mind. Ironically, she needed friends more than my mother did.
“Can I go over to Suralee’s?” I asked.
“Be back by dinner,” my mother said, and turned back to the hairstyle magazine. “Pull the sides of my hair back like that and let me see,” she told Brenda.
I started out of the room, then turned around and spoke quickly. “Oh, and can we have a play in the backyard tomorrow night with refreshments? Just a play?”
My mother, distracted, said yes, all right. I looked quickly at Suralee, then away. Outside, we’d celebrate our small victory.
When we passed through the kitchen on the way out the back door, Peacie put her hand on her hip and looked from one of us to the other. “What y’all up to?” she asked. “I know for certain you up to something.”
“Nothing,” we sang out together.
“What’s the matter with you?” Suralee said. “You’re not even concentrating!”
We were in Suralee’s tiny bedroom, sprawled across her pink chenille bedspread, trying to write the play, and I was coming up with exactly nothing. “It’s…I’m worried about something,” I said.
Suralee turned on her back and sighed. “What?”
I picked up her autograph hound, empty of signatures but for my own. I stroked its ears and sighed. “I think Brooks is trying to be my mother’s boyfriend.”
“Ew,” Suralee said. “What do you mean?”
“He acts goofy around her. He touches her sometimes.”
Suralee’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“When they’re watching TV.”
“No, I mean where does he touch her?”
“On her hand. And once he put his arm around her. I saw them.”
“Did he ever kiss her?”
“No!”
“How do you know?”
I thought about this. It seemed to me that it would be a terrible betrayal, for my mother to do something I didn’t know about. Her life was of necessity unnaturally open to me, and I suppose I believed that as it was my duty to bear constant witness to it, it was also my privilege.
“I’ll bet he does kiss her,” Suralee said, lying back on the bed and tucking her blouse up into the bottom of her bra. “I’ll bet he frenches her. I’m sure he does.”
“I’m sure he does
not
! I guess I know my own mother better than you!”
“Whoa!” Suralee said. “Touchy!”
I got off her bed and went to stand in front of her vanity table, looked at myself in the mirror. I picked up a new bottle of nail polish. Cutex. “Slightly Peach.” I’d wanted that shade, too. I turned to Suralee, holding the bottle of polish up. “Can I?”
She pooched out her lips, sulking, considering. Finally, she said, “Yeah. Want me to do you?”
I came to the edge of the bed and sat down, not looking at her.
“Why are you all mad?” Suralee asked. “Just ’cause I talked about your mom kissing?”
“Can we put on a record?”
Suralee opened her record box, which was decorated with floating notes. “‘Blue Velvet’?”
“Okay.”
She put the record on and then came back to sit beside me. She shook the bottle of polish, and I spread my hands out flat on the bed. Suralee bent her head over them and started painting my thumb with slow, careful strokes. “You know, your mom is really pretty, and she’s still young. Don’t you think she—?”
“Don’t,” I said.
“Oh, all right.” Suralee continued with my nails, then said, “We’d better talk about the plot for the play.”
“The one where the mom gets killed in a car accident?” I asked.
Suralee frowned, considering. “No. Too sad. We’ll have a lot of people there.”
“Not a lot,” I said. “Just more than usual. How about the one with the crazy saleslady?”
“No,” Suralee said, then raised her head quickly at the sound of her door opening.
“Hey, girls.” Noreen stood before us in her stocking feet with her sad eyes and her faded lipstick. “What are y’all doing?”
Suralee wouldn’t answer, I knew; she would never answer obvious questions any more than my mother
“Can I go over to Suralee’s?” I asked.
“Be back by dinner,” my mother said, and turned back to the hairstyle magazine. “Pull the sides of my hair back like that and let me see,” she told Brenda.
I started out of the room, then turned around and spoke quickly. “Oh, and can we have a play in the backyard tomorrow night with refreshments? Just a play?”
My mother, distracted, said yes, all right. I looked quickly at Suralee, then away. Outside, we’d celebrate our small victory.
When we passed through the kitchen on the way out the back door, Peacie put her hand on her hip and looked from one of us to the other. “What y’all up to?” she asked. “I know for certain you up to something.”
“Nothing,” we sang out together.
“What’s the matter with you?” Suralee said. “You’re not even concentrating!”
We were in Suralee’s tiny bedroom, sprawled across her pink chenille bedspread, trying to write the play, and I was coming up with exactly nothing. “It’s…I’m worried about something,” I said.
Suralee turned on her back and sighed. “What?”
I picked up her autograph hound, empty of signatures but for my own. I stroked its ears and sighed. “I think Brooks is trying to be my mother’s boyfriend.”
“Ew,” Suralee said. “What do you mean?”
“He acts goofy around her. He touches her sometimes.”
Suralee’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“When they’re watching TV.”
“No, I mean where does he touch her?”
“On her hand. And once he put his arm around her. I saw them.”
“Did he ever kiss her?”
“No!”
“How do you know?”
I thought about this. It seemed to me that it would be a terrible betrayal, for my mother to do something I didn’t know about. Her life was of necessity unnaturally open to me, and I suppose I believed that as it was my duty to bear constant witness to it, it was also my privilege.
“I’ll bet he does kiss her,” Suralee said, lying back on the bed and tucking her blouse up into the bottom of her bra. “I’ll bet he frenches her. I’m sure he does.”
“I’m sure he does
not
! I guess I know my own mother better than you!”
“Whoa!” Suralee said. “Touchy!”
I got off her bed and went to stand in front of her vanity table, looked at myself in the mirror. I picked up a new bottle of nail polish. Cutex. “Slightly Peach.” I’d wanted that shade, too. I turned to Suralee, holding the bottle of polish up. “Can I?”
She pooched out her lips, sulking, considering. Finally, she said, “Yeah. Want me to do you?”
I came to the edge of the bed and sat down, not looking at her.
“Why are you all mad?” Suralee asked. “Just ’cause I talked about your mom kissing?”
“Can we put on a record?”
Suralee opened her record box, which was decorated with floating notes. “‘Blue Velvet’?”
“Okay.”
She put the record on and then came back to sit beside me. She shook the bottle of polish, and I spread my hands out flat on the bed. Suralee bent her head over them and started painting my thumb with slow, careful strokes. “You know, your mom is really pretty, and she’s still young. Don’t you think she—?”
“Don’t,” I said.
“Oh, all right.” Suralee continued with my nails, then said, “We’d better talk about the plot for the play.”
“The one where the mom gets killed in a car accident?” I asked.
Suralee frowned, considering. “No. Too sad. We’ll have a lot of people there.”
“Not a lot,” I said. “Just more than usual. How about the one with the crazy saleslady?”
“No,” Suralee said, then raised her head quickly at the sound of her door opening.
“Hey, girls.” Noreen stood before us in her stocking feet with her sad eyes and her faded lipstick. “What are y’all doing?”
Suralee wouldn’t answer, I knew; she would never answer obvious questions any more than my mother
Similar Books
