she fixed the grammar on the English homework I’d done during lunch period to avoid socializing.
On impulse, I took out my cell phone and dialed her house. After my father died, thirty years ago, she’d moved up north, to Steven’s Point. She never remarried. I waited for her to pick up, imagining her tending to her tomato plants in her oversized blue work shirt, rolled-up jeans, and straw hat, à la Katharine Hepburn in On Golden Pond, her cheeks rosy from the sun and her exertion. She was an excellent gardener.
“Mom.” I should hang up.
“Hello, darling. How lovely to hear your voice.” Normally, my mother’s diction was so perfect that she could narrate a book on tape. Today, her voice sounded less dressed.
“Were you out gardening?” Two years ago she’d retired from her job in the university’s history department. She’d started out as a secretary, but the professors had come to rely on her research skills. Her work had been a safe topic for us; now we spoke incessantly about her planting and pruning.
“The weatherman is predicting a frost tonight.”
I cut off the usual small talk so I wouldn’t lose the courage to share my news. “I’m calling because I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Kessler died.”
“Oh, that’s such a shame, dear,” she said absently, as if I’d told her that Lili had overfed her goldfish.
“I thought you’d want to know.” Get off the phone, Barbara. You’re not going to get whatever it is that you’re looking for from her.
“Sure I do,” she said vaguely.
“Mom, do you remember Mrs. Kessler?”
My mother had a superb memory, but she paused for what seemed like five minutes.
“Mrs. Kessler was the teacher who wore that gorgeous braid around her head,” she said as if she’d come up with the correct question to a Jeopardy! answer, which she often did when we watched the show as a family. Afterward, Neil and I would make our own game out of trying to stump my mother with arcane facts we’d looked up in the encyclopedia.
“She was a lot more than a lady with a braid to me.” I wanted my mother to acknowledge how Mrs. Kessler had gotten me through calculus and taken me to buy new underpants and bras, and I wanted her to apologize for not doing these things herself. A spasm of poorly archived anger gripped me like a charley horse or a menstrual cramp.
“Darling, do you have a hat to wear to the funeral?” she asked as if she were a mother who tended to such things and we were a family welcome in the Schines’ shul.
Her question shocked me. “What?”
“Do you have a hat, Barbara? You need to cover your head. You’re a married woman now,” she explained as if I’d gotten married just the other day.
Neil had mentioned that my mother seemed confused lately, but I hadn’t paid much attention because the doctors suspected her new cholesterol medication might be the culprit.
“I have a hat.”
“Good. You know, my poor little tomato plants might have a time of it with that frost coming in.” Only now did the sympathy I’d sought over Mrs. Kessler’s death surface in her voice. “There’s no there there,” Sam always said when it came to my mother’s heart. I could see how he’d come to this conclusion, but then again, he’d never sat across from her and sipped fake strawberry milk.
I couldn’t worry about her loopiness right now. I said a quick goodbye as I approached the funeral parlor, which was sandwiched between a Chinese takeout restaurant and a check-cashing business. We’d held my father’s funeral here, and I hadn’t seen the rebbetzin since a week after his death.
My armpits were growing moist, and my oniony scent drewme back to a disturbing place I could not name. I wanted to turn around and drive home, exactly as I had the first time Sam took me to Little Switzerland, when I stood on top of the hill and prayed that a ski patrol would show up and carry me down. Had I thought through that ski trip or the call to my mother
On impulse, I took out my cell phone and dialed her house. After my father died, thirty years ago, she’d moved up north, to Steven’s Point. She never remarried. I waited for her to pick up, imagining her tending to her tomato plants in her oversized blue work shirt, rolled-up jeans, and straw hat, à la Katharine Hepburn in On Golden Pond, her cheeks rosy from the sun and her exertion. She was an excellent gardener.
“Mom.” I should hang up.
“Hello, darling. How lovely to hear your voice.” Normally, my mother’s diction was so perfect that she could narrate a book on tape. Today, her voice sounded less dressed.
“Were you out gardening?” Two years ago she’d retired from her job in the university’s history department. She’d started out as a secretary, but the professors had come to rely on her research skills. Her work had been a safe topic for us; now we spoke incessantly about her planting and pruning.
“The weatherman is predicting a frost tonight.”
I cut off the usual small talk so I wouldn’t lose the courage to share my news. “I’m calling because I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Kessler died.”
“Oh, that’s such a shame, dear,” she said absently, as if I’d told her that Lili had overfed her goldfish.
“I thought you’d want to know.” Get off the phone, Barbara. You’re not going to get whatever it is that you’re looking for from her.
“Sure I do,” she said vaguely.
“Mom, do you remember Mrs. Kessler?”
My mother had a superb memory, but she paused for what seemed like five minutes.
“Mrs. Kessler was the teacher who wore that gorgeous braid around her head,” she said as if she’d come up with the correct question to a Jeopardy! answer, which she often did when we watched the show as a family. Afterward, Neil and I would make our own game out of trying to stump my mother with arcane facts we’d looked up in the encyclopedia.
“She was a lot more than a lady with a braid to me.” I wanted my mother to acknowledge how Mrs. Kessler had gotten me through calculus and taken me to buy new underpants and bras, and I wanted her to apologize for not doing these things herself. A spasm of poorly archived anger gripped me like a charley horse or a menstrual cramp.
“Darling, do you have a hat to wear to the funeral?” she asked as if she were a mother who tended to such things and we were a family welcome in the Schines’ shul.
Her question shocked me. “What?”
“Do you have a hat, Barbara? You need to cover your head. You’re a married woman now,” she explained as if I’d gotten married just the other day.
Neil had mentioned that my mother seemed confused lately, but I hadn’t paid much attention because the doctors suspected her new cholesterol medication might be the culprit.
“I have a hat.”
“Good. You know, my poor little tomato plants might have a time of it with that frost coming in.” Only now did the sympathy I’d sought over Mrs. Kessler’s death surface in her voice. “There’s no there there,” Sam always said when it came to my mother’s heart. I could see how he’d come to this conclusion, but then again, he’d never sat across from her and sipped fake strawberry milk.
I couldn’t worry about her loopiness right now. I said a quick goodbye as I approached the funeral parlor, which was sandwiched between a Chinese takeout restaurant and a check-cashing business. We’d held my father’s funeral here, and I hadn’t seen the rebbetzin since a week after his death.
My armpits were growing moist, and my oniony scent drewme back to a disturbing place I could not name. I wanted to turn around and drive home, exactly as I had the first time Sam took me to Little Switzerland, when I stood on top of the hill and prayed that a ski patrol would show up and carry me down. Had I thought through that ski trip or the call to my mother
Similar Books
