. . .
After John died, Betty told everyone she was okay, but she could not seem to rouse herself. Maybe he was more to her than I realized or than she could ever admit. Gradually, she went to the couch, stopped getting dressed, lost heart. In public and at family dinners, she had nothing to say. She was simply not herself. When I saw her begin to change, to leave us, I started coming home on visits that became more and more extended.
. . .
After waiting for a few minutes, I see people coming down the church steps and I go in to gather up Betty’s music and help her to the car. On the way back to the house, I ask how it went, and she shakes her head. “Fine,” she says. That is all she will reveal. “Fine.” But she is subdued and I can’t tell whether it’s because of how she played or whether she is still upset about our battle over the newspaper clipping the day before.
I apologize again to her. “Do you want me to just treat you like some old lady who no one can hold responsible for anything or get mad at?” I ask. “Is that what you want? You have your struggles, but you have to realize there are other people. I’m here too, you know.”
Her eyes widen as she takes this in. “No,” she said, “I have to be held to account, I guess. You’re right to hold me to account.”
I am still not convinced she didn’t throw away the clipping on purpose. I know she hates me sometimes. How could she not? I am the guard at the prison she will never get out of. Sometimes I am just as pent-up and angry. I loathe her too. Just a typical American family, torn between love and homicide, but united in our way.
“I’ll bet you did fine,” I tell her. “I’ll bet you sounded great.”
But I cannot be certain if she did okay and I don’t want to hear if she has had trouble or hit a lot of wrong notes. I don’t want to lose the part of my mother I hear when she is playing the piano, her soft touch, the sweet music. I think that when she pulls the cover over the keys for the last time, all of this will be very hard to find.
14
Headed to the dog pound—a small, fenced-in area with a couple of cubbyholes for shelter and room for a few animals—I pass the spot where the city pool was, near the place where they hold the county fair, complete with livestock shows. I groomed no cattle, but was a lifeguard at the pool, which twenty or so years back was filled in because of filter problems. I ruled from my elevated chair, watching the boys and sending girls to the penalty box if I disliked their swimwear. “Do not come near me, young missy, in that little poncho with happy faces.”
For the lonely dog, I have brought a stewlike concoction, but they have mended the hole in the fence and I can’t slide food or pie plates under the wire. The animals are not actually supposed to be fed; people poison them sometimes. I throw turkey dogs over the fence. Next the Milk-Bones go flying.
My car has become a canine supply station. In the event of disaster, I could feed and nurture a pack of huskies. At PetSmart, I couldn’t resist a winter coat for dogs made from bright orange fabric that glows in the dark. It reminds me of an ensemble worn annually at Christmas by one of my high school teachers.
In the backseat of our old Infiniti, sacks of rawhide chews are stowed alongside shopping bags overflowing with balls and treats, a huge sack of grain-free puppy mix, and a bunny toy that reminds me of Wesley Brown, who used to help Mammy in her garden. A strange man with a speech impediment, Wesley lived in a shack with an overgrown yard and kept hundreds of rabbits in battered hutches. Some of the creatures were older, big, and menacing. But my stuffed fellow does not look threatening and I may keep him. He doesn’t deserve to be chewed.
The dog is dancing, making his yodeling noises, madly scurrying about. As he vomits up large chunks of turkey dog, I tell him things are looking up. Marci Bennett, who I have known forever, wants to take him. I am relieved, but resentful. I love this pup and he should be mine. Before Marci popped up, I could keep my fantasy. But it had to end. We would never work. I can’t commit. Not the way my life is now. He knows that I am about to desert him, barks and barks, eyes me suspiciously, particularly after the turkey dogs. Or perhaps it is the fact that I am clutching my bunny.