Lou

My mom was watching the news on the couch. I tried to get past her, quick, so she wouldn’t see the rock and make that face of hers.

But she saw it. “Is that the...”

“Jesus. Yeah. Got Him back.”

She made the face.

I went in our room and put the rock on the dresser again. It wasn’t really Jesus, I knew that. But it still had one eye, like Garfield Goose this morning, and a little bump underneath. “Aw, don’t cry,” I said. Then I felt embarrassed, talking to a rock.

I took off my veil and put it back in the bottom drawer and closed it.

Ralph thought the rock really was Jesus, or anyway from Jesus. He gets goofy. One time we were peeling potatoes and he thought one of them looked like Ed Sullivan and started going crazy. I told him, So it looks like Ed Sullivan, so what?

I went out and sat on the couch, up close to my mom. I was glad I had her for a mom and not Fatso’s. She lit another Lucky with the one she already had—that’s called chain-smoking, when you do that.

I told her, “Gimme a puff,” just being funny.

She didn’t say anything. She kept watching Walter Cronkite.

He had earphones on. Somebody was telling him stuff and he was listening and then he was telling us what they said. It was about ships at sea—their ships, our ships. He looked serious but he didn’t look scared. If Walter Cronkite started looking scared, then I would be scared.

I told my mom not to worry.

She looked down at me.

I nodded my head, meaning I mean it.

She patted my leg and looked back at the television. “I’m not worried, hon.”

But she was worried. Smoking like that. Calling me “hon” like that.

I wanted her to quit watching.

I asked her could I check and see if Soupy Sales was on.

She shook her head, no.

“You like Soupy Sales,” I told her. “You said he was funny, remember? When he did his dance? The Mouse? Remember?”

“Don’t start,” she said, meaning don’t start pestering.

Walter Cronkite was listening to his earphones again, with a frown on his face.

I told her I saw the biggest fattest person I ever saw in my life today.

She told me, “Shh.”

I told her this lady was so fat she probably couldn’t even fit in the bathtub.

“Lou...”

“Or even the bathroom.”

“I’m trying to hear this.”

“I know but listen, Mom, will ya?”

“What.”

I tried to think of something. “Wanna see me do the Twist?”

“That’s all right.”

“You never saw me. I’m really good. You’ll like it.”

She looked down at me.

“Please?” I said.

“Watch you do the Twist?”

“I’m really good. You won’t believe.”

She put her hand on my forehead, checking.

“I’m fine,” I told her, and got up and went over and turned off the television.

“Hey,” she said.

“Watch,” I told her. “Ready?”

She sighed.

I started singing, quiet, “Twistin, twistin, everybody’s feeling great...”

Except, I couldn’t move my arms. I was trying to swing them but I couldn’t, they were stuck.

I sang louder, “Twistin...”

They wouldn’t budge.

“Twistin!”

I tried moving my legs but they were stuck too. I couldn’t move anything. I couldn’t move!

I started crying.

“Come here,” she said, and held out her arms.

I ran to her.