MOM WAS IN HER BATHROBE, alone with the television, when I knocked on her living room door. “Come in, son,” she said. She turned the sound down.
“Did you have a good Sunday outing?” I asked.
She looked at me. “Is something wrong, Albert? Does it have something to do with that strange girl you brought down here?”
I intended to say “No.” But I hesitated.
“She's too young for you, son.”
I was picking an amused denial when Norman pushed through behind me.
We looked at each other.
He said, “Oh.” He turned around and went out again.
Mom said, “She might seem exciting at first but you've lived through whole decades she's never heard of, so you'll run out of things to talk about.”
I said, “It's not like that.”
“You don't mind some motherly advice, though, do you, son?”
“Of course not.”
“Don't let your imagination get the better of you. That's all I've got to say.” With that she returned to the TV.
I left and closed the door behind me.
But as I walked toward the foot of the stairs that led to my rooms Norman materialized from some dark fissure. “Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“For Christ's sake!” he said. He stomped past me toward the living room.
Back in my office I found I hadn't turned on my answering machine when I went out.
That irritated me beyond its importance. It was an error of routine, the rules that the new me had set for the new life.
Not a big deal, but . . . Either I played this game or I didn't.
After a few moments of self-flagellation I forgave myself. And as a reward my brain remembered why my woman was not available to still my anguished outpourings: she was at a meeting of a foster parents' support group.
I decided to read. I went to my bedroom and picked Chance & Necessity from the shelves that line the wall next to the bed. It's about the origins of life. Well, my life was at a new beginning. Maybe I could pick up some tips.
And then I heard a knock.
But it was not the Scum Front on the porch outside the office. It was Mom at the door that connects me to the rest of her house.
She said, “I meant to say, son, if you're in some kind of trouble, I have a gun now.”
“You what?”
“You can borrow it if you need it.”
“A gun? What do you mean, a gun?”
She drew a small-caliber automatic pistol from her bathrobe pocket and showed it to me.
“Is that thing loaded?”
“There's not much point if it isn't. But the safety catch is on. See?”
I saw. “Whatever possessed you to get one of those things?”
“It's not the tool,” she said, “it's how the tool is used.”
“Which doesn't answer the question.”
“Oh, it just seemed like a good idea,” she said. “I think a widow is entitled to a little protection.”
“Is this one of Norman's suggestions?”
“Don't mind Norman, son. He means well.”
“Does he?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Though he's a little rough, I admit.”
“You're not about to tell me he's a diamond underneath, I hope.”
“He certainly is a help.”
“Do you know that he disapproves of my living and working here? That he thinks I am taking advantage of you?”
“Oh yes. But I told him that you'll pay me rent once you get solid on your feet.”
“That won't be long now, Mom,” I said. I meant it to sound strong but it sounded feeble.
“I'm sure it won't,” she said.
“I'm having some television ads made. They'll be hitting the airwaves soon.”
“Oh, good. Which channel?”
“One of the ones on the new cable system.”
“Oh.”
“I'm going to sign you up for that, if you don't mind. I'll pay for it, of course.”
“Well, we'll see,” she said. Then, “Would you like the gun, son?”
“Don't point that thing at me, please!”
“I'm not going to shoot you. I've been practicing.”
“Where?”
“There's a range in one of the shopping centers out Southeastern. I've been the last two Sundays.”
“With Norman?”
“It's a lot of fun. And I'm getting better. I hit the target most every time now.”
“You'll be wanting a bigger gun for your birthday, with a grip made to measure and a stabilizer to reduce the lift from the recoil.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Not yet. But remember, son, it's here if you need it.”
“I'll remember, Mom.”
“That's good.”
“O.K.”
She looked up at me. “Albert, are things all right?”
“Sure.”
“It's funny, you know. A boy like you suddenly going about your business so differently after all these years. I hope you're not trying to be something you aren't. We aren't all meant to be successful, son, but we are all meant to be ourselves.”
“Everything's fine.”
“Then you bring down a strange young woman . . . I don't know. I just don't know.”
“There's nothing to worry about Mom.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she said, as if talking to herself. Then, “Would you like to come down and play Scrabble with Norman and me?”
“I think I'll pass this time. Thanks for asking.”
“You probably have some work to do, now you're so busy.”
“That's right. I'm expecting a call.”
Even as I said it, the telephone rang.