so outside my wheelhouse I might as well have said I was developing an app.
“So then you’re just passing through?” She weighed the credulity of my proclamation, but I
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