‘Well,’ Dick sighed, steering us back to an older, hardier image of my father, ‘The Chief wouldn’t have listened to some smartass yuppie lawyer. No, sir. I’d like to see that kid tell your old man, “It’s not your case.” The Chief would have given him what-for.’
‘Dick, he’d have listened because he had to listen, same as I am.’
‘Well,’ Diane retorted, ‘your mother wouldn’t have listened.’ She exhaled cigarette smoke. ‘Why would she listen to some lawyer? She never listened to anyone else.’
There was a pregnant moment while the four of them waited to see how I would react to that. There was some risk in mentioning my mother. In the ten weeks since she’d died, I had wrapped myself up in righteous Yankee stoicism. Never mind that my grief carried something extra, a tinge of guilt and shame — more than the usual dose. But to my own surprise, Diane’s comment did not trigger any of the old sadness. We were thinking the same thing: If the Game-Show Host had ever tried to put off Annie Truman with the high-handedness he’d shown me…
‘She’d have kicked his ass,’ I said.
Here is my mother: Around 1977 or so, on a raw morning in early spring. The weather was damp. In our kitchen that morning, you could sense the dankness outside, the smells of rain and mud. Mum was at the table, reading a hardcover book. She was already dressed, her hair gathered at the back of her neck exposing the empty dimple-holes in her pierced ears. I was at the table too. And before me, my preferred breakfast of the moment, Apple Jacks and a glass of milk. The glass was a concession from my mother, who’d recently given up trying to force me to drink the unpotable milk in the bowl, with its filmy emulsion of cereal scum. There was still a lingering self-consciousness between us over this tiff. I had the strongest urge to drink the soiled milk for her, but I couldn’t quite do it. (Those amoeboid globules of Apple Jacks oil…)
‘What are you reading?’
‘A book.’
‘What book?’
‘A grown-up book.’
‘What’s it called?’
She showed me the cover.
‘Do you like that book?’
‘Yes, Ben.’
‘Why do you like it?’
‘Because I’m learning.’
‘About what?’
‘It’s a history book. I’m learning about the past.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why would you want to learn that?’
‘To be better.’
‘Better than what?’
She looked at me. Blue-gray eyes, laugh lines. ‘Just a better person.’
Dad pulled up in his truck. The overnight shift was supposed to go from midnight to eight, but Dad always seemed to get home earlier. I heard him hawk his throat before coming inside. He sat down at the table with little mute greetings for Mum and me.
Look! I shot a glance at Mum: Does he know? There was a white patch in Dad’s bushy brown hair! Right at the top of his forehead! It was white powder, like baby powder, I guessed. Mum, do you see it?
‘Dad, there’s-’
‘Ben.’ My mother gave me a stern look to shut me up.
Dad said, ‘What is it, Ben?’
‘Um, nothing.’
Mum’s face had gone a little white too. Her lips compressed into a line.
Dad offered around a box of doughnuts from the Hunny Dip doughnut shop in town. On the box was a cartoon of a brown honey pot brimming with thick, golden ooze. A doughnut floated in midair above the jar, dripping with the stuff. Dad said, ‘Here. From Hunny Dip’s, like you like.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Go on, Anne. It won’t kill you.’
‘No, Claude.’ You could tell from Mum’s voice she was angry about him bringing home those doughnuts.
I helped myself to a chocolate glazed, which pleased him. He cupped my jaw in his thick-fingered paw and shook it. His fingers had a weird, tangy chlorine smell. There was, I noticed, more white powder on his shirt cuff.
‘Attsaboy It’s just a doughnut, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t touch him, Claude.’
‘Don’t touch him? Why not?’
Her blue eyes were squinched half-shut, as if she wanted to deny her husband the pleasure of looking into them. ‘Ben, take your doughnut and go in the other room.’
‘But I’m not done yet-’
‘Ben.’
‘What about my cereal?’
Dad said, meekly, ‘You better go, Ben.’
My mother was a small woman, maybe five-two and thin. But somehow she was able to dominate her husband. He seemed to enjoy submitting to her too. It was a game, a little joke of his: Of all the people to boss around big Claude Truman, this little spitfire…
When I was safely out of the room — and eavesdropping from the TV room next door — I heard her say, ‘- my house.’
‘What?’
‘I said, get out of my house now.’
‘Annie, what the hell’s wrong with you?’
‘Claude, there’s powdered sugar in your hair. This is a little town, Claude. Did you have to rub my face in it?’
‘Rub your face-’
‘Claude, don’t. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, like I’m the only one who doesn’t know. I am not stupid, Claude.’
I did not really understand what was going on that morning, but I knew — I think I always knew — their relationship was a precarious one. Dad’s temper, his rabbity sexual habits, his ego, and Mum’s own strong personality all made for a volatile marriage. Not a bad marriage, but an inconstant one. Sometimes they acted like lovers; they disappeared upstairs on Sunday afternoons for naps or kissed on the lips or laughed over obscure incidents in their secret history. Other times, the strain between them was obvious, like the creaking of a rope under a heavy load. As a kid I assumed this was what true love looked like — that love was inherently unstable above a certain temperature.
I pushed the door open a crack to spy and was immediately seen.
Dad spotted me — wide-eyed, the doughnut glutinizing in my fingers — and something, some small breath of shame, went out of him. To my astonishment, he surrendered to Mum immediately, asking only, ‘How long till I can come back?’
‘Until I’m ready’
‘Annie, come on. Just tell me how long.’
‘A week. Then we’ll see.’
‘Anne, where am I supposed to go? I’m exhausted.’
‘Go to the station. Go wherever you want, I don’t care. Except the doughnut shop.’
Later that morning, after Dad had gone, Mum took me into town to return the box of doughnuts. Dad’s friend Liz Lofgren was behind the counter that morning, and Mum waited until the store was empty to inform Liz that she’d better have nothing more to do with Chief Truman if she knew what was good for her. Liz pretended not to
