by David Bergen
Lena studied the scene below them. Her hand took Mason’s elbow. “That’s your mom, then,” she said. She didn’t seem surprised.
His mother turned and looked up at the clock and said something and Mason stepped back from the railing and pulled Lena with him. Then Mason leaned forward and looked down and he saw his mother talking and holding the man’s arm and the man began to laugh. He was handsome and looked younger than his mother, and then his mother laughed again and the man’s hands, covered with leather gloves, lifted and held Mason’s mother’s face and he said something to her and she took his arm and they walked on and disappeared. “Jesus Christ,” Mason said.
Lena looked at him. She seemed small and inconsequential.
“Come on,” Lena said. She took his arm and led him past the closed shops and down the escalators to the outside doors and across the street where they waited for the bus. Mason kept looking around as if expecting his mother to reappear.
They took the bus up to the Liquor Commission and Mason walked Lena home. She asked him to come in to meet her awful sisters and her awful parents but Mason stopped at the steps and looked at the house and said, “No, no, I’ll come on Saturday. Should I dress up?”
Lena laughed. “How? As Zorro? Sure, that would be fine. Don’t forget to memorize something. Anything simple from the Old Testament is good.”
He said that he had a passage picked out. It was easy and he even liked it but he didn’t know whether it was from the Old Testament.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re so lovely.” She pushed her tongue deep into his startled mouth and only later did he realize that that was how it would always be, she would decide what was good and fair and dirty and raw and ugly and lovely and he, he would nod and say, Yes.
“I was just asking,” he said, “Because if I show up all formal it might not look good. You see?”
“Wear that silky shirt. That blue slippery one. I love it.” She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry about your mother. She’s cool.” And then she turned and went inside and Mason walked down the stairs and stood on the sidewalk looking in. He could see one of Lena’s sisters doing handstands. She was wearing a skirt and the legs went up and the skirt tumbled and the legs were white and long and the underwear was blue and then the legs disappeared and Mason wished with a dull ache that he had a sister. All the secrets he could have learned. A sister was flagrant and easy and obvious. A sister was a teacher. No competition, no threat. And a sister would know what to do with his mother.
He walked home over the bridge. It was colder. Snow had been promised. The river was high and wild and fast, and as happened each time he crossed the bridge, Mason wondered if a car would run up on the sidewalk and hit the backs of his knees and throw him over the balustrade and he would somersault and hit the water and die.
When he got home the house was empty. A single light was on in the hall. He called for his mother. There was no answer. He took off his boots and walked around the house to check for burglars and perverts. He was alone. He ate a bowl of cereal and listened to the wind. He thought of putting on some music but didn’t really feel like it. He rinsed his bowl and left it in the sink. He went up to his mother’s room and lay down on her bed. After a bit he stood and rummaged through his mother’s drawers. Thongs both white and black, lacy underwear that could serve no other purpose than to excite, hose, socks, dried flowers, a spent bottle of Chanel No. 5, a pack of old cigarettes, a Ziploc bag with letters, ribbons from her athletic high school days, loose change, and in the back, tucked into a box, a vibrator and body lubricant. Mason took out the vibrator. Turned it on. It was innocuous, the scent of metal and plastic, perhaps strawberry. He put the vibrator away and rummaged some more, thinking he might find a diary in which his mother would reveal the name of the man at the mall. There was no diary. He lay down on the bed and fell asleep and he dreamed that Lena was sitting on Mr. Ferry’s lap reading to him and Mason’s mother entered the room and called out, “Mason?”
He woke. His mother was sitting beside him holding his hand. Her own hands were cold. She released him and removed her shoes. Stood and hiked her skirt and rolled her pantyhose down. She sat and pulled them off. Her back was to him and he could see the straps of her bra through her top. She smelled of something different; leather perhaps, someone else, cologne.
“Where were you?” Mason asked.
“I was out with Rhonda. Drank too much. Listened to music. Talked.” She paused. “Close your eyes,” she said and she stood and pulled down her skirt and stooped to pick it up and Mason watched and saw her tiny black panties and the smack of her thigh. She tossed the skirt onto the bed and put on loose pants. Tied the drawstring. Said, “What did you do?”
Mason looked at her. She hadn’t faced him yet. He said, “Read. Waited for you.” He was studying his mother’s profile. She went into the bathroom and Mason followed her.
He said, “I saw you.”
She picked up a brush and brushed her hair. She was cold and efficient as she looked at him in the mirror. She said, “Oh, where?”
“At the mall.”
“Really? When?”
“Tonight.”
She considered this. Turned and looked at Mason. Asked, “Why didn’t you say hi?”
Mason shrugged.
“You and Lena?” she asked.
Mason said, Yes, him and Lena. Then he asked, “What’s his name?”
She sighed and said, “His name’s Aldous and he’s just a friend. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“When’s Dad coming back?” Mason asked.
“Next week. He called yesterday and said he could either come back and drive taxi or work as a carpenter out of town. He was offered a job framing houses in Kenora. He didn’t take it. Not yet.”
“What’ll happen?” Mason asked. “You’ll move there?”
“No. No. I couldn’t leave my job. Who’d buy you food and clothes?”
“He’d live there?”
“He would.” The prospect seemed to please her. Her mouth lifted and though it might have been a grimace Mason saw it as a smile. She said, “He likes to live away from home. Haven’t you noticed?” She turned again and looked at him. “Don’t blame me for all of it, Mason.”
Mason went to the kitchen and looked out the window. It had begun to rain and there was ice forming on the window-pane. He heard his mother behind him and saw her image reflected in the darkness of the pane. She said, “Marriage is like a car, Mason, it needs repair sometimes and your father doesn’t like to repair things. He’d rather run.”
Mason didn’t think this was true. Adultery was worse than running. There was nothing creative or good or pleasant about having your mother sleep with a man who was not your father.
His mother said, “You think I’m selfish. Is that it?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Don’t blame anyone,” she said, and then she said that sex and heartbreak could tumble down around the heads of anyone, young or old, and he shouldn’t think that was his domain. It wasn’t. Love wasn’t just a privilege of youth. “Do you love Lena?” she asked. She had reached up into the cupboard and was pouring herself a glass of Scotch. She dipped her finger in and licked it. Eyed Mason. Took a sip.
He said, “I’m not married to Lena. I didn’t promise her anything.” Then he said what he’d been thinking. He told his mother that she had had her chance and now it was his chance and she was stealing away the best years of his life. And what kind of name was that? Did he think he was Huxley or some Aryan stud? Mason finished and began to cry and his mother looked shocked. She put her glass down and said, “Mason,” and walked over and pulled his head against her breasts and said, “Mason, Mason, Mason.” When he was finished crying she took his chin in her hands and looked at him and said, “These aren’t your best years. It gets better, believe me,” and she poured him a small amount of Scotch and handed it to him. “Here,” she said, as if this were the comfort he needed. He took it and dr
ank and shuddered. She poured him more and they sat at the table. She crossed her legs and said this wasn’t a contest between Mason’s father and Aldous. “It’s possible to love more than one person. This may not be a good thing but it’s a fact.” She lifted her glass and looked at it.
Mason said, “So Danny gets it from you.” Her face was younger in the soft yellow light of the dining-room lamp. “You know. The sex. The fucking-around thing.”
“I don’t do the fucking-around thing.” Her speech was slow, as if her tongue had been lashed to the roof of her mouth. She dipped her finger in her drink again, licked it, and studied Mason as if considering her next words. Then she said, “Two times, that’s all. Two times I had sex with Aldous.”9
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t care,” he said.
His mother, ignoring him, dragged him in further. She said, “He makes me feel alive. Well? You might as well know.”
“Go away,” Mason said.
His mother looked surprised. She said, “You hate me. Is that it?”
“I don’t like you. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow again or next week, but right now I think you’re pretty lousy.”
His mother said that he was right. She was lousy. She sighed and stood and went to rinse her glass and Mason saw the curve of her waist and the dip of her head and her arm reaching up to replace the glass in the cupboard and he wondered if Aldous had a bigger penis than his father.10
He figured that his father didn’t know. On Sunday morning, Mason found his parents in the kitchen reading the paper and drinking coffee. His father was happy. He was telling Mason’s mother a story and his voice went up and down and when he was finished he laughed. His mother was wearing white pants and a black sleeveless top. She’d been eating toast. She lowered the newspaper and asked Mason to pour her more coffee. Mason did this and then got a glass of orange juice and went into the next room to watch TV. He wondered what his father would do when he found out.
Over the next week Mason tried to avoid his parents but he kept bumping into his mother. Once, she came into his room and stood in his doorway and waited until he turned down his stereo and then she asked, “Have you told your father?” She paused and then continued, “Because if you’re planning on it could you let me know? Before you do that?”
“I’m not going to say anything,” Mason said. “I’ll leave that to you.”
His mother looked around at the walls of his room and then back at him and said, “Are you okay?” Her arms were crossed as if she were hugging herself. He could tell she was nervous and that she wanted him to say something. He was quiet. She said, just before turning to leave, “I shouldn’t have told you what I told you, about Aldous and me. That was unfair. To everybody. I guess I was angry. Anyway.” She sighed and stepped out of the room and shut the door and Mason sat there wondering if she might come back, but she didn’t. Later in the day, after Mason’s father had gone to work, she left the house dressed in a black dress and a red coat. She didn’t say goodbye or tell Mason where she was going. The coat looked brand new.
That following Saturday evening Mason went to the Schellendal house for supper. Lena and her sisters surrounded him. They dropped in age by twos so that the youngest, Emily, was eleven. She was also the most mysterious; silent, circumspect, and left-handed. Lena’s grandmother was there: stooped and blue-haired, she commanded attention at the far side of the table. Nana – that’s what the girls called her. Mr. Schellendal had fried pickerel in butter and flour and now served everyone straight from the pan. He wore a tea towel at his waist and took it off just before seating himself. The family prayed. They held hands and Mr. Schellendal thanked God for the fish and the salad and the fresh frozen beans and good health and for Mason, Lena’s friend. Emily did not close her eyes. Neither did Mason, who sat between Lena and her mother, and whose hand was slightly damp.
They ate and the girls talked and Mrs. Schellendal paid attention to Mason, replenishing his plate. The thirteen-year-old, Margot, got the giggles and excused herself and returned with her hair combed back and pulled into a tight ponytail. Over dessert Mrs. Schellendal asked Mason what his father did.
Mason said that he was a salesman. And then, perhaps because he wanted to make his own family life sound more interesting, he said that his father also wrote plays. He did this late at night when most people were sleeping. His father didn’t like to talk about his writing.
“You never told me that,” Lena said.
“That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Schellendal said. “Years ago, in a community play, I acted.”
“She was Cordelia,” Lena’s father said. He lifted a hand, leaned forward, and focused on his wife. “ ‘Nothing?’ ” he cried out.
“ ‘Nothing,’ ” she answered.
“ ‘Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.’ ”
“ ‘Unhappy that I am I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty according to my bond, no more nor less.’ ”
Mrs. Schellendal paused, her gaze seeking out the grandmother and then Mason and finally her daughters. Lena began a slow mocking clap. Mason glanced at the girls and then at Lena’s father. He seemed oblivious to Lena, who had stopped clapping. Emily smirked and held her fork like a shovel.
Margot said, “Dad, you do that every time we have guests. It’s old. Boring.”
“It’s all we know, isn’t it, Beth?”
Mrs. Schellendal agreed. When Mason turned towards her he was very close to her ear, a perfect whorl and the attached lobe. Across the table, Lena’s sister Rosemary, whom Mason recognized from school, twirled her fork and studied him. He noticed this.
Lena’s father said, “It runs in the family, this need for attention.” He pointed an index finger at himself. “Not me, of course. Just the girls. This is why they all take singing lessons. They want to be famous. Though I fear they do not take criticism well.”
“What’s to criticize?” Lena asked.
Her father raised his head and said, “Willst du ein Knopf am Kirchturm sein, werden dich die Krahen hacken.”11
Lena’s grandmother said, “Oh, now, must we?”
Lena pressed against Mason’s shoulder and whispered, “You okay?”
Mason nodded. Mystified, he looked at the two youngest girls who seemed happily unaware, and then over at Mr. Schellendal, who asked, “Do you want to be a writer like your father, Mason?”
“He is,” Lena said. “He writes poetry.”
“Love poems?” Emily asked. She raised her left hand and moved her fork in a slow circle. She was, Mason thought, the most like Lena.
“Not really,” Mason said.
“They’re not that obvious,” Lena said.
Her father asked Mason if he had a particular poet he liked to read. Robert Frost, perhaps.
Mason answered, breathlessly, that Frost was a great poet. Though his poetry seemed simple, it wasn’t. He turned to Lena, who was staring at her father. Suddenly anchorless, Mason said that poetry could come in all shapes and sizes and that even the Bible had its poetry. Perhaps it was nervousness or perhaps he believed that this was expected of him but he began to recite what he had learned from the Bible, pausing briefly after the first line. But then he continued and he was aware of the girls watching him with amused looks and when he reached the line, “So, there is nothing new under the sun,” Lena’s father held up a hand and said, “You don’t have to prove anything, Mason.” Then, as if to dispute his own advice, he asked, “Who wrote that?”
“Solomon,” Lena said.
Mr. Schellendal ignored her and asked Mason, “Why do you think Solomon had such a bleak view? What was he saying?”
Rosemary looked up suddenly; her smallness surprised Mason. She was stubbornly silent. Lena, across from him, shrugged. He felt Mrs. Schellendal’s presence, the sweet acquiescent sorrow she carried. “I don’t know,” he said, and as he said this he caught Mr. Schellendal’s gaze and he thought, I have put your daughter’s breasts in my mouth.
Lena
’s grandmother said that there was too much arguing in the family. “Ask a question like that of six people, Silas, and you’ll get six different answers. Maybe the boy doesn’t care what Solomon meant. Do you, Mason?”
Mason looked around the table. Lena said, “Nana hates arguments.”
“This wasn’t an argument,” Mr. Schellendal said.
“My own parents always fought,” Nana said. “Every meal they’d argue. About the food, the weather, politics. It’s pointless.”
“Of course it’s pointless,” Mrs. Schellendal said.
“Don’t humour me,” Nana cried. Her hand lifted. “I’m not dead yet.”
Emily stood and began to clear the table. She took her nana’s plate first and bent down and hugged her.
“Thank you,” Nana said, “dear, dear child,” and she looked directly at Lena’s father, who was settling back into his chair and folding his napkin.
After supper they all went into the family room and watched videos of the girls growing up. Mason sat beside Lena. Emily curled up against his other shoulder. There were shots of the girls as infants, the girls skating, the girls at their cousin’s wedding, the girls celebrating birthdays. Throughout, Emily and Lena and Margot squealed and called out comments. Rosemary said nothing. Not even when the film cut to a church and showed her baptism the year before.
Mr. Schellendal said, “Rosemary’s our only daughter who has chosen to be baptized.”
It was a lesson for Mason. Rosemary walked down into a tank of water. She stood beside an older man who put his arm around her.
“That’s Pastor Gary,” Mrs. Schellendal called out. She was sitting on a small stool, her back very straight. Her feet were crossed and were tucked to one side of the stool.
Rosemary looked nervous; her face was small and white. Then she fell back into the water and reappeared, a wet rag, in the arms of the pastor.
“Whooosh,” Lena whispered in Mason’s ear. She put her hand on his thigh. He felt Emily’s warmth against his arm.
Then there were images of the girls on the beach in Florida. “Disney World,” screeched Emily. Lena was wearing a bright blue two-piece. She looked chubby but seemed unaware of it as she pranced before the camera.
