22.Iris Below had gotten in a fight with her son, Sam, and her day was ruined.
She could hardly see two inches in front of her face. Her body felt like it had given out completely. The idea of even walking to the fridge for her afternoon hard-boiled egg (a recently added daily ritual) seemed impossible. She blocked Sam’s number on her phone. Then she cried. Then unblocked his number. Then cried. Blocked, cried, unblocked, wept, fell asleep, blocked, and cried . . . The process cycled for hours. Her head hurt. She feared a stroke, or just for her heart to shut down altogether from the hammer of cruelty Sam had once again taken to it. She just couldn’t understand it. How could a son talk to his mother that way? How could she have raised a son who would talk to her that way? Who was he? How was he her son? Did she have any idea? Had she ever had any idea? When she had had an idea, was that idea just an idea she had made up so that she could still think she had a son? How had he gotten so angry? It couldn’t have been from her. Iris had never been an angry person. She hated anger. Avoided it like pork. It wasn’t her. Nor was it on her side of the family. Her side was a happy bunch. Sure, many of them had acute mental illness, but never anger. They were a positive crew. No, it wasn’t her—it had to be Sam’s father he had gotten the anger from. Yes, it was most likely from Menachem.
Menachem could be an angry man at times. But Menachem wasn’t angry in the way that Sam was angry. Menachem was more of a miserable grouch. A sit-on-his-chair-and-brood kind of anger. A walk-into-another-room-and-slam-the-door-and-stay-in-that-room-for-hours-upon-hours kind of anger. Whereas Sam . . . Sam had rage. Just a lunatic. The way he screamed and yelled. Sam could go crazy. To the point Iris worried he might hit her. Just punch her teeth out of her head. Kick her in the shins and when she bent over to rub them, knee her in the face. These are the disturbing movies that would play in her head. Threatening her well-being and safety. But at the end of the day she knew this would never happen. Sam would never hurt her. When all was said and done he was actually a good son. But make no mistake, he had a real rage problem. And this day was one of the top prime examples.
Iris had called him that morning to tell him how excited she was. Because she was. She was very excited. But as excited as she was to tell him how excited she was it didn’t stop her from noticing that the moment he picked up the phone Sam was already in a bad mood. Iris could tell that sort of thing with him. She knew her son. The first clue was that he neglected to ask his mother how she was. Sam always asked her that when he was happy to hear from her. That’s what everyone asks when someone calls them, and they’re happy to hear from them, and they’re in a good mood, right? When one doesn’t ask that usually means that they don’t want to talk to them. And why wouldn’t Sam want to talk to her? Iris was his mother. His last remaining parent. Who knew how long she was even going to be around for. For all Sam Below knew Iris could die tomorrow. Or later today. Or now. Or now. Or even now. So why not do the loving thing, the decent thing, the normal thing and ask his mother how she was doing. But instead, like so many other times before, all Sam greeted his mother with was a very cold “What’s up?” Like she was one of his harem. After all, Sam Below was quite the ladies’ man.
“What’s up?” asked Sam Below, cold and distant with a put-on toughness.
Iris tried to move past it, refusing to diminish one ounce of her excitement. “Guess what, honey?”
To which Sam gave an equally icy reply of “What?” One of the other tragic aspects of him communicating with Iris in this closed-off way was that normally Sam had an amazing vocabulary. A real mastery of words. This was surely one of the qualities that got him all those women, that and his gorgeous good looks, even though he had gained a little weight in the face.
Despite all of this Iris still chose to ignore Sam’s obvious aloofness and proceeded to inform him that she was the happiest she had been in quite a while, because “Guess where I went today?”
“Where, Mom?” Sam asked, deepening his detachment.
If Iris could have done an impression of a drumroll she would have, but she didn’t know how to do that, so instead she just gave what is often referred to as a pregnant pause, leading to her oh-so-exciting announcement that she had paid a visit to none other than “Abraham Lincoln’s house!”
Then silence. Just silence. Iris was confused.
“Did you hear me, Sam? I went to Abraham Lincoln’s house in Springfield. Just on a whim. Just for fun. You always tell me I need to be more spontaneous and that I have to live my life more. And I didn’t have anything scheduled today. And I opened my wallet and the first thing I saw was a five-dollar bill. And you know whose face is on a five-dollar bill? Abraham Lincoln!!! So you know what I did? I got in my car and I drove all the way down to Springfield to Abraham Lincoln’s house!”
Sam’s interest wasn’t necessarily piqued at this, but this was the point where he consciously entered the conversation. “You drove to Springfield to Abraham Lincoln’s house?”
Now that Iris finally had her son’s full attention (she could tell), her excitement multiplied and she took full advantage. “Of course I did. I mean, you know how much I love Abraham Lincoln.”
Then more silence, and more confusion for Iris.
Maybe the connection was bad. That could be the only reason for his lack of response. “Sam, did you hear me?”
He had heard her, and in his response it was clear that he was now more annoyed than when he originally was when he answered the phone. “You love Abraham Lincoln? Since when?”
Iris’s confusion changed focus from her son’s cold silence to how bad his memory was. “I’ve always told you how much I love him.”
With this Sam Below let out a deep sigh of frustration. “You’ve never told me that.” Followed by another sigh. “This is the first time I’m hearing this.”
Iris was baffled. Beyond baffled at how her own son could not remember that Abraham Lincoln was not only her all-time favorite president, but one of her all-time favorite historical figures, next to Martin Luther King Jr. and JFK, of course. Yes, there was no question. Iris Below absolutely couldn’t get enough of Abraham Lincoln. This was clear as she took her son through her magical odyssey.
“I tell you when I stepped into that house of his, it was like I was stepping into a whole different time. And it wasn’t just because his house looked like it was from another time. I mean, sure, that helped. And it’s a good thing they kept it that way. Kept it the way it was when he lived there. I mean, they have to keep it old like that or what would be the point of going there, right? You don’t want to go to Abraham Lincoln’s house and see a La-Z-Boy and a microwave, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. You want it to have all that old stuff. And that’s what was there, and it made me feel like I was transported. So much I started to wonder if maybe I actually was transported. That as soon as I stepped outside everything would be like it was then. I’d look around for my car, and instead of my car there’d be a horse and carriage. And my sweatpants would, all of a sudden, be a big beautiful dress. And men in top hats would all bow to me and throw their waistcoats over muddy puddles to keep my cowboy boots from sinking into the muddy road.”
The whole experience had been quite spiritual for Iris Below. The moment she stepped into the former president’s home she felt she could feel his presence. Like he was standing next to her, whispering in her ear: “What do you think of my house, Iris?” “Thank you for coming, Iris.” “I love you, Iris.” Sweet nothings that felt so real that she was compelled to respond. She looked in the direction of where she imagined he was standing and answered: “Very nice indeed, Mr. President.” “Thank you for having me, Mr. President.” “I love you, too, Abe.” She’d responded with such volume the other people on the tour heard her. For a moment Iris feared that they’d think she was insane, but quickly discarded that worry. After all, none of her responses were that weird of a thing to say. Her fellow houseguests probably just saw her outbursts as poetic expressions for her love of this great man and his home. Everyone there surely loved Abraham Lincoln as much as she did—otherwise why would they bother to go there? Who the hell would travel all this way to Abraham Lincoln’s house if they didn’t love Abraham Lincoln? She wanted to press this point to her son. Assuring him that she did not embarrass herself. That the people around her did not give her strange looks, but instead smiled and nodded with her in agreement.
Iris proceeded to unfold the day’s incredible events, despite the continued silence from Sam. She chose to interpret his lack of response as a deep investment, and thus continued:
“I started to imagine that we were married. That I was his Mary . . . wait, what was it . . . Mary what? Mary Joe Lincoln? No, that’s not it. Mary Jane? No, that’s not it, either. Hmmmm. I have to look that up, I guess. But then again I was never really a fan of hers so it makes sense I wouldn’t remember her full name. To tell you the truth, I never really liked her at all. He deserved better. I mean, didn’t she stay in bed all the time? She was a real depressive. Not that I don’t get depressed. Sure, I can. Oy vay, can I. But I always get out of bed. At least most of the time I do. Sure, there’s days I don’t, but I’d say seven out of ten of my depressed days I’m out and about. Maybe not out and about outside, but out of my bed and in the house, for sure. I think Abe was depressed, too. That’s too bad, isn’t it? I really think I could have made him so happy. I know it’s a crazy thing for me to say, but I think the two of us would have been really good together. Oh, what a wife I would have been to him. I’d stroke his hair in bed as he lay next to me and just get all of the junk of the day to melt right off him. I’d call him my skinny Santa, because he was so thin and had a beard, and he’d love it and just laugh away. Probably being with that Mary is what made him sad. A bad marriage is just a killer. Plus all that Civil War and slavery stuff. Talk about stress. But I know that if Iris Below was in the picture, I would have made all of that stress melt away just with the light touch of my tiny finger.”
She heard no agreement or encouragement from her son at this. But he wasn’t disagreeing, either. So that was a good sign.
She went into great detail about her encounter with a wax figure of the president outside. She spoke of running her fingers through its hair, pretending it was really him, and how it all felt so nice in her hands. She got yelled at for touching him, though. Which she, of course, understood. She knew she wasn’t allowed to touch him, but she just couldn’t help herself. A few of the people around her even whispered that they couldn’t blame her. She assured Sam that if he ever went (which he most certainly should) he’d most certainly relate as well. The wax figures were very very real, and, just as was the case inside his house, she could feel Lincoln’s soul poking through.
Anyway, it was all just a really great day for Iris Below. She left Springfield, loving Abraham Lincoln like she never had before. More than she ever thought possible to love a man she had never met. As she took the long drive back to Chicago, she hoped her imaginary beloved was resting in heaven at peace, and, at the same time, deeply hoped that John Wilkes Booth was burning in hell.
Iris finished her day recap panting with excitement. Or was it anxiety? Perhaps she was panting with anxiety. An anxiety that immediately overtook her knowing that the recounting of her glorious day would not only be dismissed but would be grounds for deep disrespect and lack of feeling. Unfortunately she was right, for as soon as she finished, all Sam Below could mutter was:
“Honestly, Mom. I don’t know what the hell this story is. Just because you went to Abraham Lincoln’s house doesn’t mean you’re happy. And I didn’t really need to hear this right now.”
With this Iris started to cry. A son talks to his mother like this? Abraham Lincoln would never talk to his mother like this. He wouldn’t listen to his mother reveal her heart like this and then act like she was telling him a story about sweeping her floor. After all the support she had given to her son’s hopes and dreams. This was how he treated hers?
“I just don’t have time to listen to hours upon hours of the minute details of your life.”
Minute details?! MINUTE DETAILS???????!!!!!!!
What rage. What selfishness. What absolute cruelty. Once again, Sam Below had wiped clean all traces of Iris Below’s happiness, and she not-so-calmly informed him that she never wanted to speak to him ever again. Then she hung up.
Obviously Iris didn’t mean what she said. She loved her boy. He was her prize of all prizes. But she hated his rage.
What is wrong with that generation? she sadly wondered. They’re all so angry. They’ve forgotten how to appreciate their history. To learn from people who, frankly, are better than them. Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of my son. But an Abraham Lincoln he is not.
Iris sat on her bed. Staring at a five-dollar bill. Crying. Longing. Wishing for a love and a life that she would never have.
But maybe that’s a good thing, she thought. The assassination would have just wrecked me.