MOM GOT HOME AT TEN o’clock that night. She was supposed to be home much earlier, but the Blumenthals got caught in traffic downtown after some gala event and they needed her to stay late. I was sitting in front of the TV when she walked through the door. She dropped her handbag in the doorway, kicked off her heels, slammed the door shut, and headed straight for the kitchen without acknowledging me. She started snatching soup cans from the cupboards with a slipper in hand, taking out her frustration on the cockroaches scurrying out from behind boxes of macaroni and cheese as if they were the ones who’d let her down.
And maybe I had. But what was I supposed to say to a mother desperate to believe that I wasn’t a little cheat, when it turns out I was? I skulked into the kitchen and sat down and buried my face in my hands. I’d had all the chances that she’d ever dreamed of me having and I still couldn’t make it work.
I told her that it wasn’t all my fault. It had been her idea to come to New York in the first place. I never wanted to come to this crummy city. We belonged back in Akersburg. That was our home, and everything that was going wrong was just more proof that we should never have left.
Mom set a bowl of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup in front of me. She sat down beside me and asked what more she could possibly do that she hadn’t already done. Life wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for her, either. She looked me in the eye and asked me to think about what kind of hell of a life must she have been trying to escape that working ten hours a day for the Blumenthals was supposed to be a step up.
Do you have any idea what my day looks like? What it’s like having to leave my morning shift at the dry cleaners a few minutes early just to dash across town to be on time for that conference with Mister McGovern? After which I ran off to pick up the twins so that Missus Blumenthal didn’t miss her pedicure appointment. Do you have any idea how upset she’d have been with me if she missed that on my account?
Mom was tired, disillusioned, and frustrated. She’d come to New York City on the vague promise of a better life, but all she’d done was trade in Dad for the Blumenthals. Mom took an egg salad sandwich from her purse and unwrapped it. It was something that she’d picked up for herself in some vending machine but hadn’t had time to eat. She took a joyless bite.
I’ve had enough twelve-hour days, low pay, late pay, no pay, unpaid back pay, bad checks, mismanaged rental deposits, security deposits, two-faced landlords, slumlords, sham electricians, bogus carpenters, bad advice, bunk promises, unsolicited advances, rude comments, crude comments, backhanded compliments, and backstabbing, not to mention a door slammed in my face. So, yes—it was a mistake. There. I said it. Are you happy now? So it’s settled, then. This obviously isn’t working out for either of us.
Mom got up from the table and tossed her sandwich into the trash. She told me to clear my own damned plate; she was sick and tired of always doing things for men. Men, men, men. Didn’t even matter to her anymore if they were white or black.
What in the hell difference does it make to me, anyway? They’re both still men, aren’t they? Either way, I get lied to, taken for granted, mistreated, exploited, and shit on at every turn. Every damned man I’ve ever come across in this town has tried to squeeze me for every cent I’m worth. No matter where I turn there is some baby boy, boy, man-child, or elderly man-child asking me to do something for him. Look here. Mom stuck her left hand in my face. See this? After all those years of dreaming of having one in Akersburg, I had to buy this fake one just to keep them at bay. Men are shameless. I tell them I got a kid, they hear desperate. I tell them I’m separated, they hear easy. What more do I have to do besides wear a ring? Why, just today I was out taking the Blumenthal twins for a walk in the park, and some man came right up to me and asked point-blank if he could buy me a drink. The twins were standing right next to me! Have I got a sign on my head that says, ‘Why not?’ Do I look like a streetwalker? Trust me, you don’t have anything on me in the aggrieved department. So don’t get sassy with me. Lord knows I want out, too. But where in the hell are we going to go?
My soup was cold. The only sound in the house was the thin scrape of my spoon against the bowl and Mom picking clothes up off the floor, cursing men, cold weather, service work, and me. I got up and went into our bedroom. Mom was growing disenchanted with life and was starting to lose faith in everything—especially me. At times like this, it felt like she’d gone from assuming the very best about me to assuming the absolute worst. I took an envelope from atop the dresser and returned to the kitchen table with it. I took out the letter from inside and told myself that everything was going to be okay. Dad was going to show up one day and take me back with him. All I had to do was be patient. I unfolded the year-old letter and read over the passage where he’d proclaimed all the good things he had in store for me. Mom barked out from the bathroom for me to hurry with my dinner—we needed to get to bed; it was late.
I could hear Mom brushing her teeth. I wanted to ask if she’d cooked real food for the twins for dinner but didn’t dare. Instead, I flipped open the Daily News lying beside my bowl to the personals section and left it there. I half wished she’d get a boyfriend just to have someone else to take her grief out on besides me. I put the letter facedown and picked up my spoon. For all Mom’s piety, I couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t a parable for something having gone terribly wrong.