do was eat a piece of bread; it would absorb everything, and you wouldn’t have to go anymore.
“James,” I asked him, carefully. “Do you ever think about your other mother?”
“No,” he said quickly, like a doctor.
I looked at him, dismayed, confused.
“I don’t know,” he sighed and signaled the waiter. “I guess it’s not basic to me. God, I can’t get my feet all tied up in that. Why should I?”
“I’m not sure.” I looked at my lap, at my shoes. I reached under the table for my purse. “Check’s on me,” I said.
“Dear Mom. Thanks for the cookies. I got them yesterday. Was sorry to hear about the hospital thing. Hope you’re feeling better. I’ve got tests by the millions! Love, Lynnie.”
Driving back from dropping James off at the airport, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. It seems old, with too much makeup. I feel stuck, out of school, working odd jobs, like someone brooding, hat in hand in an anteroom, waiting for the future as if it were some hoop-skirted belle that must gather up its petticoats, float forward, and present itself to me. I wonder what else I could have written, those winters, looking out and seeing snow lining the elm grove like an arthritis and finding no words. I didn’t lie: there were a lot of tests; I had a lot of tests.
The roads are empty and I am driving fast. I think of my father, imagine him long ago at night casually parting my mother’s legs with the mechanical indifference of someone opening a cupboard. And I say to myself: I will leave every cold man, every man for whom music is some private physics and love some unsteppable dance. I will try to make them regret. To make them sad. I am driving back toward my tiny kitchen table and I will write this: forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.
“That’s how much it costs, Miss,” says the attendant at the gas station where I stop, looking rather numbly at the price on the pump.
“Oh,” I say and fumble for my wallet. The oil cans stacked against an old truck tire are wordless, hard, collusive. But the triangular plastic flags strung at one end of the island flutter and ripple in the wind, flapping to get my attention, my compassion, like things that seem to want to sing but can’t, things that almost tear themselves in trying to fly, like rainbow-colored birds, hung by string and their own feet.
THE KID’S GUIDE TO DIVORCE
P ut extra salt on the popcorn because your mom’ll say that she needs it because the part where Inger Berman almost dies and the camera does tricks to elongate her torso sure gets her every time.
Think: Geeze, here she goes again with the Kleenexes.
She will say thanks honey when you come slowly, slowly around the corner in your slippers and robe, into the living room with Grandma’s old used-to-be-salad-bowl piled high. I made it myself, remind her, and accidentally drop a few pieces on the floor. Mittens will bat them around with his paws.
Mmmmm, good to replenish those salts, she’ll munch and smile soggily.
Tell her the school nurse said after a puberty movie once that salt is bad for people’s hearts.
Phooey, she’ll say. It just makes it thump, that’s all. Thump, thump, thump—oh look! She will talk with her mouth full of popcorn. Cary Grant is getting her out of there. Did you unplug the popper?
Pretend you don’t hear her. Watch Inger Berman look elongated; wonder what it means.
You’d better check, she’ll say.
Groan. Make a little
tsk
noise with your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Run as fast as you can because the next commercial’s going to be the end. Unplug the popper. Bring Mittens back in with you because he is mewing by the refrigerator. He’ll leave hair on your bathrobe. Dump him in your mom’s lap.
Hey baby, she’ll coo at the cat, scratching his ears. Cuddle close to
“James,” I asked him, carefully. “Do you ever think about your other mother?”
“No,” he said quickly, like a doctor.
I looked at him, dismayed, confused.
“I don’t know,” he sighed and signaled the waiter. “I guess it’s not basic to me. God, I can’t get my feet all tied up in that. Why should I?”
“I’m not sure.” I looked at my lap, at my shoes. I reached under the table for my purse. “Check’s on me,” I said.
“Dear Mom. Thanks for the cookies. I got them yesterday. Was sorry to hear about the hospital thing. Hope you’re feeling better. I’ve got tests by the millions! Love, Lynnie.”
Driving back from dropping James off at the airport, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. It seems old, with too much makeup. I feel stuck, out of school, working odd jobs, like someone brooding, hat in hand in an anteroom, waiting for the future as if it were some hoop-skirted belle that must gather up its petticoats, float forward, and present itself to me. I wonder what else I could have written, those winters, looking out and seeing snow lining the elm grove like an arthritis and finding no words. I didn’t lie: there were a lot of tests; I had a lot of tests.
The roads are empty and I am driving fast. I think of my father, imagine him long ago at night casually parting my mother’s legs with the mechanical indifference of someone opening a cupboard. And I say to myself: I will leave every cold man, every man for whom music is some private physics and love some unsteppable dance. I will try to make them regret. To make them sad. I am driving back toward my tiny kitchen table and I will write this: forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.
“That’s how much it costs, Miss,” says the attendant at the gas station where I stop, looking rather numbly at the price on the pump.
“Oh,” I say and fumble for my wallet. The oil cans stacked against an old truck tire are wordless, hard, collusive. But the triangular plastic flags strung at one end of the island flutter and ripple in the wind, flapping to get my attention, my compassion, like things that seem to want to sing but can’t, things that almost tear themselves in trying to fly, like rainbow-colored birds, hung by string and their own feet.
THE KID’S GUIDE TO DIVORCE
P ut extra salt on the popcorn because your mom’ll say that she needs it because the part where Inger Berman almost dies and the camera does tricks to elongate her torso sure gets her every time.
Think: Geeze, here she goes again with the Kleenexes.
She will say thanks honey when you come slowly, slowly around the corner in your slippers and robe, into the living room with Grandma’s old used-to-be-salad-bowl piled high. I made it myself, remind her, and accidentally drop a few pieces on the floor. Mittens will bat them around with his paws.
Mmmmm, good to replenish those salts, she’ll munch and smile soggily.
Tell her the school nurse said after a puberty movie once that salt is bad for people’s hearts.
Phooey, she’ll say. It just makes it thump, that’s all. Thump, thump, thump—oh look! She will talk with her mouth full of popcorn. Cary Grant is getting her out of there. Did you unplug the popper?
Pretend you don’t hear her. Watch Inger Berman look elongated; wonder what it means.
You’d better check, she’ll say.
Groan. Make a little
tsk
noise with your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Run as fast as you can because the next commercial’s going to be the end. Unplug the popper. Bring Mittens back in with you because he is mewing by the refrigerator. He’ll leave hair on your bathrobe. Dump him in your mom’s lap.
Hey baby, she’ll coo at the cat, scratching his ears. Cuddle close to
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