from being punched in the stomach. Mr. Teone’s remark had rattled me. Can’t they leave you alone for even one week? In fact, I don’t think they can. It’s in the school district bylaws.
Sam Hellerman was waiting for me by the oak tree across from the baseball backstop, which was our usual afterschool meeting point (unless somebody was already there “smoking out”—then we would meet a little farther down, near the track). We couldn’t think of anything to do, so we went over my house.
Friday is my mom’s half-day, so she was already home from work, leaning against the kitchen counter with her afternoon highball in her hand, smoking and staring blankly at the wall. She was wearing a shortish, vibrantly colored floral-22
print dress over white flared slacks, with big clunky boots.
And a turban. Yes, a turban.
“Far out, Mom,” I said as we walked by, but she was lost in thought and didn’t react.
Sam Hellerman followed me into my room. I put on
“The weekend starts now?” he said. I did the devil hand sign and said “Party.”
“Mom says to turn down the teen rebellion,” yelled my sister, Amanda, pounding on the door. “She can’t hear herself think.”
Bon Scott was singing “Walk All Over You.” I reached over and turned the volume up.
“What’s her problem again?” asked Sam Hellerman.
“Oh, she’s at that awkward age.” Amanda was twelve and was going through changes. It was like she had a supply of different personalities, a brood of alternate Amandas that she was trying out. You never knew which one you were going to get.
“No,” said Sam Hellerman. “I meant your mom.”
“She’s at an awkward age, too,” I said.
I was only half kidding.
Sometimes I accuse my mom of being a hippie, though that’s an exaggeration. She just likes to think of herself as more sensitive and virtuous and free-spirited than thou. If that dream leads her down some puzzling or slightly embarrassing avenues in a variety of neighborhoods, it’s not the world’s biggest tragedy. “I’m a very spiritual person,” she likes to say, for instance. Like when she’s explaining how she hates religion and all those who practice it. Well, okay, if it makes you feel better, Carol. She’s really about as spiritual as my gym shorts, but I love her anyway.
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I think she might have unintentionally bumped up her own groovy-ometer just a bit after my dad died. Her eye for fashion certainly went through a strange and magical transformation around that time. I think the technical term is cataracts.
Well, we all went a little bananas. That’s to be expected.
My dad was more down-to-earth. He was with her on a lot of the touchy-feely save-society-and-admire- African-art stuff, I’m pretty sure. But he didn’t overdo it. Plus, he worked for the police, so he couldn’t be frivolous about absolutely everything. He liked war and action movies, which hurt my mom’s feelings. And he loved motorcycles, which I think she thought was daring and hot. I think he found her beautiful and quirky and goofy and charming, kind of how I do when I step back. Somehow, you always end up forgiving her for being totally crazy.
Basically, she is a traditional suburban mom with a thin veneer of yesterday’s counterculture not too securely fastened to the outside. It’s not a good idea to kick the scenery too hard, but if you hold very still and view it all through a squint and from a certain angle, you can just about get a glimpse of how she likes to see herself, and it’s actually very sweet. She was quite a bit younger than my dad was when they got married and she had me when she was super young, so she’s still quite pretty. By the way.
My dad was married to another lady before he got divorced and married my mom. I know nothing at all about my dad’s first wife, except that she lives in Europe somewhere and her name is Melanie. And that my mom hates her guts, even after all these years. She calls her Smellanie, and says she’s getting a migraine if anyone ever brings her up. And believe me, you don’t want to be around Migraine Mom. I strongly recommend avoiding that subject.
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T
* * *
he current man in my mom’s life, technically my stepfather, is a
Our official legal relationship is pretty recent, though he’s been around for quite a while. I don’t know why they decided to get married all of a sudden. They went away for the weekend to see Neil Young in Big Sur and somehow came back married. They still refer to each other as partners, though, rather than husband-wife. “Have you met my partner, Carol?”
Like they’re lawyers who work at the same law firm, or cops who share a squad car. Or cowboys in the Wild West.
“Howdy, pardner.”
Unfortunately, Carol’s dogie-wranglin’ varmint-lickin’
yella-bellied pardner’s name happens to be Tom also. Just my luck.
He has tried to establish the system where I call him Big Tom and he calls me Little Dude. So that any observers (like, say, if someone had planted a spy cam in the TV room) could tell us apart. See, you can’t have two Toms in the same room.
