6
Getting out of the shower, she hears the phone, grabs the towel robe, and hurries to the living room.
“Yes? Hello?” A little breathless.
“Dina? It’s Rosalyn. You sound funny.”
“It’s unusual to get a call this early.” Actually, phone calls alarm her whatever the time.
“I knew you’d be leaving for Ava’s and—”
“Yes, well, what is it?”
“You do sound strange.”
“An incident in the shower. It’s nothing.”
“Did you fall?”
“I didn’t.” A woman enters her sixties and it’s the first question.
“I have to get a pair of shoes for a wedding. I hate going to the mall alone. Do you need anything?”
Since leaving her job she buys only essentials. “No, but I’ll keep you company.”
“Meet me in front of Baker’s shoe store at ten-thirty.”
“Okay.” An ER nurse, an ICU supervisor, a world within which she functioned for years at high speed, now she is a woman with time on her hands.
Returning to the steamy bathroom—her mug of coffee cooling on the rim of the sink—she stands for a moment remembering. It was nothing. But there’s a tug at her insides, not a stomach problem. No, it’s a tug of panic, the second one this morning. The first was brought on by seeing the new rubber mat in her tub, which she placed there last night. It’s a surprising state, getting older, the limitations, bodily insults, odd sense of both urgency and mortality. But no one can stop the process. The fading beauty thing bothers her least. When she peers in the mirror, the face of yesteryear still meets her eyes. What she can’t hold onto is that step-lightly kind of go. The way Ava wills her limber body to comply without complaint, Mila’s seemingly never-ending energy, Rosalyn’s jaunty step with no thought of tripping.
The clock on the shelf tells her she has thirty minutes to wake Bobby. Her black slacks and pink blouse hang outside the closet door. Pancakes, Bobby loves them. Now that she has time, he’s growing up and soon won’t need her. Caring for Bobby—so different than her son—is never a chore. Tim insisted on attention. As soon as she stepped through the door he was all chatter and need. Maybe if her husband had lived . . . her son was so young . . . but who knows? She saw Tim during the last snowstorm. He arrived wearing sneakers. She offered to buy him boots and he wanted cash. She gave him what she could. He stayed less than an hour. She was relieved to see him go, something she can barely admit to herself.
Taking a sweater, though it’s a strangely hot spring, she checks for her car and house keys, confirms the toaster and coffeemaker are unplugged.
• • •
Driving to the mall from Ava’s house, Bobby’s on her mind. He was quiet during breakfast, unusual for him. Moodiness is a given at his age. Maybe he’s upset about the kitchen guy his mother is dating, not that he’d say so. He’s double-digits now, things are happening to his body. Would he talk to her about it? She passes a row of renovated houses with new roofs, landscaped lawns. Beginnings.
Pulling into a parking space, she notices the indoor mall is bustling. Shops, restaurants, and offices occupy two tiers that circle up and around. People dressed for work hurry by, reminding her she’s a lady of leisure. Not quite. Still, her recent scheduled-by-the-minute life is done with. The alarm clock is no longer set, but she wakes early anyway. She bought lots of plants, a tomato box she tends daily. There must be more to retirement. Maybe she’ll buy a book about it, though she doesn’t believe in experts.
Rosalyn waves, a gremlin all wire and vigor, jeans and a short-sleeved shirt like it’s already summer. Rosalyn’s thick, dark hair frames a face that will always contain beauty. Some faces are like that but she’d never noticed before.
The shoe store is surprisingly crowded for a weekday. Balancing boxes, salesmen scurry back and forth, making her seasick. She finds a seat while Rosalyn studies the display shelves.
“I want to dance, so the heels can’t be too high. On the other hand, I need fancy.” Rosalyn holds up a black suede pump for her to see.
“Nice, try them.” The salesmen interest her more. She searches for one who’d be around thirty, Tim’s age. It wouldn’t be a job he’d consider. He isn’t a server.
Rosalyn, wearing two shoes with different-sized heels, limps across the carpeted floor to sit beside her. “Which one?”
“The left.” Even if Tim took a job selling, she doubts he’d hold on to it past the first paycheck. And she remembers all those years ago when he first disappeared, she and the principal searching the empty classrooms. Bobby would never disappear that way.
“How well do you know Nick?” she asks.
“He’s not much of a talker. Why?” Rosalyn slips on another pair of shoes, raising one leg to admire the fit.
“Ava’s dating him.”
“She’s a big girl.”
“A kitchen guy’s not exactly a model for her son.” Again she flashes on Tim, wonders if he’s working anywhere.
“Model?” Rosalyn laughs a harsh sound. “A cushy job makes a noteworthy man, is that it?”
“A man Nick’s age should have a more relevant position.”
“What’s relevant? Cop? Pencil pusher? Stockbroker? Like that guy Mark, the big business owner from Colorado?”
“Oh don’t play that game. You know what I mean. I guess Ava’s tired of being alone,” she hears herself concede, though she isn’t sure she believes it.
“Poor lonely Ava. Comes home from the diner and doesn’t have to deal with a man’s moods, criticisms, demands. Peace.”
“A relationship is more than a list of problems.”
“Companion, lover, hand-holding in the dark? How much of that is real, Dina?”
“How cynical,” she says.
“It’s experience.”
“You’ve closed down, is what.”
“With all due love and respect, my past isn’t written on my face.”
“There are truths in life,” she insists.
“The trouble is they keep changing.” Rosalyn slips off the shoes.
“You always have a quip.”
“Sorry, but I can’t sympathize with looking to a man to change life for the better. It’s never that simple.”
Rosalyn’s words resonate, but something in her won’t give in. “Of course not. One has to work at it, together.” Is that what she did? Filling the few short hectic years of her marriage with all she wanted to accomplish: a new house, furniture, child. Then Howie dies, just like that, and she, too stunned to grieve.
“Dina. You’ve been a widow how long? Aren’t you lonely? Why didn’t you join Parents Without Partners like so many people around here? Have you slept with anyone since?”
She did have a brief affair with a kind man who sold medical supplies, but it was complicated. Having to build a relationship, meet Tim’s needs, work a high-powered job. It was too much. She ended up wanting simplicity more than companionship. “My true love died,” is all she says.
“I see.” Rosalyn lines up four pairs of shoes.
“You don’t see a thing.”
“Are we arguing?”
“Of course not. We’re just two women talking.”
“I’m sharing, you’re talking.” Rosalyn gazes at the shoes.
“You’re goading me.”
“If you say so. Listen, Nick’s a sweet, respectable guy who’s done well as a single dad in these last years, even if he is too quiet.”
“Ava talks to you about the relationship? She hasn’t said a word to me.” Last year she would’ve been too busy to notice.
“Well, you know. We share different things with different friends.”
“How very kind of you to explain,” she mumbles, with no attempt to hide the sarcasm.
Rosalyn glances at her. “I need your help. Please tell me which of these shoes I should buy.”
She points to the suede pumps.
• • •
The sun has ducked behind a cloud revealing the grimy glass dome overhead. The first time Tim went missing, she covered every inch of the mall looking for him. The police were sure he’d return once he saw how miserable the streets could be. He did, but not for a month, a month in which she barely slept, traipsing the neighborhood peering into boys’ faces. She blamed herself for his absence. But he didn’t come home to stay. Money, he needed as much as she could offer. He cajoled, cried, swore he’d go to rehab. Now when he comes he always wants something from her. She began to pray he’d stay away. What kind of mother would do that?
“Dina, it’s nearly twelve. Let’s have a drink.”
“And forfeit my free lunch at the diner?”
“Ava’s not there. She’s on full night shift now, though Murray feels no shame in shifting her hours whenever he wants. If I were Ava—”
“You’re not. But it’s weird, no one gives me a check anymore. I’ve become a fixture of sorts.”
“Murray can afford to be generous. Sylvie’s gone back to work, you know. Mila told me gleefully that Murray’s not happy. Smart move, I say. A woman needs to have her own money. I said as much to Murray. He looked at me like it was my fault. Anyway, he’s fond of Ava and knows what you do to help her.“
“That’s not the reason for the free meal.”
“What then?”
“Older woman, invisible or stand-in for Mom. It’s revolting.”
“No one sees you that way.”
“Not yet,” she murmurs. “A drink it is. Where?”
Rosalyn turns her dazzling eyes in her direction. “I know a café.” They cross the main floor of the mall, a buzz in the air like dying neon lights.
• • •
The café is blessedly quiet. They sit at a small round table near the window. As usual she takes in the ketchup in its easy-squeeze dispenser. Tim added butter and ketchup to everything he ate. It nauseated her. Sometimes he’d make a sandwich of the two ingredients. And she’d have to leave the room to contain her disgust. She wonders now if it indicated some chemical imbalance, perhaps a lack of potassium or sodium? Even as a nurse she’d never thought of it before. It was simply a stupid, even outrageous combination, the way children can pick out clothes that don’t match.
The waiter slogs toward them. He seems exhausted, bloodshot eyes, swollen fingers, pasty skin—either a hangover or untreated diabetes. They order two glasses of wine, a grilled cheese sandwich for her, warm apple pie with ice cream for Rosalyn.
“Strange being served . . . I leave huge tips. Ruined by my profession.” Rosalyn glances out the window.
“What did you do before being a waitress?”
“You don’t want the list.”
“I bet it’s colorful.” She’s fond of this woman’s spunky refusal to conform; fond, too, of their talks about anything and everything.
The waiter brings their wine, setting each glass down carefully. She notices the slight tremor in his hand, decides his symptoms are alcohol-related.
“To the good life,” Rosalyn says, and takes a long drink.
“So?” she persists.
“File clerk for Revlon, very young . . . free makeup, boring, boring. Go-go dancer . . . had its moments, definitely more lucrative. Affiliated escort service and travel agency.”
“Who did you escort?”
“Foreign visitors. Men.” Rosalyn takes another big swallow, nearly emptying the glass.
“Exotic?”
Rosalyn gives her a half-smile. “Depends how you define the word. And you, always a nurse,” but it’s not a question.
“Yes, interesting but no spontaneity. The job was about order and control. The right dose, not just of medicine, but of time with patients. Everything doled out with the next task in mind.”
“And grateful people? And the god-docs, they were a trip, I bet.”
“True.” So many years carrying out duties without making any major mistake. She wonders now whether that counts as success.
• • •
Her house sits between two identical small white clapboard structures with black trim, one belongs to Ava, the other to a family newly arrived from India. She sees a light in her upstairs room. Bobby has a key. Why did he lock the door? “Bobby?” She walks past the orderly kitchen to the living room. Why would he be upstairs? “Bobby,” she calls again, and climbs the well-worn steps. Before reaching the top, Tim appears.
“I thought I heard you.” His voice is deeper than she remembers.
“Oh my.” Her hand presses her chest.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I have a key.” But the smirk on his face doesn’t reassure her. He looks awful, just awful: skinny as a pole, pale, too, shabby clothes, torn sneakers. Has he been sleeping in the streets?
“I put my gear in my room.”
“Yes, good,” and she turns to go back down because a sudden dizziness threatens her balance.
He follows her to the living room, drops into the club chair, his feet up on the chipped leather ottoman. “I’m in trouble, I need to hang out here. My partner’s picking me up tomorrow.”
“What kind of trouble?” Her jaw so tense a pain shoots up the side of her cheek.
“You’d be an accomplice if I told you.”
“An accomplice? Tim, what have you done?” She’s not shouting, but her voice echoes in her head, the way it sometimes does when she’s at the beach treading water.
“Don’t get wormy. Stay calm.”
“Where have you been since I last saw you?” He seems tired, his eyes red-rimmed. But he’s not high, which is something.
“Around. You’re looking good, Ma. How’s the job?” He reaches up, switches on the floor lamp. In the circle of light, his skin pulled tight over delicate bones has a bluish tinge. There’s red in his dirty-blonde hair. Has he been in a sunny climate?
“I retired.” That’s a word she rarely uses. Left, finished, no more nursing, is her usual description.
“What do you do for money?”
“I have a pension. I get along. You needn’t worry.” His question, though, is self-serving, and a spark of anger ignites inside her.
He gazes at her with opaque eyes.
“What is it, Tim?”
“Remembering living here.”
“Not as long as you could have.” Does she want to rake up old ashes? Will there be anything new beneath? A difficult child who slept little, wouldn’t play by himself, clung to her with such tenacity she froze.
“I was in your way,” he says simply.
The boy knew. The boy felt her impatience. Be honest. Own up to it. But she can’t. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yeah, right, ridiculous, that’s me.”
“Are you hungry? I have chicken. I can order Chinese. Whatever you want.”
“Any beer?”
“No.”
“Call Ava, ask if she has any?”
“I’d rather not.”
“That too much trouble?” A slow grin spreads across his face.
“I’m glad to see you. I’ll cook something. I’ll wash what you’re wearing. What else can I do?”
“Nothing, Ma, nothing at all.” But she doesn’t believe him.
• • •
In the kitchen, taking the defrosted chicken from the fridge, she knows as if it’s written on the wall that this time she’s not to be spared. Well, okay, what more can happen? He’ll want money. She’ll go to the bank, take out a few hundred. He’s her son, who else can she give it to? And she remembers that winter morning returning from Ava’s, rushing him so she wouldn’t be late for work. He became recalcitrant, moving ever more slowly. Finally, she told him she was leaving. He could get himself to school. “But I’ll be late if I have to walk there.” “Not my fault,” she said, striding toward the door. “Ma,” he called over and over, but she wouldn’t turn around. That afternoon he disappeared. “I’d sure like a beer.” He pokes his head in the kitchen.
“Go to the market.”
“I’m hiding.” His sullen words a cold fist in her belly.
She searches his face, the dark blue eyes with their long lashes, the beauty of them wasted like the rest of him. How could he be so stupid? “I’ll go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
• • •
Once again she finds herself in the car heading toward the mall. Was it a bank? A robbery gone wrong, a teller wounded, blood on her son’s hands, on his soul? Stop it, she tells herself. Until he shares what happened, she can’t know. Years ago she made herself quit planning for his future, which hurt more than his demanding visits.
In the brightly lit market she hopes not to bump into Shelly, who works here. Any other time would be fine. Only two days ago they stood beside the colorful produce stands chatting. Shelly’s a talker, said her youngest is in Iraq, which gives her nightmares. Poor Shelly.
She strides down the aisle, picks up a six-pack of Beck’s and hurries to the cashier, no time to waste. Around her, people fill their carts as if today is just another day. She envies their indifference. Then consoles herself—no one really knows what goes on in another person’s life.
• • •
The double-locked front door upsets her, makes her feel sneaky in her own house. He’s right there waiting for a beer and follows her to the kitchen. She hands him one, puts the remaining bottles in the fridge. “Why not take a shower while I prepare dinner? Some of your clothes are in the dresser.”
He twists off the cap, flips it in the sink. “Yeah. Good idea.”
His narrow frame lopes easily out of the room. When he was little he’d curl up on her lap. The gentle weight of him against her breast, the grassy smell of his hair, imprints that never disappear. She begins breading the chicken the way he likes it.
Hearing the shower loud and certain, she switches on the small counter TV as she often does while preparing food. She surfs for news of robberies, murders, whatever. Nothing. Tomorrow’s papers may enlighten her. Is that what she wants? Isn’t it better not to know? A moment of uncertainty stills her: cook dinner, serve it, pretend everything’s normal, then retreat to her bedroom. Or she could confront him. She takes a bottle of Beck’s from the fridge and twists off the cap, the cold beer bitter in her throat.
• • •
He bounces down the stairs in a too-big pair of khakis and a faded black T-shirt she could’ve sworn she’d thrown away ages ago. His bare feet leave damp prints on the wood-slatted floor. A fringe of wet hair drips past his forehead.
“I bet the shower felt good.” Some neutral ground has to be found.
“I forgot to close the curtain for a minute and got a little bit of water on the tiles. I threw down a towel.” His voice matter-of-fact, but a challenge in his eyes, as if daring her to run up and fix the damage. The spilt juice, loose jar tops, left-out food, unlocked doors, half-open drawers. She tried to teach him, believed she could, but his habits never changed, and neither did her frustration.
“The floor will dry,” she says crisply, and returns to the kitchen. Through the window she sees Bobby walking up the front steps carrying some boxes. Damn. She strides to the door to head him off.
“Hey sweetie, what’s that you’ve got?”
He walks past her.
Tim salutes him. “Bobby, my man. You’re a big guy now.”
“Oh wow, I had no idea you were home.”
Bobby deposits two boxes on the table. “One is a Scrabble game. My mom has two. The other is blueberry pie she brought home from the diner. Did your mother tell you she gave me your baseball mitt?”
“That’s cool,” Tim says.
“Want to play catch?”
“Not tonight. How’s your mom?”
“She’s out with Nick, her boyfriend.”
“You like him?” Tim’s voice deadpan.
“He’s okay. His daughter’s hilarious. She has a million funny stories. She won at Scrabble the other night and no one beats Mom. We have a marathon planned. The winner gets twenty dollars. I thought I’d practice with Dina.”
“We can all play.” Tim goes in the kitchen and returns with a beer. “Still too young for one of these, I guess.”
“When is your mother expected home?” she asks.
He shrugs.
“Eat with us,” Tim offers.
“I’m sure his mother has dinner for him.”
“She can save it.” Again Tim’s voice gives nothing away. Why does he need Bobby here? She doesn’t like the feel of it.
“She can save it,” Bobby echoes Tim.
“Does she know you’re here?”
“Where else would I be?” Bobby looks at her as if trying to figure out something.
She returns to the kitchen, dumps frozen broccoli in a saucepan of water, and waits for it to boil. A watched pot, Howie would’ve quipped. A man who liked his homilies, kitchen towels that read home sweet home, welcome mats, his-and-hers towels. She thought it a waste. They rarely had guests, not with her hospital shifts, but she saw no reason to squabble. Tim, however, wanted her to struggle, tried to engage her on a daily basis. She refused, had neither time nor energy. Sick people awaited her attention. Now she wonders if Tim needed her to fight. Children want to know they’re important enough to stir up a ruckus. The water begins boiling. Early dinner, she thinks, then send Bobby home. An evening alone with her son, that’s what she’ll aim for, what she’ll tell them both. She puts the ketchup bottle on the table.
• • •
As soon as they finish the game of Scrabble she suggests Bobby go home.
“Stay over. Why not? We’re having fun, right, kiddo?” Tim speaks directly to Bobby.
“I’ll call Mom.”
“Where will he sleep?” she mumbles, confusion muddying her thinking.
“He’ll share my room,” Tim says.
Bobby looks at her, waiting for approval. The boy’s not stupid.
“Sweetie, do me a favor, take the Scrabble up to Tim’s room.” She watches him run up the steps, then whispers, “What do you want with him?”
“Insurance policy. Don’t worry, nothing will happen to him.”
“I am worried.” She stares at the hollows and planes of Tim’s face, a replica of hers. “Why involve anybody else?”
“Bobby’s a member of the family. He’s the good boy.” And Tim looks at her, mockingly.
“Tim, I’ll have none of it. He’s a neighbor’s boy and should be sent home.”
“In case of trouble?” An edge to his voice.
“Will there be any?”
“Depends.” Is he toying with her?
“Let him go home, Tim. We can work out things without him.”
“What things, Ma?”
“I don’t know yet, but if you need to take someone, take me.”
“That’s a joke, right? You wouldn’t know how to leave this place.” She flashes on the times he begged her to take him somewhere, away, and always she had a reason—a good one, she believed—not to do so.
“Whatever happens, I’ll help you. It’ll be easier if it’s just us.”
“You may regret what you’re saying.” His eyes steady on her.
“I won’t.” The room seems darker though the lights are on.
“Okay. Listen . . . if my ride doesn’t show, it could mean one of two things: He took the money and ran. Or he was picked up and gave me away. There’ll be no way to know which.” Tim speaks quickly and quietly.
If his ride doesn’t show she’ll have a felon under her roof. Still, he can’t hang out here forever. It’s the first place the police will look. She can’t say so, can’t have him believe she wants him to go even if she does. “We’ll have to wait and see,” her tone reasonable, even reassuring, though his face has gone a little blurry.
“Done,” Bobby calls, bouncing down. Tim meets him at the foot of the stairs and in a low voice delivers some cockamamy story to send the boy home. Tim’s good at that.
• • •
She wakes with a start. Squints to decipher the red digits on the new radio clock, nearly three. Dim voices reach her from downstairs. Did his partner arrive in the middle of the night? Her ears pick up the faint creak of the downstairs closet door. What does he want in there? A coat? Now Tim is climbing the stairs, maybe coming to say goodbye. No, he goes to his room. A minute later footsteps pad down again. Would he leave and not say a word? Let him. Yet she’s out of bed peering through the slatted blinds at nothing more than velvet darkness. Slipping on a robe, she carefully takes the steps down.
He’s on the couch, the TV volume low, the closet door ajar.
“Do you want a cup of hot chocolate?”
“I just finished the last beer. Go to sleep.”
She sees the photo album he’s tossed aside.
“I heard voices. I thought your partner showed up.”
“I doubt he’s coming. I shouldn’t have left everything with him, too tempting,” his face a screen of regret.
“What will you do?” Every visit ends with the same question.
“Maybe Canada . . . anywhere far from here.” He gives a short laugh, almost a bark.
“You don’t have a car.”
“I’ll switch buses till I get there. Can you dye my hair and cut it, too? Buy me a blazer, pants that fit, shoes, socks, and a pair of sunglasses. Can you do that?” The last words a childish plea.
She remembers a stormy night. Crashing thunder, lightning, wind rattling windows. It sounded like the roof would fly off. Tim toddled down, his eyes wide with terror. She picked him up, dragged an old sleeping bag into the living room along with a flashlight. She zipped them in, hunkered there till he fell asleep. There’s nowhere to hide him now.
“Yes. I can do that. I’ll take out cash too,” she says. With whatever maternal influence she still has, she orders him to go to his room and get some sleep. He takes the stairs two at a time.
Switching off the TV, she replaces the photo album, shuts the closet door. She wonders if aiding his escape makes her a felon, too. It’s against her nature to thwart authority. He’s done something illegal; she’s clothing him, giving him money. He’s her son for heaven’s sake. She’ll shop and go to the bank early. If his partner shows up, the clothing and hair dye will be useful. Stretching out on the couch, she can’t help feeling she’s doing the right thing for the wrong reason.
If his father were alive, he’d pressure Tim to turn himself in and get him the best lawyer possible. She hoists herself off the couch, climbs upstairs.
“Tim, if I hire a lawyer, would you give yourself up?” The suggestion offered through his door. He doesn’t respond.
“Are you asleep?”
Nothing.
“Tim?”
“Ma, that’d be easier for you than me, okay. So forget it.” Again the childish voice, the boy who hated discomfort, feared difficulty. If Tim were caught red-handed on some video camera, jail would be inevitable. There’s no way he’d survive in jail. With faint relief, she descends the steps.
• • •
The morning sun wakes her. Problems sometimes dissipate overnight, but the weight of Tim’s needs is immediate. Tiptoeing upstairs, her back aching from the narrow couch, she listens at his door, hears nothing. In her room, she dresses quickly. She phones Bobby to say Tim isn’t well and can he manage breakfast without her.
• • •
In the ATM vestibule of the still-shuttered bank, she averts her face from the video camera in the corner. Maybe his partner will show up. But maybe not. Tim should’ve taken his share of the money. What strange thoughts. She isn’t used to all this intrigue. It’s unreal, scary. Some people take risks for the fun of it—bungee jumping, mountain climbing, sky-diving—none of it anything she ever wanted to do.
The department store opens for business and she goes directly to menswear, no other customers in sight. That, too, feels eerie. Guessing at sizes, she chooses two pairs of pants, two shirts, a blazer, loafers, and socks. She piles the clothing on the counter. “My son won’t let me shop for him anymore. They grow up and that’s it,” the cashier quips.
Taking the escalator to the basement pharmacy, she picks out a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Then she locates the hair dye, two bottles of brown-black color.
• • •
The blinds are drawn and the door double-locked no doubt. She hurries in as if she’s the one they’re after. Tim waits on the couch, his narrow body on guard.
“Want something to eat?”
“Do my hair first,” his voice as tense as his face.
She follows him to the bathroom, drags in a stool, wraps a large towel around his shoulders. She cuts his hair, the back of his neck no longer boyish. A man shouldn’t need his mother anymore. Maybe if he’d joined the army like other boys around here . . . There are too many ways to lose a son.
She mixes the dye with the solution, shakes it a few times, and applies it to his hair.
“I had an incident in the shower yesterday,” she’s surprised to hear herself say.
“Yeah?”
“I squirted a glob of shampoo in the palm of my hand, then rubbed it on my hair, but my hair was dry. I forgot to wet my hair. That’s never happened before. It’s frightening to forget the usual things.”
“I once put salt in my coffee. It’s not senility, Ma. It’s preoccupation.” His words are weirdly reassuring.
Waiting for the dye to take, she sweeps hair off the floor and wipes the steamy mirror, an eerie silence in the house. No radio. No TV. Outside noises are muffled, it’s as if they’ve been sealed in.
“Ma, it’s ready to wash off.”
She’d leave it on another ten minutes, but he’s too restless, fidgeting, in and out of the bathroom too many times to count.
She shampoos his hair and her hands are gentle on his scalp. The dye turns the sink black. Drying his head with a towel, she offers him a comb. The dark color pales his skin, but it suits him. “You do look different.”
“Don’t recognize me, huh?”
“You think I wouldn’t know you?”
“Many ways to know me.” He looks past her to the mirror.
She begins scrubbing the sink.
“If my partner does arrive it’ll be by three this afternoon. That was the plan. If he’s not here by three-thirty, drive me to a bus station near Montauk and stay with me until I pick up something going north. Did you get the money?”
• • •
She waits on the couch in her blue pantsuit and white turtleneck jersey. Montauk is two hours away. They could be stuck waiting in the car for god knows how long before a bus arrives. They should check a schedule. She’s packed a small bag with a toothbrush and nightgown in case a motel becomes necessary. Tim once accused her of never venturing past anything familiar and now she’s aiding and abetting a criminal. What’s usual about that?
He walks slowly down the stairs, stopping to pose for her approval. He does look handsome in the new clothing. He could easily pass for a lawyer or a doctor, someone respected.
“Tell me one thing.” She hands him three hundred dollars in twenties.
“One thing?”
“Was anyone hurt? Or shot? Or dead? Anything like that, I should know.”
“Why? Will you love me less?”
“You’re my boy, Tim.”
“It was about money, that’s it.”
“I should open the blinds. They aren’t usually shuttered at this time.”
“Go ahead.”
The afternoon sun no longer enters the room. A row of houses, outdoor chairs, closed garage doors, people at work, in school—nothing strange, except she’s about to drive a fugitive to safety. He sits beside her on the couch. His loafers without a scuff, the crease in his pants sharp. It could be the last time she sees him. But it won’t be. He’ll return again, and again. Of this she’s suddenly certain.
“I filled the gas tank,” she says to say something.
“Good.” But he’s not listening, his mind elsewhere, planning lord knows what.
A black Honda pulls up in front of the house. Tim sprints upstairs and returns a moment later with a suitcase he found in the downstairs closet.
“Be careful,” she mutters.
Words she ought to say slip away like time.
“You take care.” He sounds excited he hasn’t been left behind after all.
At the window she watches him slide into the passenger seat. Then he’s gone. Just like that. A stab of disappointment takes her by surprise. She stares at the space where the car was. The afterimage contains more than the moment, but she blinks it away. She flashes on another memory: her husband’s funeral, Tim slipping onto her lap, offering her his only candy bar.
We give each other what we can, she thinks, climbing the stairs to his room. The window is shut, the lights on, the bedding mussed, the closet door ajar, the chest drawers open. His dirty clothes are piled on a chair and a damp towel is on the floor next to an open magazine. Three empty beer bottles line the sill. Grease marks on the wall. A half-full chip bag sits near the bed. She’ll air out the room, then tomorrow she’ll sweep, vacuum, and change the sheets.