Then beneath, the tiny feet, little figgys. "I told you yesterday I was coming to visit," she said. "Do you know how long I've been waiting? Where've you been?"
"Aw, Ma," I said. I gave her a smack on the cheek to placate.
So we went upstairs. To distract her from the mess I took her around and showed her the latest frescoes on the wall and ceilings, which I started when I ran out of canvas: goddess and nymph and semitropical vegetation. The God of Baseball, playing a game of billiards with Bacchus. I was proud of the God of Baseball, in his Yankees cap, chipmunk cheek filled with a plump throb of chewing tobacco. One hand fiddling with his crotch. But my mother barely seemed to notice. "How can you live in this pigsty?" she said. "You're twenty-nine years old, Marley. A person can't go on this way. I was hoping you'd be able to support me in my old age."
----
Listen, with remarks like this I was titled to my irritation. Old Vinnie van Gogh never sold a painting in his life, but at least his brother was there with support. My mother, of all people, should have worshiped the ground I walked on. "A pigsty?" I said. "You call this a pigsty? Who did I learn my housekeeping habits from if not you?"
"Not like this, though," she said.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Like this. Listen, Ma, all your life you've lived in a dream. You haven't had it easy, I'm willing to admit that. This perpetual fog that surrounds you can't be much fun to be in."
"I had a hard life," my mother said.
"That's true," I said, without feeling sorry for her, "Grandfather disowning you when you got knocked up with me. That so-called husband of yours, Marco, running around the world to play the violin, then all of a sudden dying. It wasn't much of a marriage, I guess. But for all these years you've basically ignored me. Now you show up, a stranger—I'm nearly thirty years old—and tell me I live in a pigsty!"
My mother didn't even look surprised. "Yes, yes ..." she muttered. "It's true." She sat heavily on the couch. I noticed she wasn't making any effort to clean the place up, either. Well, at her great weight it took a lot out of her just to rest.
"You were brought up to expect one thing," I told her. "You were a rich little girl, no one told you life wasn't going to be chipped beef on toast forever. If you had married someone from your own background, Grandfather wouldn't have disowned you and things would be different for me today. But you've always done exactly as you pleased. Well, why don't you sell those stocks in Marvel Comics"—for I had discovered this secret wealth she had managed to squirrel away the last time I went home and was looking through some of her papers —"and use the money to help me out?"
"Oh, I don't know, Marley," my mother said. "At one time I thought you'd make these paintings, which seems to be all you're capable of, and make some money, and in this way things would work out for you. A boy like you, from an un-
----
known background, without connections—what choice did I have but to encourage you? But let's face it, other, younger artists have come along who are by now a big success. Your shows don't even get reviewed. I wish you'd get out of this business, which is making you neither rich nor happy. It's not too late, you could still change. There are schools to learn the computer—"
"I have my own goals, Mother. If you don't want to help me, then say so. But let's not pretend you couldn't do it if you wanted to."
My mother, however, wasn't listening. Yet even though I was mad, I still adored her. I happen to think my mother is a brilliant woman who has not let modern civilization or the twentieth century disturb her in any way. That mass of Valkyr-ien hair, mostly gray. Those washed-out blue eyes, always looking at a person who wasn't in the room. The thin lines just beginning to form around her mouth.
It gave me an idea for painting Athena after she reached middle age. No longer interested in getting her own way as
"Aw, Ma," I said. I gave her a smack on the cheek to placate.
So we went upstairs. To distract her from the mess I took her around and showed her the latest frescoes on the wall and ceilings, which I started when I ran out of canvas: goddess and nymph and semitropical vegetation. The God of Baseball, playing a game of billiards with Bacchus. I was proud of the God of Baseball, in his Yankees cap, chipmunk cheek filled with a plump throb of chewing tobacco. One hand fiddling with his crotch. But my mother barely seemed to notice. "How can you live in this pigsty?" she said. "You're twenty-nine years old, Marley. A person can't go on this way. I was hoping you'd be able to support me in my old age."
----
Listen, with remarks like this I was titled to my irritation. Old Vinnie van Gogh never sold a painting in his life, but at least his brother was there with support. My mother, of all people, should have worshiped the ground I walked on. "A pigsty?" I said. "You call this a pigsty? Who did I learn my housekeeping habits from if not you?"
"Not like this, though," she said.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Like this. Listen, Ma, all your life you've lived in a dream. You haven't had it easy, I'm willing to admit that. This perpetual fog that surrounds you can't be much fun to be in."
"I had a hard life," my mother said.
"That's true," I said, without feeling sorry for her, "Grandfather disowning you when you got knocked up with me. That so-called husband of yours, Marco, running around the world to play the violin, then all of a sudden dying. It wasn't much of a marriage, I guess. But for all these years you've basically ignored me. Now you show up, a stranger—I'm nearly thirty years old—and tell me I live in a pigsty!"
My mother didn't even look surprised. "Yes, yes ..." she muttered. "It's true." She sat heavily on the couch. I noticed she wasn't making any effort to clean the place up, either. Well, at her great weight it took a lot out of her just to rest.
"You were brought up to expect one thing," I told her. "You were a rich little girl, no one told you life wasn't going to be chipped beef on toast forever. If you had married someone from your own background, Grandfather wouldn't have disowned you and things would be different for me today. But you've always done exactly as you pleased. Well, why don't you sell those stocks in Marvel Comics"—for I had discovered this secret wealth she had managed to squirrel away the last time I went home and was looking through some of her papers —"and use the money to help me out?"
"Oh, I don't know, Marley," my mother said. "At one time I thought you'd make these paintings, which seems to be all you're capable of, and make some money, and in this way things would work out for you. A boy like you, from an un-
----
known background, without connections—what choice did I have but to encourage you? But let's face it, other, younger artists have come along who are by now a big success. Your shows don't even get reviewed. I wish you'd get out of this business, which is making you neither rich nor happy. It's not too late, you could still change. There are schools to learn the computer—"
"I have my own goals, Mother. If you don't want to help me, then say so. But let's not pretend you couldn't do it if you wanted to."
My mother, however, wasn't listening. Yet even though I was mad, I still adored her. I happen to think my mother is a brilliant woman who has not let modern civilization or the twentieth century disturb her in any way. That mass of Valkyr-ien hair, mostly gray. Those washed-out blue eyes, always looking at a person who wasn't in the room. The thin lines just beginning to form around her mouth.
It gave me an idea for painting Athena after she reached middle age. No longer interested in getting her own way as
Similar Books
