The streets were full of fog. Smoke rose from the chimney of our little house on Mott Street. Tess was pacing.
“There is a group,” she said. Here she crossed the room and sat next to me. “Out at the college. They’ve been writing. They visit her. They want to organize. They have run out of patience. That’s what they say. How they sign their letters. We have run out of patience.”
“With what?”
“With all of it, Joey. But most of all with the violence.”
“Funny,” I said. “Funny that these women who’ve run out of patience with violence have chosen my mother as their hero.”
She looked at me with such irritation and disappointment. Why did I provoke her? I hardly needed the explanation. I resisted because it was my mother. Because of Tess, because there was something in her that frightened me, a thing I didn’t want and wasn’t ready for. Not for the change, nor for the disruption, nor the inevitable complication of our lives. Not even in the name of revolution. I didn’t want my mother to be a hero, to become a symbol of some ill-conceived and miniature revolt. I resisted for those, and for a thousand other reasons.
But mostly I just wanted things to stay as they were. Because I was my father’s son.
“Not funny at all,” she said. “They think what she did is what should have been done. And what should be done. That she was defending another woman, defending two children who could not defend themselves. They think she should be released from prison.”
“So they want to change the laws.”
“They think the laws should change, yes. But that’s not what they’re primarily interested in.”
“What are they primarily interested in, Tess?”
“Action.”
“Action. So a bunch of girls from the college, all of whom have run out of patience, will roam White Pine with hammers dangling from their belts?”
She despised me when I spoke to her like this.
“They don’t know yet, Joey. They don’t know what they’ll do.”
“I see. And they go to visit my mother for what? Advice? Leadership? Inspiration?”
“I don’t know. She told me about them yesterday. And now I’m telling you.”
“And now what?”
“She wants me to meet with them.”
“Meet with them.”
“Go out to the college, yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. To see what can be done.”
“As her emissary.”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“And will you go?”
“Yes. With you. We’ll go together.”
“Is that the word from on high?”
She nodded.
“Why? Why would I do that? Why would you?”
She sighed her exasperated sigh and looked out at the trees while I watched her and waited.
“Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a fucking bar. Neither do you. And because, Joey, I am angry. Because I am angry in a way you can’t possibly imagine. You can try, but you cannot understand it. Just like I try to understand you or what has happened to your family. I try but I can’t. It is the kind of anger that comes from too much fear. Do you understand me? Just like your mother. And just like her, I don’t want to ignore it. I won’t. I would rather fucking die.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What is the it, Tess?”
She walked over to the fire. “The things they do,” she said. “The things they’re allowed to do. What we accept. What we endorse. What we celebrate.”
I watched her.
“Accept, endorse, celebrate. Is that some kind of a slogan? Something the women without patience stamp on their T-shirts?”
“Fuck you. It’s not them. It’s your mother. She said it.”
So, the master, the guru in chains, was at work on her proverbs.
“She says it?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“That we’re complicit.”
“In what?”
“Violence, Joe.”
“Violence.”
“Against women.”
“We accept, and endorse, and celebrate it.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. And please stop with the sarcasm. Please. I know I don’t have to explain this. I know you agree.”
“Of course,” I said.
“So then what?”
“The idea of her in there inventing herself as some kind of prophet.”
“Not a prophet. But so what? You’d rather she goes soft in there watching Jenny Jones?”
“I’d rather she’s not in there at all.”
“Well, she is. So if this is what she’s doing, so what? Why does it make you so angry? Why do you hate it, Joey? You should be proud.”
“Proud?”
“Yes. To have a mother like her. To know you come from someone so strong.”
That expression on her face, the one I loved most. All that life, all that determination. I was tired of arguing. I didn’t know why I was angry. Not then, not precisely. Or why I was resisting. I fell back into the couch, gave it up and closed my eyes.
“Now what?” I asked. “What happens now?”
“I’ve seen it, Joey. Don’t forget that. I watched you break your hand. I know what’s in you.”
“That was different,” I said.
“What’s the difference?”
“That was for you.”
“So is this,” she said.