The Art of Mothering

In Paris, beyond the Boulevard Périphérique where the rents were cheaper, I knew two Frenchmen very well. One short, yet ample; the other mustached. In London, there was a Scotsman with good legs and floppy cinnamon hair. Paolo, the Italian, had a blind mother, who after sniffing my neck became very fond of me.

Since the day her first blood stained a pair of tennis shorts, my daughter, Theresa, has enjoyed these stories—recast in my mind many times on the blank page of many nights—yet she’s quick to note the layers of clichés, the pools of hyperbole. That day, scrubbing the white cotton, grateful for the numbing of the icy wash water, I described a warm sea, a soaked blanket, and a Croat on a pebbly beach.

Robbie, my husband, Theresa’s father, had left the evening before. I knew it was coming, his departure, but it was a surprise to Theresa. She had no formed memory of the same happening when she was two, then four. When seven, she’d been away at summer camp.

“If he’d known today could be this special, he would have stayed,” I’d explained, anxious to continue on with the Croat.

Theresa had agreed. Robbie was a sensitive guy, and neither of us had foreseen his absence stretching into eight weeks—a time when Brian, a stranger, discovered me inert in the basement stacks of a public library. He’d asked why.

When she was a little older and no longer angry with me the nights Robbie didn’t come home, I brought Theresa to Brian’s apartment once, showed her around: the living room, the two deep armchairs, a coffee table, a bookcase with twelve bound copies of Brian’s doctoral thesis, a desk and bulky laptop; the bedroom, the bed, a bureau, no closet, a shoe tree, an empty ashtray still smelling of a shared joint; the balcony, the view, the barren planters. (p.61, The Long Road)

A Vagrant at the Door

The cork popped, and the knock at the front door sounded with it, so Clyde was unsure.

Using a damp paper towel, Lorraine wiped the insides of two stemmed glasses she’d found with slight difficulty and unconcealed angst. Her irritation clicked with each glass foot on the Formica counter, glossy and speckled with the look of mica chips. Her tone was a forced cheery. “What a nice surprise. Even though I’ve never really cared for the bubbly.”

Not gracious, yet her honesty made Clyde comfortable. It told him she wasn’t just looking for a man, any man, with any taste or opinion. He poured cautiously, minimizing the effervescence. “This one is not very dry. A champagne of the spirit according to the French.”

“I suppose they should know.” She took a hesitant sip.

“What’s the verdict?”

“What would be considered dry?”

He thought: it was delightful, in a way, her forthrightness, her lack of calculated attention. For he’d had his share of eyes popping in amazement during his conversations on gardening, music, tennis. And he was no longer complimented by excitement over his credentials— REALLY! a retired headmaster, WOW! Eastlake Academy. To that type, so blatantly eager, his jokes were hysterical, his ties stylish; no one minded if he picked corn from his teeth. His four years as a Marine—an officer; Vietnam—were rewarded with thin purring smiles, as if understanding was in order. The forty-two years of his marriage earned an AW! then a hand touched his shoulder or arm, once his cheek.