potatoes, and blackberry cobbler she’d prepared, he stood up from the table mumbling that he was going to “hang” with some friends from high school and not to wait up. She didn’t set eyes on him again till he emerged from his room at eleven the next morning,at which point she fed him and did a load of his laundry and later, carrying the folded clothes back through the living room, found him sprawled on the couch watching the Red Sox.
Question: Was he already troubled then? Lying there all that day like a gorgeous lounge lizard, calling out at the TV, as a bunt was laid down by an opposing player, for the “wheel” play, whatever that is? Already troubled that second evening when, wolfing down his last bite of dessert, he once again jumped up from the table to go out, this time to a party in Falls Village? Bye, Mom—peck on cheek, brief hug, Don’t wait up, out the door.
By ten, Norris was snoring. By midnight she, too, was unconscious. Was Sam, for Christ’s sake, troubled then?
Which brings her to Sunday, waking that misty spring morning, Norris already out playing his usual eighteen at the country club. Rising, she went straight to the bedroom window to confirm that Norris’s old car—a Honda Civic he’d agreed to let Sam use at college because of its Japanese reliability, admirable fuel efficiency, and impressively retained Blue Book value—was in the driveway. Wherever Sam had been the night before, he’d returned in one piece. And now they would have the day together before he went back to school.
She washed and dressed, taking her time, adding a touch of lavender water, appreciating the exceptional peace of the morning: her son, whether or not he chose to “hang” with her on a weekend night, asleep in his old room down the hall.
An hour later, she was frying bacon—frying it as she is today, with fork and grease-spattered fingers—sipping coffee, and scanning the newsless headlines in the Winsted Register Citizen , when she heard his footsteps on the linoleum behind her. The smile she turned on him then unfortunately misplaced; for he was wearing, she immediately saw, his jean jacket, the one with the beige corduroy collar, and carrying the UConn sports duffel he’d brought with him, the bag fully loaded, the zipper zipped. He was going back early, she understood, right that minute, taking with him the shirts and boxers she’d washed and folded, leaving her with half a pound of cooked baconand too many eggs. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes from the night before. He hadn’t even been home.
“You’re going?” She was careful to drain the question of any note of accusation or feeling.
“I’ve got practice.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Coach,” he explained with a helpless shrug, as if he was a farmer and coach a euphemism for hail or locusts —which in its way, she could see, it was.
She studied him, certain he was lying, because he wouldn’t look at her—at the floor, yes, the microwave, the sheets of paper towel on the counter already striped with pieces of crisp bacon, each in its own penumbra of grease.
She switched off the burner. “I’ll walk you to the car.”
Up close, he looked as if he hadn’t slept. A raw streak like an unopened gash ran from his left ear to his jaw, but she wouldn’t indulge herself or him by asking about it. He wanted to be such a grown-up, let him be a grown-up. She followed him out through the screen door. His work boots untied, though this she guessed was just a style, a way of moving through the world as if he didn’t give a damn, dragging his feet—not unlike, it struck her, how he’d spent the weekend moving through the house. Just passing through, ma’am.
On the lawn a rabbit posed frozen, blurred in the sun-infused mist, its ears pinned to its back. Leaping into panicked flight when Sam popped the trunk.
“Well …” She was standing right next to him.
“Sorry, Mom.” He still wasn’t looking at her. The scale
Question: Was he already troubled then? Lying there all that day like a gorgeous lounge lizard, calling out at the TV, as a bunt was laid down by an opposing player, for the “wheel” play, whatever that is? Already troubled that second evening when, wolfing down his last bite of dessert, he once again jumped up from the table to go out, this time to a party in Falls Village? Bye, Mom—peck on cheek, brief hug, Don’t wait up, out the door.
By ten, Norris was snoring. By midnight she, too, was unconscious. Was Sam, for Christ’s sake, troubled then?
Which brings her to Sunday, waking that misty spring morning, Norris already out playing his usual eighteen at the country club. Rising, she went straight to the bedroom window to confirm that Norris’s old car—a Honda Civic he’d agreed to let Sam use at college because of its Japanese reliability, admirable fuel efficiency, and impressively retained Blue Book value—was in the driveway. Wherever Sam had been the night before, he’d returned in one piece. And now they would have the day together before he went back to school.
She washed and dressed, taking her time, adding a touch of lavender water, appreciating the exceptional peace of the morning: her son, whether or not he chose to “hang” with her on a weekend night, asleep in his old room down the hall.
An hour later, she was frying bacon—frying it as she is today, with fork and grease-spattered fingers—sipping coffee, and scanning the newsless headlines in the Winsted Register Citizen , when she heard his footsteps on the linoleum behind her. The smile she turned on him then unfortunately misplaced; for he was wearing, she immediately saw, his jean jacket, the one with the beige corduroy collar, and carrying the UConn sports duffel he’d brought with him, the bag fully loaded, the zipper zipped. He was going back early, she understood, right that minute, taking with him the shirts and boxers she’d washed and folded, leaving her with half a pound of cooked baconand too many eggs. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes from the night before. He hadn’t even been home.
“You’re going?” She was careful to drain the question of any note of accusation or feeling.
“I’ve got practice.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Coach,” he explained with a helpless shrug, as if he was a farmer and coach a euphemism for hail or locusts —which in its way, she could see, it was.
She studied him, certain he was lying, because he wouldn’t look at her—at the floor, yes, the microwave, the sheets of paper towel on the counter already striped with pieces of crisp bacon, each in its own penumbra of grease.
She switched off the burner. “I’ll walk you to the car.”
Up close, he looked as if he hadn’t slept. A raw streak like an unopened gash ran from his left ear to his jaw, but she wouldn’t indulge herself or him by asking about it. He wanted to be such a grown-up, let him be a grown-up. She followed him out through the screen door. His work boots untied, though this she guessed was just a style, a way of moving through the world as if he didn’t give a damn, dragging his feet—not unlike, it struck her, how he’d spent the weekend moving through the house. Just passing through, ma’am.
On the lawn a rabbit posed frozen, blurred in the sun-infused mist, its ears pinned to its back. Leaping into panicked flight when Sam popped the trunk.
“Well …” She was standing right next to him.
“Sorry, Mom.” He still wasn’t looking at her. The scale
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