Gone Away

“Roger?”

Bea calls up the stairs, peering through her thick lenses at the light in the upstairs hall. “Where is that man? Our show’s about to start.” She tisks, and shuffles across the kitchen floor to the window that looks out over the garden. As she parts the lace curtains, she sees her own hand.

“Is that my hand? Where did those age spots come from?”

She peers into the sunlit yard, but can’t make out anything much. “Maybe he went to the woodpile to get some kindling.” She puts her hands on her hips and pouts. “Oh, that man!” The music blares, announcing the first contestants. “Oh, now listen! There’s my show coming on. Roger?” she asks the walls.

The faded blooms on the wallpaper offer no help; they just look back at her, benign pink blobs. As she heads to the den, she brushes the sleeve of Roger’s barn coat, hanging on the peg by the door to the garden. With that comes the sweet smell of pipe smoke. And then she hears a noise upstairs.

“Roger! Come down, now. It’s time for our show.” She thumps her hand on the newel post and then swats the air in frustration like she’s brushing away a fly.

“Mom?”

She makes out a form at the top of the stairs. “Dennis? Is that you?”

“No, Mom. It’s Madeline.”

“Madeline? Madeline who?”

“Your daughter in law, Madeline!”

“Oh.”

“Are Dennis and Kenny up there with you or are they still at school?”

“No, Mom. They’re at work. No more school for them. Uh…why don’t you go settle in with your show and I’ll bring you some tea.”

She heads for the den. “I don’t know where Roger’s gone,” she hollers over her shoulder. “Maybe he has to work late tonight, huh?” There’s no response. “Maybe another beer delivery added to his route? Do ya think that’s where he…”

Madeline appears with a tray balancing steaming hot tea and marmalade toast. Suddenly Bea’s chest tightens. She has a flash of memory so fast and so bone awful that it makes her gasp. It’s Roger. He looks so thin and he’s lying down on a white- sheeted bed and his face looks frozen and his eyes are closed. His jaw is slack and she can see his gold tooth with him gaping that way.

“Roger?” Her voice feels thin and lost in the room. It flies away and leaves her alone. There’s a silence. Madeline studies her own hands, lifts her cup of tea and nudges the other cup toward Bea.

“Have your tea now, Mom.”

There’s that flash again. She hears the words again in her head, the room spins. Someone is saying, ‘He’s gone, Mom. Say goodbye….’ She remembers leaning down to kiss him, she remembers the way his cheek felt. All bristled. And it was cold, like kissing a stone.

“Bea? Would ya like to have a little tea? I put lemon and three sugars in. Just like you like it.”

“But…where’s Roger?” Her arms and legs feel all tingly; her head feels like it might fly away like a lost kite.

“Remember? Dad died on Sunday, Mom. He’s gone to heaven, Mom.” Bea looks at this stranger telling her lies.

“We’ll be okay, Mom,” the stranger says. “Please… have some tea.”

The images fade away. The contestant squeals, her breasts bouncing as she spins the big wheel.

“Do ya think she’ll win the grand prize today, Mom?”

Bea’s gnarled hands get quiet; lay there in her lap like nesting birds.

Boots

Matt is six. I'm babysitting him tonight, trying to give you some time to yourself. A little time alone, so maybe you can just sit, get quiet, close your eyes, take in some really deep breaths.

I can hear it in your voice when you're getting sick again; it gets sort of gravelly and low, like a wounded animal. You seem quick to lose your temper, you lose that go with the flow easy way of yours. Your smile is weak, seems a struggle to summon one to your face. And then it's gone before I see your teeth. Your illness is usually held in check by the medication. But there are times when it claws its way to the surface, gets in there behind your eyes and tries to suck your soul down to your feet.

I see you there in the window.

Collect yourself, Mag. Please. Hold on.

Matt comes bounding out of the apartment. You just wave to me from the window, your hand swiping the glass in a slow arc.

His coat is unzipped in this fierce cold. No hat. No gloves. More fallout from the monster inside you, your mom skills drop away. He climbs into the warm car and I try to buckle him in. But he's turning to you. He presses his nose and both hands against the window, and softly says, "Bye Mom..." You wave again and then the curtain drops. As we pull away, I can see you through the gauze, just sitting there... so still. As you disintegrate, he follows in your wake.

He turns to me and I can almost see a shade pull down and then another one go up. For awhile, he can pretend that life is only about this outing with me. About that big cheeseburger with extra fries and lots of catsup. And his favorite-a hot fudge sundae-with extra cherries.

He looks so tired tonight.

As we pull out of the parking lot of the burger joint, the street light paints a swath of light across his legs. He's wearing knee high rubber boots and his legs are tucked underneath him. I shoot looks over at him, study his profile against the misted window. He's lost there in his own head. Somewhere happy, I hope.

Just then, I spy a glint of green, a cat's eye, peering back at me. I look again. There's a hunk of glass, submerged in the rubber sole of his right boot.

"Hey, what's that?" I say, poking at the smooth curve of glass.

His hot fudge smile melts, and he quickly straightens his legs, so that the boot soles face forward. "Nothing... I dunno. Can't we go to Walmart now... for my toy?"

"Sure.... but can I see the bottom of your boot? I swear I saw a piece of glass...we should check that out, Matt. If it's glass, you could get a bad cut."

"Can't we just go to Walmart...for my toy?" He deflects my question again, a professional at this, like a goalie in the net.

We head into the store. He trots across the parking lot, sort of skitters a bit, up on one toe like a crab.

"Matt! What is up?" I say, looking quizzically at his feet. He looks up at me from under an awning of brown bangs, but there's no reply.

I see the bubble gum machines just inside the sliding doors. My opportunity to pause the action.

"Hey, Matt! Let's get some bubble gum! I want a red one! What color do you want?" He looks up and away, like he's choosing what color to paint the sky.

"Blue!" he shouts.

"Alright! C'mon, BLUE!" I sound like I'm in Vegas at the roulette wheel.

He holds his palm outstretched and I give him three quarters. He fumbles with the big coins and then, one at a time, he lays the coin flat in the slot. He has to kneel to crank the handle. And just as he does, I spy the green eye again, winking at me from the bottom of his boot.

"It's BLUE! And I wanted BLUE!" he squeals, as the third ball drops.

As he kneels there, I grasp the heel of his boot between my thumb and forefinger. It's a marble! And it's stuck in a hole on the bottom of his boot.

"Matt! What's that? A marble in your boot? What's that all about?"

He drops the blue gumball and quickly stands up. "I just want to get my toy!"

"No, wait, buddy. What's with the marble?" As the words leave my foolish mouth twice, I see the shame pour over his face. It drags his eyebrows down. The corners of his mouth quickly follow.

"It's stupid! I wanna go home! It's just a marble. I put it in the hole in my boot...so the water won't come in!"

I wish I had a big white sheet... I'd throw it over our heads, over my stupid mouth. And I'd pull you in, Matt. We could just hide there awhile, under the soft billows.

If I could, I'd pull you under there too, Mags. We could hide from this pain of yours, this pain that's hanging all around us here, so dirty in the air. And we could all just wait, under that white, until the thunderheads clear and the sun comes out again.