I did not go to Grief Cottage on Monday because it rained in the morning and in the afternoon Aunt Charlotte decided to rearrange her studio and asked for my help. She wanted to take down the items pinned on her wall-high cork board and then completely clear her two trestle tables and move them to the middle of the room. “I’m going to try some experiments while sitting down.” When I asked her about the experiments, she said she didn’t want to talk about it. (“In case I fail. So you’ll just have to contain your overdeveloped curiosity, Marcus.”) She allowed me to dust and vacuum and change her sheets, as I had been doing since her fall. She also talked me through changing a washer on the big laundry sink in her studio, which she used for cleaning up after a day’s painting. But after praising my work, she announced in a cordial but no-nonsense voice that I was to stay out of her studio until she invited me in again.
“Maybe I’ll finish off my boxes from the garage,” I said, anxious to remain in her good graces. The “overdeveloped curiosity” remark was not exactly a compliment. “I need to rearrange my room, as well.”
“That’s a good plan,” she said.
The next box I tackled contained our “linens” on the top, towels and sheets so worn that they went straight into the black trash bag. Underneath those I found Mom’s old GED Practice Test Manuals. I started leafing through them, testing myself on various questions, until I became sucked down into not-so-happy memories of our last years together, things I hadn’t thought of since coming to live with Aunt Charlotte. I heard conversations between me and Mom that made me wince with shame, and I recalled humiliating instances of our “downsizing,” as Mom jokingly referred to it, with forced courage in her voice.
After she lost her job when the joinery in Jewel went out of business, she returned with a vengeance to her GED hopes. (“It’s now or never, Marcus. You must support me in this, make me do it even when I’m tired.”) Many were the nights I quizzed her out of these practice manuals while she lay on the floor, her legs up against the wall to reduce the swelling in her ankles. First the test-taker had to read a passage “for comprehension” and then pick the right answer from the multiple choice questions below. (“Who were in attendance at Oliver Twist’s birth? A. grandmothers, B. doctors, C. nurses, D. a slightly drunk woman and a parish surgeon.”) “That was too easy,” Mom had said from the floor, “almost insulting.” And I had agreed with her: Any moron who had read the passage would know it was D. The way we did it, she would first read the passages to herself silently in a particular area of testing—literacy, math, social studies, science—hiding the questions and answers with a piece of paper. And then she’d lie on the floor with her legs up while I quizzed her. (“Unemployment now has less severe effects than it did in the 1930s. Why?”) When she got an answer wrong she would ask me to put a checkmark by the right answer so she could come back and review it. (“I should have known that! ‘No countervailing social programs!’ With the many social programs that keep you and me afloat, how could I have missed that one?”)
From her preoccupied air at supper I sensed that Aunt Charlotte had begun the experiment that was to keep me out of her studio. But now, having discovered the GED practice manuals, I was caught up in my own private quest. The manuals had been given to Mom by the teacher of her first night course back in Forsterville. They were used, but he knew she couldn’t afford to buy new ones. (“He was a wonderful teacher, devoted to us. He had been teaching Latin and Greek at a nearby private school until he got fed up and quit. He said his heart would always be with the strugglers rather than the already-haves. But then he got sick and died.”
“What of?”
“He didn’t take care of himself. He fell into destructive habits and there was no one to guide him out of them. It was such a sad waste. Later the class was moved to another location, to suit the convenience of the next teacher—otherwise she wouldn’t come. I kept going for a while, though it was a forty-five-minute commute each way. But the new teacher, you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She did it for the extra income. She despised us. She was one of those people who fight their way up the ladder and then have contempt for others trying to follow her. Finally I lost faith and decided to leave well enough alone. I had my good job with full benefits at Forster’s. And then you came along. What more did I need?”)
XXI.
I stayed up late into Monday night, obsessed with Mom’s GED practice tests. I would close my eyes, stab at one of the four manuals, open it to a random page, and test myself on the first question that swam up. In a free market what are some of the ways in which prices can be fixed? What distinguishes the skeleton of a pterosaur from that of a bird? What conflicting impulses can be seen in the democratic ethic? (Correct answer: duty to self vs. duty to society.) When I got one wrong, I would pencil my initials beside the right one. As the night wore on, I entered a manic state. It seemed totally possible that I could pass these tests now. Though I always got A’s in math at school, the math part of the GED tests would bring down my total score because I hadn’t studied geometry or advanced algebra yet. But if I aced the other parts I could balance out the low math score. If I put my mind to it, I might attain high school equivalency without ever going to high school! I could head straight off to college and Aunt Charlotte would have her privacy back and look forward to seeing me on the holidays. She would be proud of me and might even miss me.
When I woke up next morning, it was much later than usual: I could tell from the position of the sun hitting the front of the house. Long gone were the hours of the capering unleashed dogs and the stalwart seniors with their sleeves and sunhats. I lay hating myself for missing my favorite part of the morning, but also struggling to remember the dream I had waked out of. I heard Aunt Charlotte in the kitchen, foraging in the refrigerator, then hopping back to her studio and firmly closing the door (Keep out until further notice. This means you, Marcus). I made my bed as soon as I got out of it, a habit begun long ago to save Mom the trouble and to keep our small space looking neat. Now I did it so Aunt Charlotte wouldn’t think I was a slob if she decided to take a peek into my—her former—room. Dressing quickly, I wolfed a handful of cereal in the kitchen, swigging it down with milk.
Riding north past the third or fourth yellow trash barrel, I remembered my dream. The whole thing came back in a single whump, like a fist to the stomach. Finally I had dreamed about my mother. It was the first dream in which she was facing me. This was Mom at her best, smiling and opening the door to me. Inside was an apartment better than the ones we’d lived in. It was spacious and filled with light and everything in it was clean and new. My mom looked clean and new, too. She looked refreshed and young, freed of burdens.
“Marcus, I never told you this,” she said excitedly, “but I have another son. He’s your half brother.”
“Was Mr. Harshaw his father?”
“I don’t think that’s important, do you?”
“Is he older or younger?”
“Older. Oh, Marcus, he’s the most wonderful man. He’s going to take care of me now. I wish you could meet him, but he’s sleeping. He works so hard.”
“Is he—in your room?”
“Goodness, no, why should he be in there? He’s got his own room.”