sugar crystals that form continually near the lid. The crystals are in a clump the size of a piece of candy, and we sit on the cool kitchen floor and hold the sticky crystals and chew them up. Then we seal up the cans for next time, and sometimes, when she’s doing this, she seems very sad.
“Mom?” I whisper, at her door.
“Come in,” she says. This is a good sign: she’s talking!
It’s dark because the blinds are old and yellowy, and her green blanket covers her like sod. Except for the Seth Thomas clock humming on the nightstand, it’s a silent world, away from our neighborhood and every little clang outside. Once, when Mom was upset and I was sent in on a mission like this, I found her staring at the ceiling in a way that made me think, for a moment, she wasn’t breathing anymore. I said, “Mom?” and she didn’t answer. I really overreacted. I heard a roar in my ears like a waterfall and fainted onto the floor.
Today she pats the bed on Roy’s side. I climb up and lay my head on his pillow.
“What’s going on out there?” she mumbles.
“We’re making a barbecue,” I tell her.
“Do we have anything?”
“Hot dogs.”
“Don’t ever eat them while rooting for a team at a baseball game,” she says. “I knew a boy who choked on one and died.”
“I know.”
On my mother’s nightstand is a moth-eaten buff-colored Steiff lion cub that Dr. Frost gave her when she was a girl, which Mom uses now as a pincushion. Full of pins and needles from head to tail, it makes me mad every time I see it. I say, “Hey, is today the day I can pull out the pins?”
She rolls over and looks at it. “What should I use instead?”
I don’t think animals should be used as pincushions, even Kathy’s blind animals. For some reason she always pulls the eyes off every animal she gets. All these creatures with empty sockets or scabby old glue where the eyes should be.
“Don’t we have a
real
pincushion?”
“Probably,” Mom says. “I don’t know why I started that.”
She’s warming up, so I’m quick to say, “Sorry about that thing last week.”
“What thing?”
“The thing at school.”
“Mmm,” she says. “Good. I was hoping you’d regret it.”
“I do.”
“I was hoping you weren’t embarking on a life of crime.”
“I’m probably not,” I say.
“But what an old battle-ax!” she says.
“Yeah!” I laugh.
“And is that her real name?” Mom says. “
Wrist?
What kind of name is that?”
I’m laughing really hard now. “She’s a creep!” I scream. “A creepy old wrist!”
Suddenly, Mom frowns. I’ve noticed this before. The happier I become, the faster her good humor drains away. “What, is Roy doing all the work out there alone?”
“No, it’s almost ready.” Then I say, “Mom, do you think Roy wants people to think he’s not my stepfather?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think he wants them to think he’s my father?”
“He doesn’t care what people think. What are you getting at?”
“I’m just saying, should I be telling people he’s not, so they don’t think it?”
“Why wouldn’t you want them to think it?”
I feel confused now. “I don’t mind if they think it, I’m just wondering if
Roy
wants them to think it.”
“I’m not going to live my life trapped by what anyone in this neighborhood thinks about
anything
!” Mom says. “Now come on, up up up,” she says, as if she’s been the one tending to me.
A barbecue it is. The hot dogs grilled with black stripes, just right. Mom up and going, her regular self, our queen. Kathy leapfrogging all over the grass. “Look!” she calls. “I’m on a lily pad, look!” We play catch after dinner with a red rubber ball, which Mom likes to see. “I’m so happy you girls have each other,” Mom often says. I see my little sister across the yard, trying to catch the ball as if her life depends on it, and wonder if she’s actually having fun. I like it better when we’re
“Mom?” I whisper, at her door.
“Come in,” she says. This is a good sign: she’s talking!
It’s dark because the blinds are old and yellowy, and her green blanket covers her like sod. Except for the Seth Thomas clock humming on the nightstand, it’s a silent world, away from our neighborhood and every little clang outside. Once, when Mom was upset and I was sent in on a mission like this, I found her staring at the ceiling in a way that made me think, for a moment, she wasn’t breathing anymore. I said, “Mom?” and she didn’t answer. I really overreacted. I heard a roar in my ears like a waterfall and fainted onto the floor.
Today she pats the bed on Roy’s side. I climb up and lay my head on his pillow.
“What’s going on out there?” she mumbles.
“We’re making a barbecue,” I tell her.
“Do we have anything?”
“Hot dogs.”
“Don’t ever eat them while rooting for a team at a baseball game,” she says. “I knew a boy who choked on one and died.”
“I know.”
On my mother’s nightstand is a moth-eaten buff-colored Steiff lion cub that Dr. Frost gave her when she was a girl, which Mom uses now as a pincushion. Full of pins and needles from head to tail, it makes me mad every time I see it. I say, “Hey, is today the day I can pull out the pins?”
She rolls over and looks at it. “What should I use instead?”
I don’t think animals should be used as pincushions, even Kathy’s blind animals. For some reason she always pulls the eyes off every animal she gets. All these creatures with empty sockets or scabby old glue where the eyes should be.
“Don’t we have a
real
pincushion?”
“Probably,” Mom says. “I don’t know why I started that.”
She’s warming up, so I’m quick to say, “Sorry about that thing last week.”
“What thing?”
“The thing at school.”
“Mmm,” she says. “Good. I was hoping you’d regret it.”
“I do.”
“I was hoping you weren’t embarking on a life of crime.”
“I’m probably not,” I say.
“But what an old battle-ax!” she says.
“Yeah!” I laugh.
“And is that her real name?” Mom says. “
Wrist?
What kind of name is that?”
I’m laughing really hard now. “She’s a creep!” I scream. “A creepy old wrist!”
Suddenly, Mom frowns. I’ve noticed this before. The happier I become, the faster her good humor drains away. “What, is Roy doing all the work out there alone?”
“No, it’s almost ready.” Then I say, “Mom, do you think Roy wants people to think he’s not my stepfather?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think he wants them to think he’s my father?”
“He doesn’t care what people think. What are you getting at?”
“I’m just saying, should I be telling people he’s not, so they don’t think it?”
“Why wouldn’t you want them to think it?”
I feel confused now. “I don’t mind if they think it, I’m just wondering if
Roy
wants them to think it.”
“I’m not going to live my life trapped by what anyone in this neighborhood thinks about
anything
!” Mom says. “Now come on, up up up,” she says, as if she’s been the one tending to me.
A barbecue it is. The hot dogs grilled with black stripes, just right. Mom up and going, her regular self, our queen. Kathy leapfrogging all over the grass. “Look!” she calls. “I’m on a lily pad, look!” We play catch after dinner with a red rubber ball, which Mom likes to see. “I’m so happy you girls have each other,” Mom often says. I see my little sister across the yard, trying to catch the ball as if her life depends on it, and wonder if she’s actually having fun. I like it better when we’re
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