impatient expression.
Yes, she said. Shouted and swatted you. Back . . . of the neck, wasn’t it?
Probably, yeah, I said, giving up. That’s mostly where you gave it to me.
Shouldn’t have, she said. It was hot and I was tired, but still . . . shouldn’t have. Wanted to tell you I was sorry.
My eyes started leaking again. It’s all right, ma. That was a long time ago.
You never got your ride, she whispered. I did, though, I said. In the end I did. She smiled up at me. She looked small and weak, miles from the angry, sweaty, muscular woman who had yelled at me when we finally got to the head of the line, yelled and then whacked me across the nape of the neck. She must have seen something on someone’s face one of the other people waiting to ride the Bullet because I remember her saying What are you looking at, beautiful? as she lead me away by the hand, me snivelling under the hot summer sun, rubbing the back of my neck . . . only it didn’t really hurt, she hadn’t swatted me that hard; mostly what I remember was being grateful to get away from that high, twirling construction with the capsules at either end, that revolving scream machine.
Mr. Parker, it really is time to go, the nurse said. I raised my mother’s hand and kissed the knuckles. I’ll see you tomorrow, I said. I love you, ma.
Love you, too. Alan . . . sorry for all the times I swatted you. That was no way to be.
But it had been; it had been her way to be. I didn’t know how to tell her I knew that, accepted it. It was part of our family secret, something whispered along the nerve endings.
I’ll see you tomorrow, ma. Okay? She didn’t answer. Her eyes had rolled shut again, and this time the lids didn’t come back up. Her chest rose and fell slowly and regularly. I backed away from the bed, never taking my eyes off her.
In the hall I said to the nurse, Is she going to be all right? Really all right?
No one can say that for sure, Mr. Parker. She’s Dr. Nunnally’s patient. He’s very good. He’ll be on the floor tomorrow afternoon and you can ask him
Tell me what you think. I think she’s going to be fine, the nurse said, leading me back down the hall toward the elevator lobby. Her vital signs are strong, and all the residual effects suggest a very light stroke. She frowned a little. She’s going to have to make some changes, of course. In her diet . . . her lifestyle . . .
Her smoking, you mean. Oh yes. That has to go. She said it as if my mother quitting her lifetime habit would be no more difficult than moving a vase from a table in the living room to one in the hall. I pushed the button for the elevators, and the door of the car I’d ridden up in opened at once. Things clearly slowed down a lot at CMMC once visiting hours were over.
Thanks for everything, I said. Not at all. I’m sorry I scared you. What I said was incredibly stupid. Not at all, I said, although I agreed with her. Don’t mention it.
I got into the elevator and pushed for the lobby. The nurse raised her hand and twiddled her fingers. I twiddled my own in return, and then the door slid between us. The car started down. I looked at the fingernail marks on the backs of my hands and thought that I was an awful creature, the lowest of the low. Even if it had only been a dream, I was the lowest of the goddam low. Take her, I’d said. She was my mother but I had said it just the same: Take my ma, don’t take me. She had raised me, worked overtime for me, waited in line with me under the hot summer sun in a dusty little New Hampshire amusement park, and in the end I had hardly hesitated. Take her, don’t take me. Chickenshit, chickenshit, you fucking chickenshit.
When the elevator door opened I stepped out, took the lid off the litter basket, and there it was, lying in someone’s almost- empty paper coffee cup: i rode the bullet at thrill village, laconia.
I bent, plucked the button out of the cold puddle of coffee it was lying in, wiped it on my jeans, put it in my pocket. Throwing it away had been the wrong idea. It was my button now good luck charm or bad luck charm, it was mine. I left the hospital, giving Yvonne a little wave on my way by. Outside, the moon rode the roof of the sky, flooding the world with its strange and perfectly dreamy light. I had never felt so tired or so dispirited in my whole life. I wished I had the choice to make again. I would have made a different one. Which was funny if I’d found her dead, as I’d expected to, I think I could have lived with it. After all, wasn’t that the way stories like this one were supposed to end?
Nobody wants to give a fella a ride in town, the old man with the truss had said, and how true that was. I walked all the way across Lewiston three dozen blocks of Lisbon Street and nine blocks of Canal Street, past all the bottle clubs with the jukeboxes playing old songs by Foreigner and Led Zeppelin and AC/ DC in French without putting my thumb out a single time. It would have done no good. It was well past eleven before I reached the DeMuth Bridge. Once I was on the Harlow side, the first car I raised my thumb to stopped. Forty minutes later I was fishing the key out from under the red wheelbarrow by the door to the back shed, and ten minutes after that I was in bed. It occurred to me as I dropped off that it was the first time in my life I’d slept in that house all by myself.
It was the phone that woke me up at quarter past noon. I thought it would be the hospital, someone from the hospital saying my mother had taken a sudden turn for the worse and had passed away only a few minutes ago, so sorry. But it was only Mrs. McCurdy, wanting to be sure I’d gotten home all right, wanting to know all the details of my visit the night before (she took me through it three times, and by the end of the third recitation I had begun to feel like a criminal being interrogated on a murder charge), also wanting to know if I’d like to ride up to the hospital with her that afternoon. I told her that would be great.
When I hung up, I crossed the room to the bedroom door. Here was a full- length mirror. In it was a tall, unshaven young man with a small potbelly, dressed only in baggy undershorts. You have to get it together, big boy, I told my reflection. Can’t go through the rest of your life thinking that every time the phone rings it’s someone calling to tell you your mother’s dead.
Not that I would. Time would dull the memory, time always did . . . but it was amazing how real and immediate the night before still seemed. Every edge and corner was sharp and clear. I could still see Staub’s good- looking young face beneath his turnedaround cap, and the cigarette behind his ear, and the way the smoke had seeped out of the incision on his neck when he inhaled. I could still hear him telling the story of the Cadillac that was selling cheap. Time would blunt the edges and round the corners, but not for awhile. After all, I had the button, it was on the dresser by the bathroom door. The button was my souvenir. Didn’t the hero of every ghost story come away with a souvenir, something that proved it had all really happened?
There was an ancient stereo system in the corner of the room, and I shuffled through my old tapes, hunting for something to listen to while I shaved. I found one marked folk mix and put it in the tape player. I’d made it in high
