In the middle of the night, I hear her in the utility room, washing, banging down the lid of the washer, whispering to herself, turning on the dryer. Although she always seems to turn up in clothes with stains, she washes the same stuff over and over and over, usually at odd hours. Night after night, she washes and washes and I listen as she talks out loud, cries out. It is Friday and I do not know what Saturday will decide to do with us here on Sherwood Road and I cannot let myself jump ahead to imagine next week, or next month, or next year.
Before sleep, I go outside to check the stars, so much more visible here than in New York. They calm me after seeing Betty under siege. I turn on the coach light by the driveway; I leave it burning all night every night. We are expecting no guests but it says that we are still alive, not ready yet to disappear into the dark.
4
A few days later: When I get home from town, the garage door is up and Betty stands at the door to the empty space, wearing no shoes. After fifty years, I can read her; at this moment, anyone could. She conceals her deepest affections, but registers dissatisfaction without hesitation. Her emotions are heightened; this is part of her condition. Her face is angry; her body is angry. When I get to her, she is nearly frantic.
“Where have you been? Where were you? I have to get to the church. You have to take me to the church. How could you forget me? You knew this was the day. You knew this was the day. You were there when they called this morning. You heard. You heard them say there was a meeting.”
In fact, I have not remembered that I was supposed to drive her to the Memorial Committee meeting at four. I try to apologize, but no. Her anger has been building since who knows quite when. Although she is mostly dressed—this time, of course, she has made a real effort to be on time—she is trembling. But there is something behind her panic, besides the fact that I have forgotten her. She cannot find her shoes.
“What,” she asks me, in desperation, “have you done with my shoes? Why do you treat me like this? Where have you put my shoes?” I tense up and run toward her, afraid that she will trip on the rug in front of the door.
This morning began with the long stretch of sky hinting at pink. In the baked backyard, I spotted a young deer straining its neck to feed from the low-hanging branch of one of the trees my father planted years ago. Staring, the deer tilted his head to the side and assessed me quizzically. At Abel’s Quick Store, the girl behind the counter, wearing a badge saying TRAINEE, stared at me in much the same way. I have become an object of puzzlement to all species. I have no rear or hips and a fat tummy. It’s like what used to be my ass has somehow shifted to the front of my body. There is no pair of pants made on the planet that does not fall down when I wear them.
At home, Betty ignored me, something brewing. Soon the phone began to ring, a rarity, one call after another. First came the tidings of one of my mother’s old friends. Her daughter has had a baby. She feared it has an oddly shaped head. Next, someone from the bridge club: She has a bladder infection. So prevalent are references to bladders in my mother’s circle that I have come to think of them fondly, like a quirky, hard-to-control family who might soon be arriving for dinner.
Next it was the church about the meeting later, then a recorded message announcing Betty’s upcoming appointment with her GP. Refusing to answer the telephone herself, my mother balked at even being called to the receiver. On the line, she oozed the frustration of a mob boss dissatisfied with the morning tallies from Vegas. By the third or fourth summons, she was greeting her callers with, “Speak!”
Then came Waikiki Coiffures. When I started to put Betty on, the shop’s owner stopped me, asked, “Are you her son?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Is there a problem?” Apparently Betty almost fell on her last visit; the owner cannot risk a lawsuit if Betty tumbles down next week. I say we are not litigious types; we are peaceful folk, despite occasional fits of rage after a comb-out. I beg her understanding. But no: From here on, my mother will have to be accompanied by someone who will wait while she gets her hair done.
I watched Betty, who eyed me gravely, her sixth sense for trouble in high gear. Yes, she is sometimes shaky on her feet, I told the caller. But the biggest problem, I argued, is her shoes. The woman agreed. She said the soles on Betty’s sandals are worn down enough to make her trip.
After hanging up, I explained the situation to Betty, who slammed her book down on the couch. “I’m ninety years old and everybody in town is telling me what to do!” When she clicked the TV remote control device, I swore she was pointing it at me. “Be still,” she yelled. “Just be still.”
. . .