The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “No, it’s really awful; there aren’t many people and I don’t think anyone knew her except me. And her husband; he’s in the front row and I haven’t talked to him. Abby, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes! I mean, of course; why wouldn’t I be?” Abby felt a flash of resentment. Of course I’m all right! Does she think I need her? “So, all those people …they never knew her?”

  “I don’t think so; I can’t imagine who they are. The minister never knew her, either; he talks about life and death as if we’re at a service for some generic person, not an individual. Abby, I don’t really have to be here; I’ll come home.”

  “No! You wanted to be there, you told me you owed it to Pussy.”

  “But you come first. I’m on my way.”

  Oh, thank you, thank you, Abby said silently.

  “Abby?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Sara stood still for a moment, then called Reuben. “I’m sorry, I can’t see you tonight. Something’s wrong with Abby, or maybe all of them; I don’t know what’s going on, but I have to be there.”

  There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry. I was prepared to give you food and wine and music to cheer you up after the service.”

  “Exactly what I need. Where are you?”

  “At my desk.”

  “I like to be able to picture you, where you are, what you’re doing. Were you at River Bend all day?”

  “I was. Tell me where you are.”

  “In the very dreary reception room of the funeral home, with the unpleasantly cheerful voice of the minister oozing through the closed door, talking about a woman he never knew. And now I’m walking out, toward my car. Did you talk to the people you wanted to see in River Bend?”

  “Most of them. Nice people, concerned about their communities, confused about the conflicting information they’re getting. Not confused enough to wait, however; they’ve scheduled demonstrations for Sunday, and the Sunday after that, and somehow they’ve convinced the county board not to approve annexation until we make concessions.”

  “What concessions?”

  “We don’t know yet, but my guess is they’ll be ones we can’t agree to. Whoever is behind this wants to force us to sell the land.”

  “So they can buy it and build… what?”

  “No idea, except that I’d guess it won’t be parks for the people. Isaiah’s staff is looking into anyone who’s shown interest in the property in the past year. No one tonight could tell us who it is; they genuinely didn’t seem to know.”

  “But you’re not selling!”

  “Not yet, but there’s a limit to how long we can carry the costs of the land without knowing when or if we can start building. Look, you have enough on your mind tonight; can you stay with me tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t looked at your calendar.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll cancel anything on it. Can we have a late dinner? I’d like to stay with the children until they’ve eaten.”

  “Any time you want. I miss you.”

  Standing beside her car in the parking lot, Sara closed her eyes, picturing Reuben at his desk in his book-lined study, idly moving chess pieces on the inlaid board beside his chair. “Yes,” she said, and drove home thinking she could have said much more. I miss you whenever I’m not with you, I store up things to tell you, I think about you no matter what I’m doing or where I am. But neither of them was ready to make declarations. Both were too cautious, wary of what could go wrong.

  Sara knew what it was to make plans, to invest herself in imagined scenarios only to have everything come crashing down. She supposed something like that had happened to Reuben to make him wary; it was more palatable to suppose that than to contemplate the possibility that he was a man incapable of commitment.

  And I can hardly ask him. She smiled a little wistfully. They could talk about almost anything in the world, but she could not ask him that.

  What she could do, what she had to do, she thought as she approached her house, was help Abby. The truth was, she hadn’t been as much a part of their lives as she had been before…

  Before Mack arrived.

  And—be honest—Reuben.

  The lights were on in all the rooms of the house, and at the game table in the library a spirited session of Monopoly was under way. “Sara, look what I just bought!” Doug cried as she walked into the room. “New York! You always win with New York! And the other orange ones… right?”

  “The reds!” Carrie cried. “And I have all three of them and I’m about to build houses on all of them!”

  Chilled, Sara stood in the doorway. All the energy in the room was in the warm, close circle at the table; the rest of the house, for all its lighted windows, seemed somehow in shadow.

  “Abby,” Sara said, and Abby raised her head from concentrating on her property cards. “Hi,” she said, her voice colorless. Sara saw resentment in her eyes, but also confusion. Abby was not happy, but she did not like it that Sara had come home, as if in response to a cry for help.

  “Great game, sis,” Mack cried gaily, without looking up from counting his money. “You want to sit in? Be somebody’s silent partner?”

  Sara kept her voice light. “You all look pretty well set. I’ll be in my office.” If anyone wants me, she started to say, but bit back the words, and turned blindly to the stairs, stunned by the fact that there were tears in her eyes.

  Her office was quiet, with only an occasional boisterous shout of glee or despair from the library cutting across her thoughts. They did not need her anymore. Mack had taken over, and they were all happy with him. How had it happened? Stories from far-off places? A few gifts? A car, a writing journal, a promise (vague and so far unfulfilled) of a gallery show. Was that really enough? Or was it her absences? But it’s only been two or three nights a week, she thought; wasn’t that allowed?

  Or was he a better parent?

  She put her head in her hands. She did not really believe that, but the thought nagged: maybe he knew something she did not. This was absurd, she thought; once she had wanted nothing more than to shed the responsibility of a family and concentrate on her own goals, and now that Mack seemed to be helping her do just that, she felt discarded and depressed. Never satisfied, she thought, annoyed with herself, and then quickly raised her head as she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  “Totally bankrupt,” Carrie said, and dropped onto the couch. “They wiped me out. Maybe Doug was right about the orange ones.”

  “Was it a fun game?” Sara asked.

  “Oh, sure. Well—” Carrie frowned. “Well… sure. But, you know, Mack is pretty mean about Monopoly. And things are really mixed up now.”

  Sara felt a surge of hope. “Mixed up?”

  “It’s, you know, hard to tell what’s happening? I mean, one minute everything’s really fun and happy, and then it’s all…oh, I don’t know…sort of…well, not fun… like you can’t tell what’s going on.”

  “Is it something about Abby or Doug?”

  “No.” Carrie sighed. “It’s Mack. I can’t figure him out. I mean, you ought to be able to figure out your own family, right? I mean, a writer ought to be doing that all the time, figuring out why people are odd or weird or mean or whatever. I should be able to do that, right? If I’m going to be a great writer?”

  Sara waited a moment, feeling as if she were picking her way through a minefield. She sat beside Carrie and put her arm around her. “You’re terrific at understanding people. All your stories show that. And, the truth is, I find Mack a puzzle a lot of the time.”

  Carrie looked up in wonder. “You do? But you know everything.”

  Sara smiled. “Not quite. I hope I know more than you do; otherwise, what good is it to get older? But I know for sure that I’ll never know everything. The world is so big and complicated, and puzzling, that one person can’t ever know everything, much less understand it all,
and sometimes that even includes the mysteries in families.”

  “Like ours.”

  “Like ours.” Sara paused again, her thoughts snagged on Pussy Corcoran’s death. “The best we can do,” she said at last, “is to store up information, and be able to pull out pieces of it when we need them, and relate them to other things we’ve learned, and put them all together to come to conclusions and make decisions. The most important thing is to be alert to what’s going on around you. The more you see—really see, not just note in passing—the more you’ll store up and understand and have available when you need it.”

  “That’s observation. You’re always telling me that.”

  “Because it’s important for all of us, but for a writer it’s essential.”

  “My English teacher said that, too. She said we should be observant and not let things slide by without paying attention.”

  “Good advice.” They were silent. Sara thought of asking more about Mack—what did he do, what did he say?—but she thought she ought to let it come from Carrie, without prodding.

  And then she could not stop herself. “Do Doug and Abby feel the way you do about Mack? Puzzled?”

  “I don’t know. Well…I guess so. We don’t talk about it.” She squirmed within Sara’s arm—as if she can’t bear the thought of criticizing Mack—and said abruptly, “I have an idea for a story. I guess I should go write it.”

  “Absolutely.” Sara hugged Carrie and kissed the top of her head. “I love you. And I think you are wonderfully observant.”

  Carrie nodded soberly. “Thanks.” She sprang up and started for the door, then turned back. “I forgot… Susie wants me to spend the night tomorrow. Can I?”

  “Of course. Starting when?”

  “Oh, afternoon I guess. We’ll probably go to a movie. Thanks, Sara, I love you.”

  Sara smiled. Just so I know they still love me.

  When the telephone rang, she went to her desk and answered it absently, thinking of the game downstairs, and heard Donna Soldana’s voice, tense and breathless. “Sara, can I come to your house? I’ve got to come, I haven’t anyplace…I mean, I don’t know who to…Sara? Can I come? Now?”

  Sara tried to switch to another set of problems. Donna had been so quiet lately, an efficient secretary with no talk of the father she had fled after he raped her, no tales of his stalking her or attempting to lure her somewhere.

  “What’s wrong, Donna? Where are you?”

  “On Clark Street, a few blocks from your— Sara, you’ve got to let me come, I need somebody, I need you, I’ve been walking for hours, I’m so tired. I won’t be a bother, I’ll sleep on the floor, anywhere…Sara? Are you still there?”

  Sara’s thoughts were in turmoil, replaying the last time she had heard such a plea—Sara, can I come live with you?—when she had spent half an hour finding Pussy a place to stay instead of telling her, of course she could come, at least for that night, for two nights, for as long as it took to discover what had happened and what Pussy, with her help, could do about it.

  Pussy, earlier than that, who had stood at the foot of the stairs, smiling desperately, saying “I need you,” and now was dead.

  “All right,” she said to Donna. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor; there’s a sofa in the basement recreation room, if you don’t mind that. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Oh, you know…”

  “What?”

  “Anyway, the basement’s fine. Anywhere’s fine. I’ll be right there.”

  And don’t bother to thank me, Sara thought, and then was ashamed of herself.

  “Sara, Mack’s got a gallery for me!” Doug flung himself onto the couch. “A gallery! For a show! My own show! Just me, nobody else! Isn’t that cool? He did it! Just like he said he would!”

  “It’s wonderful,” Sara said cautiously. “He really has a gallery? I mean, a real gallery?”

  “Right, he says it’s in Franklin Park.”

  “I didn’t know there were galleries in Franklin Park. And when is your show?”

  “Mack says they’re negotiating. ‘Soon to be definitively datively determined,’ he said. You know how he talks. And, you know, he was being sort of awful, before; you know, kind of mean, like he didn’t like us at all, but he does, he does, and I’m going to have a show and be a real artist!”

  “He was mean?” Sara asked.

  “Oh, you know…”

  Why do people keep saying “you know,” when I don’t? “What do I know?” she asked, not as sympathetically as she might have done.

  “Oh, you know—” Doug bit it off. “He’s just weird, sometimes, like he says things or makes fun of us, well, he doesn’t really make fun of us, but…you know. But he’s really cool, Sara, he really is. I mean, he’s about the best brother I could ever have, right?” He jumped up. “I have to get going on my carvings, so I have enough; Mack says I need like thirty pieces at least.”

  “How many do you have now?”

  “I don’t know, a hundred, maybe. But I have to choose the best. This is my big chance! I have to be really good!”

  Suddenly alarmed, Sara sat beside Doug, and put her arm around him, as she had with Carrie. “Doug, sweetheart, don’t pin all your hopes on this; if it really happens, it’s not a make-or-break event.”

  “It is going to happen!”

  “It may. But you can’t be sure until it’s a done deal. You know that. All I’m saying is, whatever happens, nothing will be forever. You’ll have lots of shows in the future; you really have a fine talent, and once it has a chance to mature—”

  “You’re always saying that.” Doug fidgeted, jumped up, nervously bounced on his toes. “Mack says I’m ready, and he knows. He’s been all over the world and he knows a lot about everything. He told us this story about an island called Nauru, really tiny, but it’s a whole country, you know, its own government and everything, and they’re really poor, but there’s a treasure, only it’s hidden and some guys—they’re as old as Carrie and me—are going to find it. Cool story.”

  “I think I’ll talk to him,” Sara said. “Where is he?”

  “He went out. Can I stay over at Jeff’s tomorrow night? He asked me at camp today; it’s okay with his mom.”

  “Of course. Starting when?”

  “I guess lunchtime. His mom might drive us to a movie. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. Night, Sara.” His kissed her cheek. “Love you,” he said, and was gone.

  Sara stared unseeing out the window until she heard the doorbell. On her way to answer it, she met Abby at the foot of the stairs. “Someone named Donna. You said she could stay here? You’re not giving her my room!”

  “Of course not; she’ll sleep in the recreation room. I wouldn’t give anyone your room, Abby, you know that. Donna is my secretary and she’s in trouble, and she needs a quiet place for a night or two, until we find her an apartment. She’s nice; you’ll like her.”

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t like strangers in our house.”

  You’ve never objected to Mack.

  Shocked, Sara thought, What is wrong with me? I don’t usually have nasty thoughts, especially about my family.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Abby, apologizing for words Abby had not heard, and gave her a quick hug just as Donna appeared.

  “Sara, it’s so awful, the worst—” The last word slid up the scale into a shriek, and she burst into loud tears and wrapped Sara in clinging arms. “Awful, awful. You don’t know…the worst night of my life; I thought he’d kill me!”

  Sara pulled away. “Kill you? But how—?”

  “He was knocking me around and he—oh, God!” she wailed, the word screeching up and down the scale and through the house like the tribal cry of mourning women.

  Doug and Carrie had rushed from their rooms and were about to run downstairs, when Sara saw them and shook her head. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice calm beneath Donna’s wails. “Everything’s under control.�
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  “But she’s screaming,” Doug said.

  “I know.” Sara contemplated her quiet, efficient secretary, suddenly transformed into a banshee. “There’s nothing to watch,” she said a little sharply to Doug and Carrie.

  “I guess we’re not wanted,” Carrie said, and in a moment the two of them, in lockstep, backed up to their rooms.

  “He picked up a knife!” Donna cried. “And I couldn’t—”

  “What? Donna, listen to me. He was inside your apartment?”

  “Oh…well, you know.”

  “No,” Sara snapped. “I don’t.”

  Donna wept more noisily. Sara waited.

  “He started crying.” The words gulped out between sobs. “Like a baby, he got on his knees and said I couldn’t leave him, he’d die—”

  “Leave him? What are you talking about?”

  “Leave him! You know, like, never see him again.”

  “But he’s your father; you left him when you left home.”

  “Sara, I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m saying. Could I sit down?”

  “I’m sorry, of course you can. I shouldn’t have kept you standing here.” She turned Donna with her, and met Abby’s eyes, skeptical, even scornful. Sara had forgotten she was there. Jealous? she wondered. “Abby, please make up the sofa bed, and would you check the downstairs bathroom, too? Soap and a clean glass…you know what to do.”

  Abby nodded, and mouthed the words, “She’s lying.”

  Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll talk to you in your room.” She led Donna to the kitchen. “I’ll make a pot of tea for you to take downstairs. You need some time to yourself; we’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Have you got anything to eat? I never got dinner.”

  Damn it, Sara thought, becoming more cranky by the moment, I really would like just a little gratitude. In silence (and thank heavens Donna did not start wailing again), she heated a plate of leftover chicken and couscous, and made a pot of tea. “This way,” she said, and the two of them carried trays downstairs to the recreation room. Abby had made the sofa bed, folding back one corner of the sheet and blanket, and had turned on a floor lamp beside it. The light shone on the bed and a small table with a glass of water and two books. Sara looked at the titles: short stories by Balzac and O. Henry, favorites of Abby’s, though not, perhaps, of Donna’s, but how sweet of Abby to think of it.