Toby

My mom came heading up the sidewalk in her muumuu and babushka, step by step, all redfaced, huffing and puffing, ankles hanging over her shoes.

Poor thing.

She made it up the walkway, to the porch. Then she stood there, down at the bottom step, holding on to the railing with one hand, hanging her head, catching her breath.

“Lotta people?”

She nodded.

“Get a seat?”

She nodded.

“Father Clay?”

She shook her head.

“Rowley?”

She nodded.

“Good sermon?”

She nodded.

“Let me guess: ‘Pray for peace.’”

She looked up at me. “‘The whole world,’ Father said, ‘the whole world is holding its breath.’” She glanced at the sky. “Come in the house,” she told me, climbing the steps. “I want you to come inside.”

I laughed. “Ma, that’s not gonna make any—”

“We’re going to pray together.”

“Now wait a minute.”

“Please don’t argue with me.”

“I’m not. It’s just, I got all my stuff—”

“I’m so scared, honey.”

“All right, don’t start crying.”

She stood there with her chin—her chins—all a-quiver. “I’m so afraid,” she said.

“They’ll work it out,” I told her. “They always do.”

“I want you to come in the house, Toby. Now.”

“All right, look. Tell you what.”

“No. No deals. Do as I say.”

“I’m all set up here, Ma. I’ll have to bring all my boxes back in.”

“I’ll help. Come on.”

“Leave it. Just...I’ll get it. God.”