Read Online The Best American Short Stories® 2011 by Geraldine Brooks - Free Book Online

kitchen, as if he has immediately sensed disorder. He strokes the valance over the kitchen window. I remembered last night, as I was hanging it, that Mom had found the pattern in
Southern Living.
    Is this velvet? he says. Are these ... cobwebs?
    I have placed scraps of rogue wallpaper next to my stove and another in the bathroom—a repeating pattern of pale brown cornucopias and faded fruit I took from my mother's house.
    These must come down, the realtor says. Now.
    He pinches the curling shreds with his thumb and forefinger.
    Leave it, I say. They add charm.
    You'll never sell this house, he says, shaking his head in despair. Crickets on speed and a valance that Elvis made in home economics class. Get serious.
    Apple pie? I ask, pulling out a day-old pastry I had purchased from the market's discount bread bin that morning.
    I've steeled myself against critique. There are too many things I can't fix.
    A couple in a minivan pulls up in front of the house, followed by the home inspector in a pickup truck. They come to the door, their faces already twisted with scrutiny. She is small and blond and he is thick like an old football player.
    Hi, I say. Welcome. We're about to head out; the house is all yours.
    I stuff some magazines and soda into a canvas bag and look around for Ike. I hear him running up the basement steps. He presents a scrap of siding that is covered in glue and cricket exoskeletons. The couple exchange a glance. The inspector scribbles a note.
    I crouch down to the floor and touch Ike's cheeks. You're brave, I say. Thank you.
    Ike grins. Together, we can make a solid grilled cheese, prune shrubs, clean house. Together, maybe we're the housewife this house needs. Maybe our best life is here. On a good day, we're just one man short of a catalog-worthy family.
     
    A week before she left for the nursing home, we packed my mother's belongings—robes, slippers, and lotions that could do little good for her sagging face. Her diminished vision made it hard for her to read the labels on the boxes.
    Ike had just started kindergarten. Leaving him at a friend's house to spend time with Mom on a Saturday was a miserable tradeoff. I wanted to soak up every last bit of innocence he had left, answer every question, scoop him up for hugs when he'd allow it. But I was the only person Mom would allow in the house; there was no one else around to help.
    I held up various tchotchkes for Mom's approval.
    Take or toss? I asked.
    Mom sat in her recliner. She wore a light blue dress she'd made herself. The fabric was so worn it was nearly transparent. Carnie rested comfortably on her shoulder. I worried that his talons would break her thinning skin, but she moved as if she hardly noticed his weight.
    I held up a box of ornaments, plastic apples I'd hand-painted for her as a child.
    Toss 'em, she'd said.
    I began to wrap her glassware in newspaper.
    Make sure to leave plenty of print for lining Carnie's cage, she said.
    My mother cupped Carnie with both hands and brought him to her lap. She crossed her legs, then scratched the finger-wide point between Carnie's wings. His eyes, like little black seeds, fell to half-mast as she stroked him. They were accustomed to each other, a pair of sad habits. He was more familiar with her voice and touch than I, more dear to her everyday existence. His transgressions—dirty cage, the occasional nip of her finger—were met with gentle understanding.
    Don't call here again, he said. Don't call.
    Remember, I told my mother. I'm not
obligated
to look after that bird.
    Well, she said, I'm not obligated to look after you.
    You are, I'd thought at the time, her words a splinter in my chest. You have to be.
    In that moment, I withered. I hated her for her coldness, her stubborn rationale, her ability to come up big in a fight even when she was dog-tired and bird-boned and couldn't see the food on the end of her fork.
    There she sat, outmoded in her homemade dress, bird in her lap, shit on her shoulder.