The news finished and some classical music came on. She always put the radio on the classical station when Charlie was around. She thought it was good for him to hear it, the same way she watched the news programs or nature documentaries at night when he was home when what she really would have liked was one of those reality soap operas, the escape of watching rich, silly people behave badly. Dr. Ferguson thought that after everything that had happened she might loosen up about these kinds of things, but it had gone the other way.
She wrapped the bacon in a paper towel and carried the thing to Charlie’s plate, dumping the glistening sticks on top of the eggs, and sank back into her chair.
“You’re not eating, Mama?”
“Wait. Don’t you have your civics test this morning? We didn’t go over—”
“That was Friday. But I think I did pretty good.”
“Charlie Crawford!”
“Did well. I think I did well.”
“Is that how you talk in English class? Is that why she gave you a C plus?”
He ducked his head and began shoveling the bacon into his mouth. “No.”
“’Cause you know you need to do better than that if you want to get into a good college. That’s what the college counselor—”
“I got it under control.” He glanced up at her, then down at his plate again, scraping up the rest of his food. Who knew what the truth was? Charlie had always been a pretty good student, but kids that age were unpredictable once the hormones started hitting; Maria Clifford’s son, down the road, had gone from the honor roll to flunking out and working at the gas station as soon as you could bat an eye.
“Here, Mama, have some bacon. It’s good.” He dumped a morsel on the table in front of her and watched her until she picked it up.
“Why are you at me this morning?”
“’Cause you don’t eat.”
“I eat. See?” Denise took the spike of bacon and put it on her tongue. Her mouth filled with the taste of something burned. She moved it to the inside of her cheek; she’d spit it out when he left. “Look. I’ll try to get out on time today and we’ll have a proper dinner together, okay?”
“Can’t. Got practice.”
“Practice.”
“Yeah.”
“Shouldn’t you be studying instead of banging drums in someone’s basement?”
“Garage.”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged, pushed himself away from the table. Grabbed his backpack from the floor. The neighbor’s dog started barking again. You could hear it all the way down Asheville Road, probably as far away as the highway.
“Someone should kill that thing, do the world a favor,” Charlie said. He was already moving toward the door.
“You be nice,” she said.
He grinned at her through the dangling veil of his dreads. “I’m always nice.”
And he was gone.
First thing she did was spit out the bacon. Second thing was shut off the radio. How she hated that music. They played it all day in the home, too, forcing the old people to take their music like their meds. Swallow it down, good for you, even if all it did was numb you through your day. At least the Hispanic people brought their own music, drumbeats and brassy melodies you could dance to, not that she’d ever do such a thing. Still, she knew she lingered too long in Mrs. Rodriguez’s room, washing down those plump tan limbs with that music playing and the flowering plants on the table and the woman’s daughter sitting there placid as you please doing crossword puzzles right next to the bed, though Mrs. Rodriguez hadn’t recognized her own kin in at least two years. She liked the washing up. She’d inured herself by now to the smells, and Mrs. Rodriguez’s flesh was less fragile than most; she didn’t have to worry about every fingerprint leaving its mark the way she did with so many of the white people. There was something calming about being able to touch someone this way, without any hunger or discussion. Just skin on skin. A body and a washcloth and usefulness. So she lingered. It wasn’t fair, she knew, to the other patients, who had no relatives, or plants, or music. She made a mental note to move faster today.
She stood now, relishing the silence, washing up the dishes, picturing Mrs. Rodriguez’s room. Once she put the dishes away, she leaned against the counter and watched the clock, trying not to think of anything. 7:00. 7:30. She knew the name was still running loose somewhere in the back of her mind, but the pill muffled it enough so that she couldn’t hear it. When the second hand at last hit 7:55, she finished her cup of coffee and exhaled with utter relief.
For it had begun. Her long, long day.
*