Out of the broom closet, I got the ironing board and the iron and the pressing cloth. It felt weird to be in my underwear in the kitchen. It was an immediate hard-on. Shit.
That’s when the phone rang.
It was Billie, and she sounded freaked out and she was whispering.
Rig, Billie whispered. Thank God I finally got you. Your mother kept answering, and I had to hang up. Look, don’t pick me up at the house. Dad is being very weird. I’ll meet you at the Snatch Out, seven-thirty.
Snatch Out, I whispered too. Seven-thirty.
Three giant steps across the blue and white kitchen tiles, I peeked around the kitchen door and looked through the window. No Mom. Three lunges down the stairs, I was back down in my room.
When you’re raised with a sister, you learn how to do things like sew and iron and cook and wash dishes. I pressed the pants — just the wrinkle out of the middle of the legs — then started on the shirt.
I had to make another trip upstairs to get the spray starch under the sink. My cock was still hard, but I was ignoring it. In the kitchen, the smell of oatmeal cookies. The green bowl was half filled with cookie dough. With one hand, I grabbed a chunk of cookie dough, with the other, I reached under the sink.
Just then, the timer on the oven went off.
Then the screen door slammed.
I shoved the cookie dough into my mouth.
The chunk of cookie dough was so big I could barely get it in my mouth. Mom was taking off her gloves. I quick looked over to the green bowl. Shit. You could see just where the huge chunk was missing. Mom was going to have a fit. For a moment there, I thought I’d spit the cookie dough back out and try and smooth it back into the rest of the cookie dough. But there wasn’t time. Plus there I was with my shorts sticking out in front. I ducked and ran down the stairs and closed my door. My door closed at the same time the kitchen door opened. Just in time.
I leaned against my bedroom door, gulping down oatmeal cookie dough as fast as I could. Upstairs, I could hear Mom take the cookie sheet out of the oven and set the cookie sheet on the stove.
I waited with bated breath.
Only the sound of the steam bubbling in the iron.
After a couple minutes, I decided the coast was clear. Somehow Mom hadn’t noticed the cookie dough. Three quiet giant steps across the room, I walked behind the ironing board and stood. I put my hand around the iron’s handle, picked up the hot steam iron.
I’d just put the iron down onto the collar point when there was a big crash in the kitchen. Then it was Mom’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
There was no lock on my door, and she never knocked. Mom just walked up to my door, opened the door. There she stood, Mom Klusener, my mother, her hair not yet done up for Dad, her face not on, just stubs of eyebrows above the inside corner of her eyes. Her big gray plastic glasses. Her pink rummage-sale blouse, her denims, her white Keds. Her hands were on her hips. Not a good sign.
What the hell is the big idea! Mom said. How many times have I told you not to eat the cookie dough! I work hard to have something nice to eat around the house and what do you do but go and shove it all in your mouth. All I do is work around here, and for what?
Me me me, Mom said. That’s all you think about is me me me.
I lifted the iron, pointed the flat of the iron at my mother.
The steam in the iron bubbled. Puffs of steam blew out.
Mom looked over on my bed. There was my brown shiny suit laid out. There was my red tie. My black belt. There were my polished black shoes on top of the Idaho Catholic Register. There I was in my underwear ironing my white shirt.
What are you doing? Mom said. Where are you going in a suit?
Mom started walking toward me and the ironing board, but halfway she stopped.
Put your damn clothes on, Mom said.
Then she pointed at my shirt and flipped her fingers.
You’re not doing that right, Mom said. Let me iron that for you.
If Mom got a hold of the iron, the battle would be lost. I put the iron down on the collar, pressed.
No, it’s OK, I said. You’re making cookies, I said. I can do this.
What’s left of the cookies is in the oven, Mom said. All five of them, Mom said.
Good Lord, Mom said. Why not eat the whole bowl?
It’s a sin to steal, Mom said. The eighth commandment, Mom said. Thou shalt not steal. It’s a mortal sin to steal.
The wrinkle in Mom’s forehead went all the way from her hairline to the top of her nose. Mom took a deep breath, and as she huffed out the breath, she looked at the iron and the ironing board as if it were the first time.
Just where do you think you are going, young man? she said.
Young man. Not good.
I wasn’t looking at her, only looking up now and then. I made myself engrossed in ironing my white shirt. The seam on the shoulder, the top button, the second button. Mom took a couple more steps. My naked chest was burning up. When she got to the ironing board, she touched the ironing board. The ironing board was her place, not my place.
Mom’s almond-shaped hazel eyes. That close they weren’t green or gold. They were gray.
I said, Mom said, where are you going in a suit?
Mom’s big plastic glasses had slipped down her nose. On each side of her nose was an oval red sore from the nose pads of her glasses. Without taking her eyes off my eyes, with her index finger, Mom reached up, pushed her glasses back up her nose.
My eyes were starting to burn, but I was not going to blink first.
I’m going to a party, I said.
In a suit? Mom said. What party?
Just a party, I said.
While Mom’s eyes and my eyes were in the stare-down, the whole time Mom’s hands were down below us somewhere trying to get the iron. I kept moving the iron back and forth so she couldn’t grab it.
In a suit? Mom said. In the middle of summer?
I looked down. The iron was on top of the second and third buttons.
Then: You’re not going with that Billie Cody, are you?
I let go of the iron, stood up tall, then leaned my fists down onto the ironing board. Mom was like that too with her fists. Me on one side, Mom on the other. The steam iron steaming up in between.
Head to head, eye to eye, with Mom like that, it was a standoff. The spotlight behind Mom’s eyes had me, the deer in her headlights.
For a moment there, everything stopped.
It was in that moment, some part of me took a look around my room. The olive green walls, the paneling, the olive green matching bedspread, the lamp. I couldn’t believe it. I might as well have been standing in a room in the Holiday Inn. There was nothing in my room that was truly mine.
A big deep breath.
Mom, I said, I am too going with Billie Cody, I said. To the Senior Summer All Night Party.
The look on my mother’s face. I don’t think I’d ever seen that look up so close. The hundreds of tiny wrinkles around her mouth were thousands. The way she set her jaw. The ripples along her jaw, the grinding of her teeth.
When she spoke, deep and gravelly, Mom’s voice sounded like it came from hell.
For God’s sake, Rigby John, Mom said. The girl is pregnant.
Pregnant like shit or fart or fuck or cunt or faggot.
Who told you that? I said.
That girl, Mom said, is a common slut. She has an illegitimate child in her womb and a mortal sin on her soul. And now the bitch is parading around at all-night parties.
Mom’s chest filled up. She lifted her mighty chin.
Well, Mom said, not with my son she ain’t.
The breath. Jeez, the breath. Where was it?
I’m not the father, I said.
My voice was high.
You sure as hell ain’t, Mom said.
The breath, the breath, the breath.
But Billie needs a friend, I said.
Friend! Mom said. What kind of damn fool are you? That girl
is a little whore.
Something was burning. I looked down. The iron was burning a dark brown iron point onto the shirt collar.
Now look what you’ve done! Mom said. Your new Sunday shirt!
What happened next, I didn’t see coming.
Mom’s open hand slapped me hard across the face.
You spineless ass, Mom said. You’re not going nowhere.
Mom could pack a wallop. I stepped back a couple steps, saw stars. I must confess, though, it felt good to get hit like that. After a hard slap in the face, I woke up. Something else kicked in, and it was a whole new ball game.
Mom shoved the ironing board, knocked it clean over. I quick grabbed the iron. Then Mom dragged the board to the doorway, then this truly amazing thing — Mom picked up the ironing board like it was a spear or a javelin and with a grunt from deep inside her threw the ironing board into the air and out the door. The ironing board bumped up the stairs and crashed loud down onto the kitchen floor.
Mom’s hair was flying, and her glasses were crooked, and she was screaming. Not any words or anything you could make sense of, just weird sounds like a dog or a cat that had got run over by a truck.
I remember saying to myself: This woman is a crazy maniac.
When Mom stopped, she was standing in the doorway, her hands, her feet, pressing into the doorjamb on each side.
And me. I was standing alone in my bedroom in my shorts with a hot iron in my hand. My white shirt, its burnt collar, lying on my feet.
Just like that, Mom walked over, ripped the cord of the iron out of the socket.
Unplugged.
You’re not leaving this house tonight, Mom said.
With that, Mom grabbed the iron. The iron was hot as hell, but still she grabbed the iron, from the bottom, and ripped the iron away from me.
Mom’s almond-shaped hazel eyes had gone completely stone gray. Not a trace of green or gold. Her hair was gray too. Mom’s hair wasn’t brown, it was gray.
Upstairs, the timer on the oven started to ding.
I’ll be back with the rosary, Mom said. You and I are going to kneel down right here and pray the rosary. If not for your soul, for your family’s good name.
Ding ding ding upstairs.
Mom took a couple of steps toward the door. Then stopped and turned.
Get your damn pants on, Mom said. And kneel down and examine your conscience. We’ve got a rosary to pray.
Mom walked out the door. Ding ding ding ding was all I could hear. Plus my ears were ringing. I didn’t have time to stop and think, or even breathe. In no time at all, she’d be back with her rosary.
Praying the rosary was out of the fucking question.
In no time at all, I had my white shirt on, had it buttoned up. I slipped on my dark socks, one foot and then the other. Stepped into my shiny brown suit pants, stuck my shirttails in. Buttoned. Zipped. The oven timer stopped dinging by the time I had my suit jacket on. The oven door closed when my hands looped my belt. I looped the red tie around my neck. The cookie sheet was on top of the stove when I put my wallet in my pocket. I stepped into my shoes, bent down, tied one and then the other.
I was up the stairs two at a time. Mom was at the broom closet making the sign of the cross. When she looked up at me, she looked like she’d seen Satan himself.
You’re going to hell! she screamed. You’re going to hell!
Mom was like a big cat on my back, scratching and screaming. Her teeth against my scalp, in my hair, trying to get a bite.
It’s easy to tell about something after it’s over, but while it’s happening, it’s all just one thing after another flipping past your eyes.
Mom was doing some serious damage to the sides of my head. I didn’t know what to do, so I ducked my head and ran into her bedroom and toward the bed. At the bed, I stopped fast, bent down at the waist, and Mom went flying off my back, ass over teakettle onto the bed — the smooth, perfectly made bed. Mom bounced once, then went flying off the bed, down the other side, and smack onto the floor.
Mom was back on her feet in no time.
By the look on Mom’s face, there was no doubt about it. This was a battle to the death.
Then I was running. I ran through the kitchen, my feet over the blue squares and the white squares, past the kitchen table, the chrome chairs with the yellow plastic seats, past the sink, the oven, the five oatmeal cookies. I thought, What the hell, if I’m going to hell I might as well be eating oatmeal cookies. I scooped up the five oatmeal cookies, opened the kitchen door, ran down the four steps, ran into the garage, opened the garage door from the inside, got in the pickup, dumped the oatmeal cookies on the seat, started the pickup, and put the gearshift into reverse. I’d just turned my head and was ready to back out of the garage when all of a sudden, there was Mom, the scream of her, outside, pulling down the garage door.
The slam of the garage door was a slam deep down in my heart. Where there was light, now there was darkness.
What’s the use. I was trapped. I’d never get away from her.
The sharp pain next to my heart. I know it sounds weird, but my mind went totally blank. I shut off the pickup, got out of the pickup, walked back up the stairs into the kitchen, then down to my bedroom. I sat down on the olive green bedspread, leaned over, and looked at my polished black shoes on the brown flowered carpet.
In no time at all, Mom was standing in the doorway.
Mom was screaming. The world was screaming. My ears were ringing. Thousands of screaming magpies gathered on my bedroom ceiling and dived at my head.
You’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell.
Screaming and screaming and screaming.
You do as you’re told! You’re not leaving this house! You get that suit off you! You should be ashamed of yourself! Just wait till your father gets home! You’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell!
There was no way out.
Then something out of nowhere.
A gust of wind, a hawk, some large bird flying low, in a moment, something collapsed. I looked at my hands, I lifted my hands up and looked at my hands.
How did this happen? How did I get there back in my bedroom, my mother in the doorway, the human barricade, a crazy maniac between me and the rest of the world?
The feeling in my arms that means I’m helpless. I cupped my hands over my ears.
Jesus loved Mary Magdalene. Jesus would have gone to the Senior Summer All Night Party with Mary Magdalene.
With that, I was up. I walked to my mother. I didn’t know what I was going to do.
Those steps, four or five steps to her, my black shoes on the brown flowered carpet, closer, closer. The closer I got, the more my mother did not move. She was a block of cheese, she was concrete, she was lead. I was still only inches from her, and still I didn’t know.
My hands went around her waist and lifted. Just like that, as if my mother was a bale of straw, I set her aside. She was claws and screams and scratching, trying to get at me, but I held her away with my hand. Then I ran again.
Up the stairs, out the kitchen door, down the four kitchen steps and into the garage, I opened the garage door from the inside, got in the pickup, started the pickup, put it into reverse.
I turned my head to back out of the garage, and there she was again, something dark out the corner of my eye, from out of nowhere all of a sudden, there was Mom again, outside, closing the garage door.
The slam of the garage door. The darkness where there was light. My impulse was fuck it, to gun the engine anyway, bust through the garage door.
My mother would always be lurking there when I least expected her.
I shut off the pickup, got out of the pickup, made noise running up the four kitchen steps, then jumped back down the steps, landed soft, quick ran back into the garage and hid behind the garage door.
Through the garage door window, I saw Mom’s gray hair go past and up
the kitchen stairs. On her fourth step, I came out from behind the garage door. Mom was just starting down my bedroom stairs when I tiptoed up the four steps, reached in, turned the lock in the kitchen door, and pulled the kitchen door closed quiet.
The garage door opening was thunder-and-lightning loud. I ran to the pickup, started the pickup, put it in reverse, turned my head to back out of the garage. No crazy maniac mother. I gunned the engine, leaving rubber on the cement floor of the garage. I half expected the crash of the garage door coming down, but there was no crash. No darkness, only light.
When I hit the driveway, gravel was flying. I backed out into a three-point turn. I put on the brakes, put the gearshift into first, hit the gas.
Mom came bursting out the screen door wielding a broom in her hands.
You’re going to hell, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell.
Gravel was flying, and the pickup was fishtailing. Mom was running down the sidewalk at me. Tramp was running behind her, barking. Just where the sidewalk ends and the driveway begins, Mom and me in the pickup met.
It was scary how Mom looked. Mom didn’t even look like Mom. The skeleton of her face was poking through.
I started rolling up the window.
Mom smacked the kitchen broom hard down onto the hood. So hard her big gray plastic glasses went flying off. I pushed the pedal all the way to the floor. Another smack of the kitchen broom hit the top of the cab. I looked over just as the broken broomstick came down and poked in through the top crack in the window. I cranked hard on the window handle.
Just in time. The sharp end of the green broom handle poked into the cab. The jagged piece of splintered wood was pointed straight at my head.
When I looked back in front of me, it was time to turn right onto Tyhee Road. There was no way in hell I was going to stop and look for drunk Indians or hay trucks or Mormon families in their Ford cars. So I just started turning the wheel. The pickup leaned a dangerous lean. The tires were spitting gravel. Dust was flying. For a moment there, I thought for sure I was going to end up rolled over in the neighbor’s front yard.
But we made it. Me and the Chevy Apache made it around the corner. Then there we were on the tarmac heading down Tyhee Road. In no time at all, the speedometer was hitting fifty-five. As fate would have it, it’s the damn truth, on the radio it was “Purple Haze.” I was jumping up and down in the seat. I was yelling and laughing and screaming like the cowboys on TV — Yee-ha! Ha! Ha. Yee-ha-ho!
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