While my mother was out Gillian filled me on what she had learned. Apparently Mr. Angelosanto had stolen my mother's ATM and credit cards, or at least "borrowed" them while she lay dozing in her nuptial bed, and somehow used them to get $3,000.00, all of which he successfully gambled away in the wee small hours of the morning. (Later, when she got her credit card bill, she learned that he had also bought several lap dances [billed discreetly as "personal entertainment expense"], a $1,500 portable cigar humidor, $800 worth of cigars, and a dozen pairs of cashmere socks.)

"You aren't the normalest boy I know," my mother said. "Normal doesn't have a superlative form," I said.

I was in my bedroom when my mother returned from her summit meeting with Hilda Temple. Gillian had gone uptown to spend the night with Herr Schultz. For a while I could hear my mother in the living room talking to Miro. I've always been a bit jealous of how much my mother talks to the dog. In fact, I think we all talk to Miro more than we talk to one another. Then I heard her walking down the hall. I was sitting at my computer checking eBay. I'm selling my grandmother's huge collection of Bakelite jewelry, and we're making a lot of money. We split it fifty-fifty.

I heard my mother stop in my doorway but I didn't look up.

"Oh, you're home," she said.

Since this was obvious, I saw no point in either confirming or denying it.

"I thought you might be out," she said. "Shouldn't you be out?"

"Out where?"

"I don't know: Out. At a party or something. Or a movie. Or getting your eyebrow pierced. Or drinking and driving. You're eighteen and it's Friday night."

"It's Thursday night," I said.

"Whatever," she said. "You should still be out. I worry about you." She stood there for a moment.

I turned around. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just looking at you," she said. "You'll be gone before I know it."

I'm supposed to be going to Brown University this fall. Well, actually next month: there's some awful freshman-orientation thing the end of August, where we go camping and fend for ourselves in the wilderness (of Rhode Island!) and do those ridiculous exercises that foster camaraderie and build trust etc., etc. I dread it.

My mother sat down on my bed.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Angelosanto," I said. "Gillian told me what happened."

My mother said nothing.

"What did Hilda have to say?" I asked.

She looked up at me, and rubbed her eyes. She looked tired and there was some shadow of age about her I had never seen. "I'd rather not talk about Mr. Angelosanto," she said.

"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm sorry."

"You're so sweet," my mother said. "And I'm so tired. I don't think I've been this tired in all my life."

"You should go to bed."

In lieu of an answer, my mother lay down on my bed. I turned back to my computer. For a while neither of us spoke. I thought my mother might have fallen asleep, but when I turned around to look at her she was awake, staring up at the ceiling. There are those phosphorescent stars stuck on my ceiling from when I was a kid, but of course since it wasn't dark, they weren't shining. They just looked like little jaundiced spots on the ceiling.

"Look at this," I said.

My mother sighed and sat up. "What?" she said.

"This," I said. "Come over here." She got up and leaned over my shoulder. She smelled a little odd. I could smell Printemps, her favorite perfume, but there was another odor just beneath it, an odd, harsh odor of exhaustion or panic or despair. "What?" my mother said again.

"Someone's bid $85 for Nana's butterscotch bangle," I said.

"Oh James, I worry about you."

After a moment I said, "Why did you marry him?"

"Why?"

"Well, you aren't exactly the normalest boy I know."

"Normal doesn't have a superlative form," I said.

"I just wonder what will become of you."

"What will become of you?" I asked.

My mother sat back down on my bed. She didn't say anything, just spent some time smoothing out the duvet around her.

After a moment I said, "Why did you marry him?"

She didn't answer. She was looking out the window, or perhaps only looking at her reflection in the window — I couldn't tell. For a moment I thought perhaps I had not actually asked the question, only thought it. But then she shook her head lightly, as if to clear it. She was still facing the dark window. "Because I was lonely," she said.

I didn't know what to say. I said nothing.

"I get lonely," she continued. "Even with you, and Gillian when she deigns to honor us with her presence, and Miro, and my friends, and the gallery, and lunches and dinners and brunches. It was lovely to have someone to hold me in the night." She paused. "Oh," she said. "What am I saying? I shouldn't be telling you any of this. It isn't right."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll warp you. I'll pass all my bitterness and skepticism on to you, and you won't believe in love."

"But I don't believe in love already."

"Of course you don't. How could you? You've never been in love. Or have I missed something?"

"No," I said.

"You will," she said.

"No I won't," I said. "I was just thinking today I would never fall in love."

"Why? Because of me? Because of what happened with Barry?"

"Partly," I said. "But it wasn't just that. It's everything."

"Everything? What do you mean, everything?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well, I suppose that's natural. I suppose if I were you, growing in the world today, I'd feel the same way. But I'm not going to worry about it. Because I know you'll fall in love." She put her two hands on my shoulders and bent down and kissed my cheek. "You're too sweet not to fall in love."

"I'm not sweet," I said.

"Hush," my mother said. "Don't contradict me. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed. Just say goodnight."

She stood in the doorway. I turned around in my chair. "Good night," I said.

She walked down the hall, and turned the hall light off. Her bedroom door opened and closed. I heard her put on this tape that Hilda Temple sold her that's supposed to fill her with positive energy while she sleeps. It sounds like two owls calling back and forth to one another. It gives me the creeps.

Then I heard a noise behind me, a little ping from the computer. I turned around. Because I hadn't touched a key in five minutes, my monitor had shut itself off. I could see my reflection in the dark, blank screen, staring out at me. I looked scared.  n°

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Peter Cameron is the author of the novels Leap Year, The Weekend, Andorra and The City of Your Final Destination. His story collections include One Way or Another, Far-Flung and The Half You Don't Know. He lives in New York City.