I finish my beer and look around the house. It’s huge, clean, full of that weird, low-riding furniture everyone is so crazy about right now. I’ve never really liked it, but it has served its purpose.
“Now, if you understand that, if you really understand that, then…” He smiles, something I so rarely see him do. Maybe when we were younger, when we shared a car, and he drove me to auditions and I drove him to meetings and we both pretended we had drivers. Maybe when interviews were still interesting, and attention was exciting. Back then, I think, he smiled.
But it’s been a long time.
Angelo stands, reaches for his jacket, and walks his beer to my sink, tossing it in the recycling bin underneath.
I follow him as he walks to the door.
He opens it, hand on the handle, and looks down, as if confused.
“Truth?” He turns to me.
I nod.
A smile again, so rare. A bit sadder, this one, from the ones I remember when we were kids with dreams, no jobs, and one shitty car between the two of us.
“Enough is enough when you say it is, Dave. You’re the only one who knows, and you’re the one who decides.”
I shut the door behind him, the sound of his million-dollar engine roaring in my ears as he pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the freeway.
I pull out my phone. I need to book a flight.
34
Jane
The air is cooler the farther north I drive. The infrastructure of coastal Maine fades away, and I pass into farmland. Long rolling hills, thick wooded acreage, old houses, red barns, cows and sheep and horses.
I remember my childhood, growing up around places like this. Dirt roads. Tilted mailboxes. Local stores. Friendly neighbors who know your name, but didn’t understand why you would ever want to leave. Why you felt there was more out there.
It’s been a while since I drove up here, all the way up, past the lakes and the sky slopes and the tourist condos and the weekend retreats.
Past the end of the highway, where the local roads become the only roads, and the gas stations remind you to fill up because the next one won’t be for another 80 miles.
Past the farm houses and the farmland, all the way north, closer to Canada than most of America. Signs become bi-lingual. French and English.
I take a right at the four way stop, the stop sign so faded it would be easy to blow right past it if you didn’t know to look for it. I take another right farther down, past the local store with the gas pumps that no longer work. And a left at the old oak tree, the large one we used to climb as kids.
I drive slowly, mindful of potholes in the dirt road, washout from the rain. My car rocks sideways as I make my way up and down the narrow road, towards a place few people know about and fewer people go. When I reach it, I pull over.
I don’t bring flowers. She never liked flowers. I don’t bring a wreath or a photo or a candle. Nothing like that. I bring myself, tucking my keys into my pocket.
And when I reach her gravestone, I sit.
“Hi, Mom,” I smile, reaching a hand out, pressing it to the cold stone. Her name, etched in a flowery font she would have hated, stares back at me. Her date of birth and date of death printed underneath it.
It’s been a few years. A few years since she died, and a few years since I’ve come back here, all the way up here.
When I got the job in Midnight, I said I’d visit every year. On her birthday, perhaps, or the anniversary of her death. But, something always came up, something always prevented me. Maybe I did that on purpose. Making sure I had an excuse.
The birds are quiet around me, and only the air in the trees makes noise, a gentle chatter as the leaves and branches brush against one another.
“I was thinking of you this morning, thinking of all the things you taught me.” I pull my hand back from the tombstone and pluck at the denim of my jeans.
“Right from wrong. Being strong. Being independent. Standing on my own two feet.” I smile as I speak aloud, knowing no one will hear me. No one comes up here.
“Never be dependent on others. Never let yourself be taken advantage of by others.” I smile as my eyes fill, the etching of her name blurs in my vision.
“Be proud of my accomplishments. Make sure I get the credit.” The tear is cool as it runs down my cheek, followed by another and another.
“And make something of myself. Make something I can be proud of.” The words are hard to get out. My throat is tight and the words are choked.
I pause, pulling a tissue from my pocket and wiping my nose.
“You always talked about women like us, women who need to make something of themselves because they weren’t born with much, and they couldn’t trust anyone to take care of them, so we have to take care of ourselves.”
I blow my nose.
“It’s not bad advice, Mom. It’s pretty good.”
I pluck at the grass growing next to me.
“And you were a good parent, pushing me to do better, to study harder, to go further. You pushed me to go after what I wanted, and I did. And I got it. And there’s no way I would have gotten what I did, if you hadn’t taught me to struggle and to fight and to make myself into the person I always wanted to be.”
I pluck a blade of grass and stare at it between my fingers.
“But you made one mistake,” I smile, using my sleeve to wipe my eyes. “When you said women like us, you meant women who were less than, who were missing out on the things
