That Kind of Mother

by Rumaan Alam

  “I know this song!” Andrew threw his wet body onto Rebecca’s lap, but she welcomed it, the relief that his body always was. “I love this playground.”

  Rebecca pulled him close, up onto her, which was not as easy to do now as it once had been. He was heavy, and she was out of practice. Toting a baby around is a regimen, one she’d long abandoned. Her muscles had gone slack as her milk had dried. Or maybe she was just older. She had barely marked her forty-first birthday. Her sister Christine had brought over an ice cream cake and the boys presented her with construction paper cards. “You’re so big.” She thrilled at his cold, wet ear on her cheek.

  “Do we have any snacks?” From where she sat, Jacob seemed impossibly tall, so thin his irrepressible hunger made sense. His skin was pale as the inside of an apple, a potato. “I’m starving.”

  “No one’s starving.” Christopher ground down on his gum. “We can go for a pretzel. Then head back to change for dinner. We can go to Little Italy. They’ve got those restaurants where you order a pork chop and then a plate of spaghetti that’s the size of a hubcap. That should be enough to fill even you, Jacob.”

  “I love you.” Andrew said it, the words that were well trod, internalized, then leapt off her lap as quickly as he’d lighted there. That was life: perpetual motion. How she thrilled in these unguarded confessions, the sort of thing that Jacob (not even a teenager yet!) was unable to muster any longer. A chubby wet child confessing his love. The unremitting heat of the sun. Even the hunger, because she was hungry, too, just from watching them play. These were all welcome, because they made her feel like a human being. Exist in the moment, she had urged herself, so many days and weeks when the moment seemed most miserable. But there was this, in the moment, too: occasional, exquisite joy.

  Christopher seemed to note Andrew’s words. Or maybe he smiled at Rebecca for no reason at all. That night, they went to dinner and there was indeed so much pasta that even Jacob could not finish it. They walked, afterward, stopped for ice cream, took a taxi back to the Grand Hyatt even though they’d spent more money on this trip than they should have. They were happy, and there was some correlation, not that money could buy happiness but that happiness was sometimes achieved when you’d invested. Dinner was more than a hundred dollars. Never mind.

  Rebecca was blissfully alone in the frigid hotel room, slipping out of her sticky shoes, unbinding herself from her damp bra, when Christopher knocked at the door. There had been some premonition, chemical, bodily, that he might do this. “Rebecca. It’s me.”

  It had been three years. Her last birthday, Rebecca had wondered, briefly, idly, whether there would ever be another man. She could bring herself to happiness but she could not reach that particular kind of completion, however temporary, whatever apparatus she employed. She didn’t mind admitting that she’d thought of it. Christopher was still a handsome man.

  She buttoned the shirt back up over her bare breasts and padded over the cheap carpet to the hotel room door. It was not lust, on his face. A TWA flight bound for Paris had exploded off the coast of Long Island. The office, knowing he was local, had left a message with the concierge, asking him to go. What could he do? He packed his bags and went. Rebecca explained to the boys the next morning, vague and reluctant over the details. A child should not know that a plane sometimes faltered. She took them to a diner for scrambled eggs and home fries, and they drove away from the city, its preposterously tall buildings lingering in her rearview mirror for a surprisingly long time, eventually, to her relief, giving way to blue skies.

  29

  REBECCA WAS BARELY LISTENING TO CHRISTOPHER. IT WAS ONE OF the liberating things about being divorced from him. He could talk and it didn’t implicate her. She sliced the cake—lemon, to conjure spring—and handed plates to her left. Cheryl placed forks on the plates and passed them to her left. Slice, plate, slice, plate, seven times over. Rebecca didn’t object when Andrew and Ivy pleaded to take their cake into the den. They wanted to watch television, or maybe they wanted to be alone, the natural alliance of children versus adults. They were the plates from Elizabeth, fragile, irreplaceable, but Rebecca didn’t care.

  “If it’s OK with Auntie Cheryl, it’s OK with me. Just be careful not to spill.”

  Cheryl nodded her assent, and Ivy and Andrew pushed out of their chairs and, plates balanced carefully, left the room.

  “Not too loud!” The boys needed constant reminding about this; they turned the volume too high, reaching Rebecca wherever she was in the house.

  “That was delicious, Rebecca.” Ian was attentive to sounding appreciative. “I would say I’m stuffed but I am not too stuffed for this.”

  “I hope you like the cake. This in-between season, not quite winter but not quite not winter. I never know. Lemon seemed like it might be the flavor of spring.”

  Ian tasted the cake. “Oh it’s good.”

  “Does anybody want tea? Coffee? Rebecca, I might, if it’s OK?” Cheryl looked around the room.

  “Of course. I might have some tea, if you’re making some.” Cheryl had assumed command of Rebecca’s rooms. It had taken eight years but it had taken. When Rebecca had moved the children to the local school, she’d listed Cheryl and Ian both on the mandated blue card.

  Christopher wanted tea, and Ian said he’d have some, and Cheryl stepped through the swinging door.

  “Can I have another piece?” Jacob hadn’t finished his first, though the last bites of it were even then in his mouth.

  Rebecca sighed but was flattered. Who were these domestic arts for, anyway? She sliced another wedge and he handed her his plate. He was nearly as tall as Christopher, and his feet were enormous. His Adam’s apple bobbed around almost independent of his long body. The last time she’d seen him undressed, she noted the thatch of hair beneath his arms. He was still the baby she’d once held, the one who, when weaned, grabbed at her breast so angrily, like it was a citrus he meant to juice, like a stressed executive with a rubber ball, that she’d worked that into a poem. “Seconds for Jacob.”

  Ian cleared his throat. “Jacob, why don’t you go and sit with the kids.”

  “I’m still eating my cake.” The majority of the things he said came out as a complaint. This was particularly plaintive. Jacob wanted to be with the adults.

  “Go on.” Ian winked. “Keep an eye on the little ones. Make sure they don’t spill.”

  “But . . .” Jacob’s whine was maddening.

  Rebecca sensed that Ian meant to say something. Also: she felt strongly that Ian and Cheryl were to be obeyed. Two years earlier, when Rebecca and Christopher’s divorce gave them occasion to revise the documents that governed their lives, they had amended their will, to cede to Ian and Cheryl, in the now even less likely event of their simultaneous deaths, custody of Jacob and Andrew. It was better to be prepared, who knew that better than their family?

  “Go on, then.” Christopher, like every part-time father, counted on being obeyed.

  Jacob muttered something, and abandoned the table and the adults, the plate so small in his large hands.

  “Such a teenager, already. Advanced in his attitude, I think.” Rebecca was apologetic.

  “Never mind.” Ian was hard to rattle. “We were all there, weren’t we? When I think about what I put my mother through.”

  “It’s hard to believe when they’re small. Like Ivy. She’s still so sweet. It’s hard to picture that someday she’ll roll her eyes at everything you and Cheryl say. But it’s coming.”

  “You don’t see her at home.” Ian laughed and his laugh had music in it. “She’s on her best behavior here, but believe me, I get plenty of eye rolling.”

  “I thought they were sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  Christopher sounded drunk. Perhaps he was. Should she let him drive home? Make some strong tea? What was her responsibility, and would she be able to meet it? “You want some more cake?” He hadn’t even eaten his first piece. She thought if he ate more it would sober him up.


  “She has her moments.” Ian was impatient. He’d sent the boy away for a reason. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  There were few more effective ways to change a room’s atmosphere than such a pronouncement. Suddenly, the cake seemed soggy and uninteresting, the lights too bright, Cheryl’s absence notable. What was taking her so long? “Is something the matter?”

  “Everything’s fine. It’s fine.” Ian’s wide eyes narrowed when he smiled but also when he was being serious. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. It sounds like I’m making a big speech. Everything is fine,” he said again. “Rebecca. Christopher. You know we think the world of you. Of. What you’ve done. For Andrew. For us. For Cheryl’s mom.”

  “You’re not getting a divorce. You’re not moving away.”

  Ian laughed. “Nothing like that. See, it’s all come out so different than I wanted. I’m just trying to. Clarify. That before I say anything, you need to understand that Cheryl and I, you know. We think the world of you.”

  “I know that.” She’d come, over time, to assume so. It was odd to have love declared. It made the thing seem suspect. Christopher was nodding slowly and looking toward the window. He was not given to direct exchanges. He had to be drunk to navigate a complicated conversation. The day they’d finally admitted that they needed to divorce, they’d shared a bottle of wine.

  Cheryl came in. She’d found the tray, the teacups, the sugar bowl, she’d known it all. She filled the cups and handed them around. The room was quiet as befitted this ceremony.

  “I see you’re talking.” Cheryl was in on this, too.

  “I wish we were. What’s the matter?” Rebecca panicked. The television was blaring, but she didn’t want to leave and scold the children.

  “There’s no problem. I just . . .” Ian was at a loss.

  “We need to tell you something. About something. Three weeks ago, Ian was on his way home from the dealership. It wasn’t so late. Eight? Late enough that rush hour was over.”

  “There was no traffic.” Ian watched his wife.

  “Now that night, he was bringing home one of the new cars. They do that sometimes, the salesmen. Give them a run. Get to know how it feels.”

  “The series three. A beautiful one, jet black, black interior. A special choice but there’s someone out there who’ll love it.”

  “So he’s driving home, a little late. In this brand-new black BMW. You can tell where this is going.”

  “I can’t.” Christopher must have been eager, to pipe in thus. “What’s happened?”

  “There are certain things you need to know, Rebecca. Christopher. Certain things you need to understand. If you’re going to raise a black son.” Ian’s words were not unkind. “All little black boys need to hear this from their mom or dad at some point. If Jacob were black, you’d have had this talk already.”

  “What talk?”

  “They pulled him over, Rebecca. The police.” Cheryl crossed her arms.

  “Which is fine. I’m used to it. It’s a nice car—”

  “But more than that—”

  “A brand-new car, with dealer plates—”

  “They made him get out and lie on the ground—”

  “It was dark—”

  “He was wearing a suit. A Brooks Brothers suit. Like he does every day at work—”

  “It was cold. There was still salt on the pavement. Stained my tie. The dry cleaner says there’s no getting that out. I had to throw it away.”

  “They called another car, and another. Three cars. One man, in a suit, on his way home, lying on the icy pavement. Six policemen. Cars rushing by.”

  “Not so many. Downtown Bethesda, eight at night. Maybe some people heading to the movies. A restaurant.”

  “Guns drawn. Shouting—”

  “She wasn’t there—”

  “You said there was shouting. I’m telling the story—”

  “There was some—”

  “Screaming at him, Get on the ground, boy, show us your hands, boy. Boy, that’s the thing. He’s thirty-five years old. We know what that boy is.”

  “This was different.”

  “I can’t stop imagining it. You try. Imagine it. Flashlights. Sirens. And Ian. He’s been at work the whole day. It’s freezing. He’s lying on the street. What else are you going to do in that situation?”

  “But I don’t understand.” Sometimes the truth was the best. Rebecca did not understand.

  “You don’t understand. That’s why we’re telling it.” Cheryl’s eyes were tired but fierce. “That’s his point. You don’t understand. Ian wanted to tell you. To prepare you for the talk you need to have—”

  “I wanted you to know.” Ian was clearer now. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  “Go on, Ian. Please.” Rebecca pushed her plate away. She wanted to get up, move around the table, sit by the man, hold his hand. That was her instinct.

  “I don’t remember, is the thing. One second, I’m driving home. Thinking about dinner, I’m so hungry. Thinking about how I need to go to the dentist. Thinking about how I want to take off my tie and kiss Ivy good night and shower. Feel warm again. It’s so cold and so dark. This time of year, I’m so ready for the clock to change. Spring forward. Then these lights, red lights, blue lights, and I know it’s for me, for this black BMW. I’m not speeding, by the way.”

  “He’s not speeding. That’s not the point.”

  “So I do what you do. Pull over. Hazards on. Car off. Hands on the wheel.”

  “But this is ridiculous.” Christopher scoffed. “What about just cause? I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

  Cheryl laughed. Not even meanly, but genuinely. “You’ve never heard of anything like this, Christopher, that’s why we’re telling you.”

  “Then the shouting. But I couldn’t make it out. And I didn’t know what to do. I’d already done everything I could think to do. I’d turned off the car, had my hands on the wheel. Hearing this voice, yelling at me, and I know I’m going to need to do something, I know I’m being told to do something. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “He can’t hear well. I don’t know if you knew that. But he can’t.”

  “I can’t hear well, it’s true. Been that way since I was a kid.”

  “Not that it’s the point.”

  “So I open the door. I figure that’s it. They want me to open the door.”

  “What would you do?” Cheryl looked at Rebecca. “What do you do?”

  “What can you do?” Rebecca didn’t know. “I would have opened the door.”

  “I opened the door, and they’re still shouting.”

  “Screaming at him. In the middle of downtown Bethesda. Five blocks from the dealership. Restaurants. Pedestrians. This beautiful place that we live in.”

  “Get down, get down. I barely understand, but I know to get down.”

  “He needs to get down.”

  “I sort of throw myself out of the car. On my knees. I don’t know what else to do. But I figure. On my knees. They’ll understand.”

  “On his knees.” Cheryl was whispering.

  “On my knees.”

  Like a prayer, Rebecca thought. Or like a beggar.

  “On the knees of his Brooks Brothers suit on Old Georgetown Road. Like a—I was going to say a criminal, but that’s something else, isn’t it. Like an animal.”

  “They said, Hands on your head. I put my hands on my head. They said, Down motherfucker. I lay down. On the road. They said, He has a gun, and I prayed that they saw I didn’t have a gun. It was the keys. I had the keys in my hand. Just an instinct. I don’t know. The keys, they’re in my hand.”

  “Like a criminal.” Cheryl stared at Christopher. “But less than. You worked with criminals, didn’t you, Christopher? That’s a criminal. Your old bosses are criminals. My husband is not a criminal.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty.” Christopher took a bite of his cake. “The world out there. It’s gone mad.
Planes fall from the sky. The people with power abuse it.” He still sounded drunk. “Please. Finish the story.”

  “I lay there on Old Georgetown Road. The road itself was right up under my cheek. Dirt on my suit.”

  “You know why that matters?” Cheryl was calm. “Respectable. It’s the thing they wanted us to be. His mom. My mom. You wear nice clothes, people will know you’re a nice person. You dress like the person you are. But of course, that doesn’t actually make a damn bit of difference.”

  “It’s not like I was . . .” Ian searched. “In jeans? A sweatshirt? My suit. Be calm. I told myself. Nothing less calming than telling yourself to be calm. I breathed deep. I thought of Cheryl. I thought of Ivy. I thought of Andrew. I thought of you. I thought of the people I love and thought, well, I’m not going to die on Old Georgetown Road on a Thursday night in February. I’m not going to do that.”

  “You thought of us.”

  “I thought of you, Rebecca. Of course I did. I thought of my family.”

  “That’s what he wanted to tell you.”

  “What happened?” Christopher was rapt.