Children of Paranoia

by Trevor Shane

  “I’m still trying to decide between Psychology and Religion,” you replied.

  My mother nodded. “Aren’t we all,” my mother replied with a laugh. “Well, those sound like wonderful choices. Montreal? Are you Canadian?”

  “I’m going to grab us some food, Ma,” I interrupted. “You got anything in the fridge?”

  “Oh, my, where are my manners?” My mother started to stand up. “You guys have been traveling all day. I should have offered you something.”

  “Sit down, Ma,” I said. “I know my way around our kitchen. You stay and keep Maria company. By the time I get back, I’m sure you’ll know more about her than I do. You hungry, Maria?”

  “Starving,” you replied, dropping your guard when you spoke to me. We’d stopped to grab a snack in Connecticut on the way down but hadn’t had a real meal all day.

  “You want anything, Ma?”

  “Well, I’m not about to let my son and his girlfriend eat alone.” My mother’s voice sounded ecstatic just to be saying the word girlfriend. I almost thought she was going to trill her r’s. I made my way into the kitchen and left you and my mother to your own devices. My mother knew the game. She wasn’t going to say anything controversial. She’d leave all that for conversations with me later. I just wanted you two to talk. I wanted you to get to know each other. I knew that these fleeting moments would likely be the only time the two of you would ever get to spend with each other. Despite everything that happened, I still treasure those moments.

  The refrigerator was predictably empty. My mother had virtually given up eating about the same time that we moved into this place. The cupboard, however, had enough for me to throw a meal together. I could hear you and my mother, mostly my mother, chatting away in the other room as I put on a pot of spaghetti. The house was warm. It was cozy. I set the table so that we could all eat together in the kitchen. The kitchen table was pushed up against the wall so, without moving it, there was only room for three people. That was plenty for that evening. I set it up so that you would sit on one side of me and my mother would sit on the other. As the pasta cooked, I opened up a can of crushed tomatoes and took out some seasoning to make some sauce. “Do you have any wine for the spaghetti sauce, Ma?” I shouted from the kitchen, interrupting whatever topic the two of you had moved on to.

  “Sure,” my mother replied. She got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of wine from her little wine rack. “We’ll have to open a new bottle, but I don’t think we’ll have a better occasion for that anyway.” She handed me the bottle and came over and kissed me on the cheek. “She seems lovely,” my mother said to me in a whisper. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “I know,” I replied.

  Then my mother gave me a look. It was just a quick glance but I knew that it meant that she wanted to talk to me later, alone. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of her?” she asked me with a smile. I simply shrugged and lifted my eyebrows in response. She’d have more questions later. I wanted her to get to know you a little bit before I had to answer them. It had taken me all of ten minutes to fall for you. I figured that it shouldn’t take my mother more than an hour.

  I uncorked the wine and poured a full glass into my spaghetti sauce. My mother went back into the living room and the two of you continued to chat. You never told me what you talked about while I was cooking. The entire subject of my mother eventually became taboo. When I called the two of you in for dinner, you were happy. You glanced at me before sitting down at the dinner table and your eyes twinkled.

  “Look at my son, the chef,” my mother purred as she sat down. “It didn’t take you long to domesticate this one, did it, Maria?”

  “Don’t look at me,” you replied, staring down at the food. “This is the first time he’s ever cooked for me.”

  “How shameful, Joey. Didn’t I teach you how to properly treat a woman?”

  “Sit. Eat. Let’s see if it’s edible before we start complaining that I don’t cook enough.” Just as I sat down at the table my mother got up. She stood up from her chair and ran over to one of the cabinets to retrieve three wineglasses.

  “Before we eat,” she spoke as she came back over to the table, “a toast.” She filled each of the wineglasses with what was left in the bottle of wine I had used to make the spaghetti sauce. “I guess I’ll have to make up for my son’s bad manners.” This was the happiest I could ever remember my mother. At least I gave her this moment. She lifted her glass. “To my son, who I don’t see nearly enough, and to his new friend, who I hope to see more of.” All three of us clinked our wine-filled glasses together. “Anything to add, Joey?” My mother looked at me. I have no idea what she expected me to say.

  “To not drinking alone,” I added, barely remembering where I had heard the toast before.

  “Very classy,” my mother scolded me, but we all clinked our glasses together again. My mother and I each lifted the glass to our lips. You slipped yours back onto the table. My mother noticed. There was never any chance that she wouldn’t. “You’re not drinking, sweetie?”

  “I’m not much of a drinker, Joan,” you responded.

  “Well, just a sip, dear. It’s not a real toast if you don’t have a sip,” my mother pressed on. She watched you carefully.

  “That’s birthday wishes and fortune cookies, Mom,” I butted in, eyeing my mother to let her know to drop the subject. “It’s been a long day. Let’s eat.” I forked some of the spaghetti onto each of our plates. I started with equal portions. My mother didn’t finish hers. I had seconds. You had thirds. I was amazed by how much you could eat already.

  We chatted through dinner. My mother asked us how long we were planning on staying. We hadn’t even discussed this yet. I told her that we were staying for two nights. That just sounded right. There were a few things that I wanted to show you in town before we left. I didn’t think two days was too long. We’d still have ten days to make our run for it. Then my mother asked us where we were going on our vacation. Again, I didn’t know. You looked at me when she asked this as if you were wondering yourself. Even if I knew where we were going, I wouldn’t have told my mother. I wouldn’t tell anyone. The fewer people who knew the better, for them and for us. South, I said. Maybe we’d go to Graceland, I said. You seemed to be enamored with that idea.

  “Well, don’t let him make you stay at any of the cheap hotels, dear,” my mother said to you, reaching across the dinner table and placing her hand over yours. “He’s got to learn a little class someday.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” you replied with a giggle. I hoped you remembered that this wasn’t a vacation—that we had to stay diligent. For now, I let it go.

  When we were done eating, you helped my mother clear the table. Both of you insisted that, since I had cooked, I got to relax during the cleanup. Once the kitchen was back in order, you told me that you were tired and ready to go to bed. My mother showed you to my sister’s old room. My mother hadn’t touched it since my sister died. Pictures of her and her friends from high school still sat in frames on the bookshelves. A few pictures of her with her college friends were hung with thumbtacks on the wall above her desk. Her high school French award was still prominently displayed as if she’d won it yesterday. I carried your bag up the stairs and dropped it off in the room. “So I guess I’m alone in here tonight, huh?” you asked me as you placed your nearly empty duffel bag at the foot of the bed.

  “I think so. My mom’s a little old fashioned,” I replied. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s so peaceful here.” You stood up on the tips of your toes to give me a small kiss on the lips. “Your mother’s sweet.”

  “Yeah, to you,” I teased. “Now that you’re going to bed, you’re leaving me alone to face the inquisition.”

  “So we’re staying here two days?”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “And then we’re going to Graceland?”

  “We’ll se
e.”

  When I got back downstairs, my mother was waiting for my return.

  “She’s lovely,” my mother said to me before I reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I replied with a smirk. I was a little boy again, showing my mother the gem that I’d found in the woods.

  “How long have you two been together?” She was trying to gauge how serious this was. She should have known simply by the fact that I’d brought you home.

  “Long enough to know that I never want to be with anybody else.”

  “Well.” My mother paused, taken aback by my response. Then she sat back down on the couch. I sat across from her. “How long has that been?” She smiled again.

  “A few months, but it seems like longer. We hit it off instantly.”

  “She’s young, Joe. She’s young to be making this type of commitment.” I thought she was trying to protect me.

  “She’s young in some ways. She’s not so young in a lot of others. She’s smarter than me. Sometimes it feels like she’s older than I am.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s a sophomore in college, Mom. That’s not that young,” I used the same half-truth that you had used on me. My mother had put me on the defensive. Something seemed off.

  “Is she one of us?” Finally, she asked the question that I was sure she was dying to ask from the moment she first laid eyes on you.

  “No, Mom. She’s not. She’s just a person. She’s not one of us. She’s not one of them.”

  “Does she know about things?” She meant the War, though my mother would never use the word.

  “Yes.”

  “So you told her?” My mother stared momentarily out the window into the dark night. She didn’t expect me to answer the question again. “Well, I guess there’s no going back now, then, is there?”

  “I told you, Mom. She’s it for me. Even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.” I wanted her to be happy for me.

  “It’s a hard life you’re leading her into, Joe,” she said. She looked sad. My mother was a living embodiment of just how hard that life could be. I imagine that she was thinking about my father, about my sister, about her parents. All of them died violently, all before their time, leaving her to grow old alone, hiding in a small house in the corner of the world.

  “Would you have given any of it up, Mom?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would you have traded your life for an ordinary life, knowing that you’d never get to spend time with Dad, never would have had known Jessica, never would have had me?”

  She looked aghast that I would even ask the question. “Of course not.” Some strength was returning to my mother’s voice. “It’s a hard life, sure, but for us, it’s a just life and worth the sacrifice. You know that.”

  “Well, then, be happy for me, Mom.” I stood up and walked over, taking a seat next to her on the couch. I put my arm around her shoulder. “The world’s not perfect, Ma, but it’s better for me when Maria’s around.”

  “Then I’m happy for you,” my mother said. I could tell that there was some truth in what she was saying but it was only a partial truth. “I’m just worried about her.”

  “I think she knows what she’s getting herself into, Mom.” I didn’t believe the words even as they left my mouth.

  “Let’s hope so,” she replied. Then she turned to me, her eyes glistening as if she were holding back tears. She hugged me again. The hug at the door was for the past, this one was for the future.

  “Listen, Mom,” I finally said, breaking away from her grasp. “I’m going to show Maria around tomorrow, maybe take her up to Rocky Point. Besides, I need to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.” I stood up and limped toward the stairs. My leg was throbbing.

  “Okay, Joe,” my mother replied. She never asked for more information about my injury. She knew not to ask me about the details of my job. “Good night,” she said, not budging as I slowly made my way to the stairs. When I was about to place a foot on the first step, she called out to me. “Joseph?” I could tell from the tone of her voice that there was something she’d been waiting to say, something she’d been holding back.

  I turned around. She was sitting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. She looked nervous. “Yeah, Mom?” I asked.

  “She’s pregnant.” I don’t know how she knew. She just knew.

  “I know, Mom.” I stood for a second at the bottom of the steps debating whether I should say anything else. I decided against it. Then I limped up the stairs and went to bed.

  I woke up in the morning to the scent of frying bacon wafting up from the kitchen. I felt like it was Saturday morning and I was twelve again. I climbed out of bed. The leg felt better. It still hurt but it felt better. I grabbed painkillers from my bag and swallowed a few without water. I got up, got dressed, and began to head downstairs. On my way, I knocked on your door to see if you were awake yet. I didn’t hear anything, so I thought I’d let you sleep. I walked down the stairs alone. The walk down the stairs was twice as painful as the walk up had been, but there wasn’t much to do now but grit my teeth and bear it.

  I was surprised, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, to hear your voice echoing out of the kitchen. Apparently, you were already awake and bonding with my mother. Now that my mother knew that you were pregnant, the bonding frightened me. I don’t know why. It was a classic case of paranoia. I should have remembered to trust it.

  My mother had you hard at work, mixing pancake batter as she flipped the bacon in the frying pan with a fork. You both looked happy, free of worries. At least for the time being, I decided to join in the fun. I smiled and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Nice to see that my mom is already teaching you how to domesticate yourself.”

  “Morning, Joseph,” my mother turned and said to me as I stared at you, hard at work. It was the first time I’d ever seen you cook. You looked dangerous.

  “Forget that college education, forget working, all you need to know how to do in this man’s world is cook and clean, right, Ma?” You shot me a dirty look. My mother walked over and slapped me on the shoulder with a dish towel. “How long have you two been up?”

  “I got up early to run to the store to make sure I had some food for breakfast. When I got home, Maria was already awake. She was kind enough to offer to help me cook.” My mother wore an apron as she cooked. She looked like a Bisquick ad from the fifties.

  I walked over to the frying pan and picked out a piece of bacon with my hands, reaching in quickly to try to avoid being burnt by the bubbling grease. “Can’t you wait ten minutes?” my mother cried out as I popped the sizzling bacon into my mouth.

  “I could wait three days,” I replied, “but I’d rather not.” You hadn’t said anything yet. “Has my mother been treating you okay?” I finally asked you, only half teasing.

  “It’s been really nice,” you said, your tone much more serious than I expected. You almost sounded sad. Someday maybe you’ll tell me what you were thinking about.

  We sat around the table together and ate breakfast. Once again, my mother barely ate and you ate twice as much as I did. The conversation over breakfast moved from one inconsequential subject to another, each of us hoarding our own secrets. Mostly we discussed our plans for the day. I told my mother how we had a few errands to run and then I was planning on taking you up to the top of Rocky Point, an old rock ridge above town where Jared, Michael, and I used to camp when we were kids. You seemed genuinely excited to see some of my history firsthand.

  “You sure that’s a good idea,” my mother chimed in, “considering”—and then there was a pause. The pause spoke volumes. It said quite clearly, “Maria’s condition.” Eventually, however, my mother finished by saying, “Considering your leg.”

  “We’ll be fine, Ma,” I responded. “The fresh air and exercise will be good for both of us.” I placed my hand on top of yours on the table. It just felt good to touch you. />
  Soon the food was gone. Shortly after that, you and I climbed into the car and headed into town. We left our things upstairs, knowing we’d be back in only a few hours. My mother stayed at the house, alone.

  The first thing that we had to do was to gather supplies for when we left New Jersey. We went to a bank and I used the cash machine to take out four hundred dollars, the maximum amount that the machine would let me take out in a day. The account was my spending account. I had the ATM card and the pin number but the account wasn’t in my name and I didn’t have any control over it. The actual account was controlled by headquarters. I’d go to get money and money would be there. We were told not to spend extravagantly. If we did, we’d be cut off. That’s all I knew. Along with the ATM card, I had five different credit cards, each under a different name. I never saw a single credit card bill. They went straight to headquarters. Again, I never had a problem using any one of them. The rules were the same as the ATM card. Do your job and keep a low profile. We couldn’t live like James Bond. Allen made that clear enough, but we never had to worry about money. It was something that I had always taken for granted, but I wouldn’t be able to do so much longer. The plan was to take out four hundred dollars every three days until we had over sixteen hundred in cash. We’d do all our spending on the credit cards, buying supplies that we could use while on the run. I hoped that the spending wouldn’t raise any red flags. After all, I was supposed to be on vacation. After two weeks, we’d throw everything away, abandon it all. The free ride would be over, because as long as we used their ATM card and their credit cards, they’d know where we were. As long as we kept using their money, we couldn’t be free.

  After the bank, we headed to the grocery store. We shopped like we were going on a camping trip: no perishables; lots of things that we could prepare easily; lots of things we could eat without cooking; lots of bottled water. We bought granola bars, beef jerky, ramen noodles. I also picked up enough prenatal vitamins to get us through your entire pregnancy. Now was the time to spend.