The Wisdom of Perversity by Rafael Yglesias Page A

Zolly’s Deli for franks and a knish. But under no circumstances could he remember eating a meal with Jeff’s mother in their dining room. Of course, Brian knew there were occasions when Harriet left her bedroom. While on his way to the bathroom in the hall he’d sometimes notice it was empty and later discover she was back under her cherished red and black blanket sipping chamomile tea, but her arrivals and departures always escaped his scrutiny.
    â€œWhy are you carrying your present around?” Harriet asked. “You’ll drop and break it.”
    â€œIt’s portable, Mom. I’m portabling it to my room.” Jeff walked out of his mother’s line of vision.
    â€œBri, how is your mother?” Harriet asked Brian, still a visible target.
    â€œFine.” From the hallway’s shadows Jeff motioned for him to keep moving.
    â€œI haven’t seen or talked to her in so long. Did she get a job? Is that why?”
    Jeff tugged the electric cord taut, to urge Brian away from his mother’s interrogation. Brian didn’t dare go without her permission. Harriet intimidated him: the raspy voice, her ill temper, her invalidism, and especially the fact that she worked for the City of New York made her seem capable of terrible vindictiveness, although exactly what harm she might inflict remained fuzzy. “Yes, she’s working,” Brian said, puzzled that Harriet was asking this question for the fourth time since his mother started her new job six months ago and that each time Harriet behaved as if she had never heard him explain it before.
    â€œWhere is she working?”
    â€œ
Time
magazine.”
    Jeff jerked the electric cord. The plug flew out of Brian’s hand and smacked into Jeff’s concave chest. He doubled over, sagging to his knees melodramatically, pretending a mortal wound. Brian moved partway out of the doorframe to enjoy the performance, but Harriet apprehended him, demanding in an astonished voice, “What does she do for
Time
magazine, for God’s sake.”
    â€œShe’s an assistant editor,” Brian said. He added tentatively, “I think I told you about it.”
    â€œBrian has to come and play now, Mom,” Jeff called, careful to keep himself out of her line of vision.
    â€œDon’t be fresh with me!” Harriet snapped. Jeff gave up, head down, walking ahead to his room. “What did you say, Brian?” She waited with a frown.
    He decided against repeating that he had already told her all this. “Mom works for the books editor . . . ?” Brian said so plaintively it came out as a question.
    â€œOh, she’s a secretary,” Harriet said, as if that were a great relief from the terrible confusion Brian had created.
    Brian considered whether he could just say yes and run into Jeff’s room. Harriet would never get out of the bed to pursue him. He hoped. The specter of being chased by Harriet in her pink slip on blue and black varicose legs was dreadful. He remained anchored to the doorsill and said, as he had the other times, “I think she’s his assistant, you know helps him read the books they might review, but I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong.”
    Harriet grunted. “You don’t know. Of course you don’t. What do you care what your mother does. As long as she cleans up after you, right?”
    â€œYeah.” Brian was glad to accept the insult if it allowed him to escape.
    â€œI’ll call her,” Harriet said, as she had promised the other four times they had this conversation. “I owe her a call anyway. Did she take the job because your father isn’t getting any parts?”
    This too had been asked before and answered as he did now: “Dad has a job teaching theater at the High School of Performing Arts.”
    â€œAh.” Harriet nodded wisely. “Well, he gave acting a try. That’s all any of us can do, right? Try to do what we love.