Chat by Archer Mayor Page A

to roll her out of the hospital and into the cold New England sunlight. As they cleared the overhang of the main entrance portico, she tilted her head back and let the sun hit her full in the face.
    “God, that feels good.”
    Joe was relieved by the gesture. She’d refused to leave without first visiting Leo, and the sight of her last born, rigged up like a science experiment, had clearly shaken her. But she’d spoken to his physician in detail and had been told of a probable, though long-term, full recovery. Joe hoped that had helped with the worst of her concerns. But he wasn’t sure. She hadn’t spoken until hitting the sidewalk—she was, after all, of hard-core Yankee stock, a people who were not cold, as was their weather and their reputation, but who were indeed prone to self-containment. By instinct, people bred and brought up among these ancient mountains didn’t speak of their feelings and didn’t pry after those of others. For that matter, he hadn’t asked her outright himself.
    She worked at being upbeat during the drive home, insisting on stopping by the market to pick up a few things she thought he’d enjoy, and chatting about everything but the accident and her broken son. Joe let her find her emotional bearings, which, he sensed, would only really fall into place once they reached home. He therefore wasn’t surprised when she quieted as he topped the same rise in the driveway that had similarly affected him the day before. He did, however, reach out as he stopped the car before the house, and squeeze her hand.
    “He’ll be fine, Mom. We’ll see him through it.”
    She turned to him then, her eyes glistening. “He wouldn’t be there now if he hadn’t taken me to the movies.”
    Joe actually laughed as he leaned over and kissed her. “You probably saved his life. He would’ve been driving at twice the speed with some bimbo in one of his favorite wrecks. Tell me I’m wrong.”
    She smiled despite her sadness. “He doesn’t carry on as much as he claims. But I suppose you’re right.”
    Joe hadn’t told her about the missing tie rod nut.
    They spent much of the day getting used to each other. Joe hadn’t been at home without Leo in more years than he could recall, and he had a hard time gauging between too much together time with his mother and too little. She and Leo were like an old married couple, working on instinct, memory, and habit. Joe had only the first to draw on, and that was dulled by their both thinking of the missing member of their small company. He had to ask her about lunch, to discover if and when she napped, whether she could handle the bathroom on her own, what her rhythm was for reading, watching TV, and moving about in pursuit of various errands or tasks.
    For her part, of course, he appeared like a fish out of water. He did nothing like his brother, had little here that belonged to him or would occupy him for long, and knew even less about the house’s organization.
    Still, they managed, mostly with humor, sometimes with reservations, and were clearly relieved when the doorbell rang.
    At that moment they were both in the kitchen, where she was giving him a crash course on product geography, as he mentally termed it, struggling to retain how she liked her groceries organized.
    More to the point, since dinner was looming, they’d also been discussing the upcoming meal. Sadly, Leo was the house’s primary cook—Joe had no such talent, being of the opinion that all food should come packaged and ready to eat, preferably unheated—and it was becoming clear that the kitchen was where their cordiality might collapse.
    “Who would that be?” Joe asked, the sound of a doorbell being a rare thing in a farmhouse.
    “Maybe one of the neighbors,” his mother suggested, “seeing we were home and knowing my son was about to poison me.”
    Joe moved toward the door. “Just trying to broaden your mind, Mom. We came out of the caves eating with our fingers. Sandwiches are an