In Loving Memory
Her tongue cooks in coffee. Steam drifts from her nostrils. She chokes coffee-stained mucous into the sink. A spider of phlegm spools spit silk from her chin and lands gently on her white blouse where it blooms into a perfectly round brown dot.
Her son doesn’t look as she strips out of yet another blouse. He doesn’t listen as she intones a familiar mantra “you’re going to be late for school.” Instead, he tucks his school bag, ready half an hour ago and swirls his fingers in grainy milk. On TV, a poker-faced news anchor raises the stakes to fifteen dead soldiers in the past week. “Let’s see the enemy call that,” the reporter seems to say.
Mother freezes as though she can’t remember how to work a button, then erupts, blasting BBs of spittle and vitriol at her child, condemning him for watching “that garbage,” “that shit he knows she doesn’t like.”
Before it can escape, the son mightily vacuums snot deep back into his throat. Big boys don’t cry.
After shutting off the TV, she apologizes and reasons with him, reasons with herself, but the convoluted logic is incomprehensible to either of them. She reaches her arms wide to hug him but he only recoils then clings to her, she a wire mesh monkey mother with only a tiny patch of terry cloth still clinging.
Ding-Dong! The doorbell rings, a slight electric buzz succeeded by two artificial bells. Who the fuck rings this early in the morning? Is he expecting anyone? “Of course not.” She prays whoever is at the door will go away. It rings again. Now, she is crying. A scheduled doorbell visit means homecoming. An unscheduled visit . . .
Mother stumbles to the door, her knees overcooked noodles. Through the blurry mosaic in her eyes, she makes a hint of blue, uniform blue, through the window. She is sobbing now, her shaking hands unstable on the bolt.
The doorbell rings clearly. She is a coward, telling her son to answer the door, but he shakes his head, terrified by whatever frightens his mother. The ringing doorbell becomes a knock. It has a rhythm – bah, bump, bah-dah, bump, bump -- a-shave-and-a-haircut.
Now she is crying and laughing in happy confusion. Her son is having problems with the bolt. The door flies open. The child squeaks, “Daddy!” The uniformed man bellows “Son!”
With his son wrapped around his leg, he effortlessly scoops his wife from the floor. “I’m so sorry, my flight got scheduled earlier and I couldn’t get a hold of you.” Then he recants, “I thought I’d surprise you.”
Mother kisses father hard on the lips. Then she slaps him, left-handed, hard. The wedding band draws a shaving nicks worth of blood.
Their son will be late for school today.
Her son doesn’t look as she strips out of yet another blouse. He doesn’t listen as she intones a familiar mantra “you’re going to be late for school.” Instead, he tucks his school bag, ready half an hour ago and swirls his fingers in grainy milk. On TV, a poker-faced news anchor raises the stakes to fifteen dead soldiers in the past week. “Let’s see the enemy call that,” the reporter seems to say.
Mother freezes as though she can’t remember how to work a button, then erupts, blasting BBs of spittle and vitriol at her child, condemning him for watching “that garbage,” “that shit he knows she doesn’t like.”
Before it can escape, the son mightily vacuums snot deep back into his throat. Big boys don’t cry.
After shutting off the TV, she apologizes and reasons with him, reasons with herself, but the convoluted logic is incomprehensible to either of them. She reaches her arms wide to hug him but he only recoils then clings to her, she a wire mesh monkey mother with only a tiny patch of terry cloth still clinging.
Ding-Dong! The doorbell rings, a slight electric buzz succeeded by two artificial bells. Who the fuck rings this early in the morning? Is he expecting anyone? “Of course not.” She prays whoever is at the door will go away. It rings again. Now, she is crying. A scheduled doorbell visit means homecoming. An unscheduled visit . . .
Mother stumbles to the door, her knees overcooked noodles. Through the blurry mosaic in her eyes, she makes a hint of blue, uniform blue, through the window. She is sobbing now, her shaking hands unstable on the bolt.
The doorbell rings clearly. She is a coward, telling her son to answer the door, but he shakes his head, terrified by whatever frightens his mother. The ringing doorbell becomes a knock. It has a rhythm – bah, bump, bah-dah, bump, bump -- a-shave-and-a-haircut.
Now she is crying and laughing in happy confusion. Her son is having problems with the bolt. The door flies open. The child squeaks, “Daddy!” The uniformed man bellows “Son!”
With his son wrapped around his leg, he effortlessly scoops his wife from the floor. “I’m so sorry, my flight got scheduled earlier and I couldn’t get a hold of you.” Then he recants, “I thought I’d surprise you.”
Mother kisses father hard on the lips. Then she slaps him, left-handed, hard. The wedding band draws a shaving nicks worth of blood.
Their son will be late for school today.
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