8
At around five-thirty, after George and I had thoroughly plundered the refrigerator, Mom came home from her first day at the carpentry studio. Her cheeks were red, as if she’d been jogging. It was wonderful! she said, grasping my hand. She looked for Joseph but he was reading in his room. George had gone home. We’ll just do a quick tour of the neighborhood trees, Mom said in a confiding voice, tugging me out the front of the house. So this is a fir, she said, pointing at a dark evergreen growing in the middle of someone’s yard. Softwood, she said. This one: sycamore, she said, tapping on the bark of the next. She frowned. I don’t think they build furniture from sycamore, she said, but I’m not sure why not.
I peeled a gray jigsaw-shaped piece of bark right off the trunk. I recognized her enthusiasm as phase one of a new interest. Phase two was usually three or four months later, when she hit the wall after her natural first ability rush faded and she had to struggle along with the regularly skilled people. Phase three was a lot of head shaking and talking about why that particular skill-sociology, ceramics, computers, French-wasn’t for her after all. Phase four was the uneasy long waiting period, which I knew by the series of 2 a.m. wake-ups where I stumbled down the hallway into her lap.
Too peely, I said, folding the bark in two.
I leaned on her arm a little as we walked down the shady side of Martel. Waving at some neighbors out on their lawn with a hose. By five-thirty, the heat was light, pleasurable, and the air seemed to glisten and hone around us. She asked if I was feeling better and I said a little, pushing the upcoming dinner out of my head and trying to concentrate on what she was saying next, something about worrying she could not keep up with the others at the studio. Which made no sense. My mother had trouble choosing and sticking but she was initially good at everything, particularly anything involving her hands; the bed she made was so perfect that for years I slept on top of the sheets because I did not want to wreck her amazing exactness by putting a body inside it.
I think you’ll be good, I said.
She tucked a stray hair behind my ear. Thank you, she said. Such a sweet supporter you are. Much nicer than your father.
She did seem lighter, in a newly good mood, as we toured the trees up and down Gardner and Vista and then steered ourselves back inside.
Leftovers at dinner was a whole repeat of the previous night’s upset, just softened by the one day of time and the kindness from George. I kept the nurse’s advice in mind, looking to see if it was going around, but no one else seemed bothered by any of it. Dad asked about the studio, and Mom told us her first assignment would be to cut a board.
A board! he said, clinking his glass to hers. How about that.
She frowned at him. Don’t be mean, she said.
Did I say anything? he said, widening his eyes. I can’t build anything. I can only re-build stools that are already built, he said.
He winked at her. She cleared her glass.
You know that story, Rose? he said.
A hundred times, I said.
Joseph picked up the pepper pillar and shook it over his food in a rain of black specks. Like our mother, he too had long beautiful hands, like a pianist’s, fingers able to sharpen and focus like eyes.
Too bland? Mom asked.
Joseph shook his head. Just experimenting, he said.
Today, Dad announced, patting his place mat, I saw a man walking a monkey. True story.
Where? I said.
Pershing Square, he said.
Why?
He shrugged. I have no idea, he said, wiping his mouth. That was my day. Next.
Joseph put down the pepper. Fine, he said.
Half good, half awful, I said.
Half awful! said Dad, waiting.
My head, I said, is off.
Looks on to me, Dad said. Very on.
Oh, Rosie, no! Mom said. She sprinkled some pepper onto her dish too and then leaned over to hug my forehead into her side. You have a beautiful head, she said. A fine beautiful girl in there.
Food is full of
Feelings? Dad said. For a second, he peered at me, close.
I couldn’t eat my sandwich, I said, voice wobbling. I can’t eat the cake.
Oh, like that, Dad said, leaning back. Sure. I was a picky eater too. Spent a whole year once just eating French fries.
Did they taste like people? I said.
People? he said, wrinkling his nose. No. Potato.
You look well, Mom said. She tried a careful bite of her chicken. Better with pepper, she said, nodding. Much better, yes.
Joseph folded his arms. It was just an experiment, he said.
I’m going out with George and Joseph on Saturday, I said.
Only because it’s your birthday, said Joseph.
Her birthday, Mom echoed. Nine years old. Can you believe it?
She stood and went to the recipe page and wrote on it in big capital letters: ADD PEPPER!
There! she said.
I stacked my plate on Dad’s. He stacked our plates on Joseph’s.
Don’t you see? I said to Dad.
See what?
I pointed at Mom.
Lane, he said. Yes. I see a beautiful woman.
I kept my eyes fixed on him.
What? he said again.
Her, I said.
Me? Mom said.
What is it, Lane? Dad asked. Is something going on?
Nothing, Mom said, shaking her head, capping her pen. She laughed. I don’t know what she’s talking about. Rose?
She said she wants support, I said.
Oh no, no, said Mom, blushing. I was just teasing, earlier. I feel very supported, by all of you.
Can I go? asked Joseph.
She’s making a board, Dad said, bringing the stacks of plates to the sink. What else is there to say about that? She’ll make a perfect board. Any dessert?
I didn’t move. Mom kept smoothing her hair behind her ears. Smooth, smooth. Joseph stood, at his spot.
Can I go? he said again.
What do you want to do on Saturday, Rose? Mom asked. We could dress up and walk around in the park together. There are a couple more pieces of lemon cake, Paul, she said. Over there.
I have an important plan with George, I said.
Joseph squeezed out of his end of the table. After Saturday, nothing, he said to me. Got it?
George? Mom said. Joe’s George?
I’d know if she needed support! said Dad, at the sink.
Joseph left the room. My parents turned to me, with bright, light faces. We stood in front of empty place mats.
