My Mother's Son
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As I walk up the flight of stairs I continue to question myself. Why am
I going back and what brought me to this decision? I search deep within
my soul for the answer, but alas I don't know. Maybe it’s that it I’m
not
meant to survive in the 'real world‘, as people like to call it. Maybe
God is sheltering me from further falls in life that I may not survive.
However, I've survived my 'real world' for seventeen years and I
haven't
died yet if that's an indicator of how I'm doing.
Thinking of it, my departure from the household was marred by mishaps. The cold was definitely one of the reasons why I didn't stay away for loner. But the homeless guy's attack on me kicked off the adventure in grand style, culminating in the meeting of my aunt. But it had to be the cold, it couldn't have been that I couldn't handle the people around me. But it does make a lot of sense. I like to think of myself as a strong individual who can handle outside pressures relatively easily. I've survived a lot and I've learned from all of it. I have had to build my own mental foundation because never had one been allotted to me. I built it so that it would be strong and so that it could survive the pressure that was constantly being thrust onto it, mostly by my mother. Then, in the last day, it has been tested against strong outside forces and the sad reality is that it has cracked. Not crumbled, but only cracked. Despite it only cracking, I will not be able to leave the solitude of the apartment until I can develop an even stronger wall, one made to withstand the outside pressures. Until then, I'm in jail again. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the new journey that I am about to embark on. A bit nervous, I wince; nevertheless I have to knock on the door. I slowly gather the courage to do it and then execute. I hear a laugh from inside, then a flutter of footsteps to the door. The inside lock clicks and the door opens. There stands my mother all decked out in a soft red dress, not her usual fashion statement. She looks warm and happy, like she hasn't a care. Despite that, there is still a nasty voice within, "So it’s you." I have the incredible urge to rip the dress off of her and tell her how far below it she is: how much class the dress has and how much she’d have to change just to rightfully stand beside it. However, not all urges are necessary to fill, "I'm thrilled to see you too." "I knew that you'd be back," she grins a smile that I’d like to rip off her face. "No, the booze knew that I'd be back. You spent all day talking to them and that's how you knew," I deadpan. "If you're going to be like that you may as well leave again," she threatens. "Be nice to me and I'll be nice to you," I offer, although it’s more of an all-or-nothing proposition. She bites, "Deal, but just remember that my venom is worse than your venom." "Not by a long shot." I walk in the door to see that everything had been 'fancified' as my mother likes to put it. The kitchen table and an extra fold out have been put together to form a long table covered by an off white tablecloth. There are five places set, which is five more than normal in this halfway home of an apartment. We usually end up eating cheap TV diners that look like something my mother throws up during a hang over. A strange aroma floats from the kitchen. I think that it may be that stuff called food. And not of the already processed variety. I feel the need to be sarcastic, “Who’s coming for dinner, the pope?” "We have company tonight, you might know her. She goes by the name of Mother Teresa," she is equally sarcastic. Once again, my mother’s ignorance astounds me. “She’s dead.” Ignoring me, she walks into the kitchen where Gary is looking on top of the refrigerator. “Do you know where the lighter is?" he asks. "Yeah, in on the coffee table." "You mean the two milk crates," I correct her. She gives my the typical 'I'll deal with you later' look, "Go take a shower." “Why?” "Because we have important guests coming tonight." "Really? You mean that Seagram's is finally looking into your discount inquiry. After all, you are ten per cent of their market." "You're mother doesn't need that kind of lip," Gary says as he re-enters the kitchen. "And what are you going to do about it? Hit me?” Barely audible, he mumbles “I’d like to.” "Go for it," I challenge him. "No fighting tonight. This is going to be too important for you to fuck it up for me. If you're going to act like this, I want you to leave and go to wherever you spent last night," she wags her finger at me. "Don't shake your shitty finger at me," I snip. She puts her hand on my shoulder, "Be nice tonight. Things haven't been going too well lately so don't push it. Tonight is important to me, and it should be important to you once you find out what's going on." But curiosity besets me, "What is going on anyway? Did you land yourself another job? Or do you have a new STD that you want to announce to whoever is going to be here?” "Don't, please don't do this. Be nice for at least tonight. Don't ruin this for me." "Sure. After all, we at least need to try to give the illusion of the perfect family," I take further steps down the hall. "Go take a shower," she demands. "You look like something that the cat would drag in." "At least I don't look like something that you would drag in," I respond, emphasizing the 'you' enough so Gary is able to comprehend what I’m trying to imply. I walk into my bedroom only to notice that nothing has changed. That rather surprises me. Usually when I take off like I did, mom takes something from me as some sort of compensation for her emotional anguish of my disappearance. Just kidding. I throw myself onto my bed and reach to turn on my small black and white television set. With my luck, the button falls off and lands on the floor. I slowly reach down and pick it up and slide it back onto the metal rung where it formerly rested. I turn it on, only to discover that the television is not plugged in. I reach to the plug and shove it in the electrical socket. The television turns on to a loud blast. “Turn that down now” my mother yells from the kitchen. Obediently, I do as she says. Not because she ordered me, but because my ears cannot withstand the noise level. The television is on a local news station. "Tonight on the news, more budgets cutback force the amalgamation of city hospitals," the anchor goes on as I mentally tune out, "Unidentified homeless person found dead in the downtown area, and a metro area seniors residence is forced to close due to chronic understaffing." I reach over to a wobbly nightstand where I have a notepad from school, "Homework due for next Monday. Read thirty pages in '1984', do History questions from page one ninety- two and write a page commentary on where I live," I pick up a pen from the floor, "Doesn't sound that hard.” I live in a rat-infested hole. 'I can’t write that,' I say to myself. I rip the page out and put the pen to the next sheet of paper. I live in a very humble apartment in Verdun. It has three bedrooms, one occupied by myself, one by my mother, and the other is a guestroom. 'That's a lie,' I think to myself, 'Nobody ever visits us, except for tonight.' Thinking of that jump-starts my curiosity. Whatever she is going to announce must be important or she wouldn't go through all of this. The apartment looks better tonight than it ever has, which is a scary thought. She must have a really important announcement to make. I suppose all I can do is ruin the evening for her. Something tells me not everybody deserves their fifteen minutes of fame. But then again, she got hers in those porn videos. The television attracts my attention. "A homeless man was found dead today in the downtown area. The man was apparently stabbed repeated times in the leg and was also choked. Police have concluded that the man was attacked early this morning. He managed to survive the attack, but later died due to heavy bleeding. This murder has similarities to one earlier this month in the same area. Police fear that they have a serial killer on their hands. If you have any information on this crime, you are urged to contact crime stoppers at 1-800-555-8432, or any detachment of the Montreal Urban Community Police Department. I reach over and turn the television off so I can think quietly to myself. I am shaken once again by the outside forces. It could have been me out there, I could have been murdered. Maybe my decision to come back was the best one to make. That one decision could have been the one that saved my life. My mother opens the bedroom door, "You have no time for a shower now. Put on your dress shirt and get out here ASAP. Gary's mother just arrived." Before I am able to comment, she shuts the bedroom door and escapes into the bathroom. "Great, Gary's mother, the old battleaxe," I think aloud. “None of that!” my mother yells from the bathroom. "Shove it," I mumble, hoping that she can't hear me. I slowly crawl off of the bed and make my way to the dresser. I am obviously not going to wear what she ordered me to. I'm almost forced to pick out a trashy outfit from the dark spaces of my dresser, the spaces that never see the light of day. As I pull open the last drawer, I notice a bright red shirt that occupies the space underneath my worn jeans. I pick both out of the drawer and proceed to a mirror that hangs on the wall. I hold the shirt up to my chest, "Oh yeah, this will be visible from space, it's perfect." I take off my wet, browned shirt off and slide on the red one. As I revel in the mirror, it looks almost too trashy to be believable, just perfect for creating trouble tonight. I take off my wet jogging pants and throw them up against the wall opposite myself. They come to the floor slowly as they slide down the wall. I put on the old, tattered pair of black only to find that the zipper no longer works. However, I am able to overcome the problem by using big, colourful safety pins that I had laid on my desk in case of an emergency like this. "Not quite,“ I look in the mirror once again. “My hair needs to be just right for the part." I wait and listen for my mother to vacate the bathroom. Once she has, I quickly slip in and shut the door, being extremely careful to not let her see me in order to keep the surprise fresh and unpredictable. I grab her hair gel, take a handful of it and slide it through my hair. I don't usually use the hair accessories that she so diligently lays out, but tonight is a special occasion. I grab her hairbrush and slip it though the greasy mess that is my scalp. I brush my hair in such a fashion that I have the classic 'just got up' look. My mother comes to the door, "Gary’s mother is here. You are coming out now," she orders. "If you say so." I take one last look in the mirror to reassure myself that I can make tonight’s dinner just a little more uncomfortable for everyone. I try, but one can only do so much. I open the door, take a deep breath, and start down the hall. As I reach the living room turned dining room, I receive unyielding stares from the three sitting around the table. "Bonjour, y'all," I greet them in the worst southern drawl possible, blatantly capitalizing on Gary's mothers heritage. Gary opens his mouth, but is unable to speak. His mother rolls her beady little eyes at me, and as she does that, I am assured that tonight, all will be right. My mother clears her throat, "How nice of you to join us." "Your pleasure, I'm sure," I look around the table. “Where’s the other guest?” "She's probably running a bit late. I don’t want to start dinner without her though. She'll be here soon," she answers. "Who is 'she' anyway," I attempt to annoy her. "'She' is a surprise guest. You'll find out when she gets here." "Ah, your lesbian lover, I always knew you'd have to bring her home someday," I look to Gary. "Don't be jealous Gary, she'll only take up a little bit of the bed, and besides, you can fulfil their dreams of being lesbian parents." He looks to the floor, "Sit down please." I know that now is the ideal time to sit down to leave some fun for later. I've pushed my luck as far as it will take me right now and I just need about a few minutes to build it back up. In the meanwhile, I will sit and wait for the other guest to arrive. Gary’s mother takes a deep breath and picks up a dinner roll from a basket on the table. She greedily takes a more than proportional scoop of the butter and lathers it over the roll. Like a pig, she tries to shove half of it in her mouth at once. "So, mom, how has life been since you moved to Vermont?" Gary asks, hoping to break the dark mood in the room. She tries to talk with the roll in her mouth, "Fine," she mumbles, projecting pieces of it from her mouth. “How’s the house?” She swallows, throwing her into a coughing fit. “Do you want a drink of water?” Gary asks, desperate to escape the room if only for a minute. She nods her head. "I can do it,” I volunteer. I stand up and walk into the kitchen, all the while thinking of new and original ideas of how to put the family through hell tonight. I already have two strikes against me, but in this game I can have as many as I can get away with. However, I'll play it calm until the next guest arrives so that I can save my energy for a grand finale. I tend to be nervous and always want to know if somebody has said something about me and what they have said. I don't really care what people think of me, but I do want to know what they think of me. It may sound strange, but I guess that I'm a bit paranoid in that way. I won’t change myself for anyone but me. I don't believe that anybody should change themselves just because somebody is not satisfied with the type of person they are. If another person doesn't like the kind of person I've become, that's their problem, not mine. My paranoia turns to the dinner conversation. "I thought you said he'd be good tonight," Gary tries to speak in as low a voice as possible. His mother has taken out her hearing aides to clean them, "Damn thing, gets full of wax all the time," she says, digging at it with a fork. “Are you sure that she won’t hear us?” My mother tries to give the illusion of being concerned. "She's as deaf as a...," he pauses. "Well, you get the picture." "Okay," she takes a sip of wine. "I thought that he'd be good to, but he's so unpredictable that I don't know anymore." “I take it that we’re in for a hell of a night.” "Wait and see," she looks into the kitchen. I'm trying to listen quietly, but that is impossible. I accidentally drop the glass that I was about to pour the water in. Fortunately, it is plastic and it doesn't break, or even crack. “Are you almost done in there?” my mother calls from the dining room. "Almost," I answer. I know that I have to play a practical joke sometime this evening, and never a better time than the present. I reach to the other end of the counter and grab the salt shaker, empting a tablespoon or so into the glass. She'll never notice, every thing else on her is gone so it is easily assumable that her taste buds are too. With my luck she'll have high blood pressure or something and die while eating one of the pathetically prepared crab cakes on top of the stove. Hmmm.... I look on the spice rack for the cayenne pepper, only to discover that there is just a tiny amount left in the glass bottle. However, due to its potency, this amount will be more than sufficient. I lovingly sprinkle the pepper onto the crab cakes to make it look as if there weren't there. After all, I can’t get blamed for this; mom’s a renounced bad cook. An opportunity like this doesn't come every day, and when it does, it is wasteful not to jump at the chance. With my dirty deeds completed, I fill the glass with water, shake it to make sure the salt has dissolved, and then return to the dining room. I neatly sit the glass down on Clairese’s napkin. "Here's your water," I smile. She violently shoves one of the hearing aides into her ear accompanied by a yelp of pain. “Are you okay?” Gary’s concern almost makes me sick. “Did you pop your eardrum?” “My eardrum? Hell no! Tough as leather, I tell you," she reassures as she inserts the other in the same manner. “Leather from the hide of a fresh killed bull.” Her sayings are oddly interesting, so I inquire, “Did you ever actually kill a bull?” "Now why would I go and do that?" she laughs. “Then why do you use the saying?” "It's just a saying," Gary reassures me, "My family has many sayings, some are make more sense than others." "That's right. I tell you, when I was little, my daddy used to go to KKK meetings. They made up lots of sayings there." Mom almost chokes on her wine, "The Ku Klux Klan ?" "Yes," she flirts her southern accent. "It was popular then. I don't know why it still isn't today," she continues. I convince myself to ignore what she has just said, "Water anyone?" “Are you totally out of your mind?” mom raises her voice. “So how’s your schoolwork going?” Gary inquires towards my direction. "I don't know why we allow them immigrants in our society, taking all our jobs. The KKK would have had then chased out. "I don't want to talk to you," I bark at Gary. “You little racist bitch!” mom snaps. "That's my mother you're talking about. You can’t talk to her that way." "I can talk to her anyway I want, she's in my house." "Apartment," I butt in. "Keep your mouth shut," she yells. Above all of the commotion, I appear to be the only one to notice the knock at the door. "I'll get it." I don't want to leave the table, but I’m assured by the thought that Clairese will keep the hate flowing while I’m gone. As I walk to the door, the commotion from the living room grows. I open the door to discover Grandma standing there, two suitcases in tow. “Grandma!” I yell as I embrace her. "Mom, you're here!" my mother’s mood does a 180. "I can’t believe that you came," I actually feel happy, a strange feeling. "I've missed you so much.” Mom grabs her arm, quickly ushering her into the dining room "Come on in, we're just about to have dinner. We were just waiting for you to arrive." I graciously grab her bags, "I'll put them in the guestroom." I quickly run with the bags and return to the dining room as quickly as possible, so as not to miss a thing. I manage to sit down before grandma and mom take their seats. "Mom, I'd like you to meet Gary. Mom, Gary. Gary Mom," mom nervously smiles. "It's nice to meet you," he ever so politely kisses her hand. "You too," she smiles giddily. "You can sit here by Gary," mom directs her. Ironically, she is sitting directly opposite of Gary's mother, whom mom conveniently 'forgot' to introduce. Obviously, the message was not understood, "I'm Clairese, Gary's mom," she extends her hand. "That's nice," grandma uncharacteristically remarks. "Nice to meet you too," she picks up the blunt message rather easily. Grandma must sense the ere of tension in the room or she would have properly introduced herself to Clairese, like she would have to anybody else. She is known for her hospitality, but she can be very rude when she wants to be. She does it with such style and grace though; it can be difficult to pick it up. But when a person does pick it up, they realize that everything that she says to them is an insult, just as she means it to be. She can be very nice when she wants to be, but as nasty as the Bubonic plague when she has to be. "Jeannie, could you get me a glass of water, I'm very parched," grandma smiles politely. Thinking about it, she probably picked up on the fact that Mom didn't introduce Clairese to her, so she thought that something must be amiss, obviously involving Clairese and her daughter. And I well know, she'll defend any member of her family to her death. I, on the other hand, do have restrictions as to whom I will defend and whom I will not defend. For some inexplicable reason, I will defend my mother, or at least make her oppressors live in their own personal hell. Mom returns to the table and sits a glass down in front of grandma, "If everybody is ready now, I'll bring the main course in. Mom, if you'd like, there are still some appetizers,“ she says, returning to the kitchen. "I'm so starved," Clairese unsuccessfully tries to strike conversation. "You look it, you bloated pig," I mumble. “What’s that?” Clairese yells to me, stuffing my face into her ear. "Those Habs, they're really big," I retract my earlier statement. "I don't like basketball myself," she tears a roll in two. "Baseball was always big in my family. Then they let the coloreds in and they ruined the whole game. My daddy nearly has a conniption when that happy. I believe it was here in Montreal, too.” Grandma's jaw drops, but she remains speechless. Gary looks down towards his empty plate, displaying his own brand of shame. I, on the other hand, have to refrain from laughing. Although I don't like her message, I do like how upfront she is with it and how clearly she gets it across to all at the table. Mom comes back into the room, turkey in toe. It is lavishly spread out on the silver edged glass serving plate, one that I have never seen. It is topped off by mounds of disgusting looking stuffing which I will probably make me sick if I eat any. "Why can’t you cook like this more often?" I ask her in a complimentary yet sarcastic manner. She sits the serving tray down at the centre of the table, "I've never had reason to." "Oh, you were using the turkey baster for other purposes," I retort, realizing that I've pushed my luck to the limit... for now. She has no comment. Instead, she gingerly slices the turkey into inch thick pieces. She sits the first piece on grandma's plate, the second on Gary's' plate, the third on my plate and the fourth on her plate. She then urges Gary to accompany her to the kitchen from where she will probably present the rest of the feast. Clairese if forced to cut her own piece of the turkey, of which she cuts a rather large slice, twice the size of the nearest piece. "This looks very good,” she comments. "Don't eat the dark meat," I snicker. Grandma tries to hide her laugh, but it is noticeable. Gary and mom re-enter the room with the usual holiday assortment of soggy cooked vegetables and overdone sweet potatoes. But ever the glutton for attention, Clairese sticks her head in the toilet once again, "Daddy also formed Americas first Nazi party in 1936. He liked Hitler’s ideas." "And Clairese has put herself in the crap hole once again," I commentate. "Especially considering that we're Jewish." "He burnt down his first synagogue in 1942," she seemingly ignores my comment, "He burnt down another one in 1943." The comments do not surprise me, although they seem to shock the others. Gary is more in a state of disbelief than anything else. He has his head lowered and appears to be praying for a sudden hole to open up. Grandma looks as if she is ready to kill Clairese with the dinner fork that is now deeply entrenched in the turkey. She appears to be twisting and driving the fork, as if it is her own personal piece of Clairese. My mother looks as if she is trying to bite her tongue, which by any measure is probably severed. For some unknown reason, she refuses to lose her temper around her mother. I, on the other hand, am willing to venture into the unknown by going against Clairese in front of Grandma. "So I take it that yo' daddy was the Grand Wizard of Hitlerites in Mobile," I ruthlessly comment. There is a silence during which everybody stares into their plates. “So how about those Canadiens?” Gary tries to break the silence. We all stare at him with cold gazes. He knows well enough to shut up now or face the consequences later. But Grandma breaks, “Why do you bring such atrocities to our people? All we want is peace and harmony. Why your people continue to harass our people is beyond my comprehension." "I don't hate your people," Clairese tries to clarify her stance, "I married a Jew." "My father was Jewish?" Gary reacts in a slightly surprised manner. "Did he practice?" Mom tries to create a bond. "Not quite," Clairese lowers her head. "His great grandfather was a Vienna Jew. He was killed by hate mongerers on the Sabbath. It's such a sad story." "He wasn't Jewish then," I contest to concerned stares, "Your husband, I mean. He was only an eighth Jewish and not even a practicing one. What does that mean?" Mom agrees, "You do have a point." Coincidentally, we all eat a piece of turkey at the same time. While chewing, I notice that Clairese has redeemed herself somewhat. She no longer receives the hate filled stares which Mom and Grandma have been so accustomed to giving her. Clairese swallows, "So Gary, when do plan on adopting the boy?" I almost choke. Even the thought of that makes me want to vomit until I die of dehydration. I painfully swallow, "Never." I give her an icy stare, one so cold that it lowers the temperature of the room. "No mother. We have no plans for that now...” Gary adds once he looks towards my evil stares, ”or ever, in fact." "That's a shame. You'd make such a cute little family," she continues to meddle. "No we wouldn't," I try to put an end to the topic with my most dark and frightful voice. "We really haven't discussed that yet. Besides there really is no rush for such a major decision," Mom tries to compromise. "Well," Clairese dwells, "If you become his stepfather, why not go all the way and adopt him?" "They wont be together long enough to get married," I spit. "I give it another week." "That's enough!" Mom yells, temporarily derailing me from my truth rally. "It's true," I continue, "The only thing that you've kept longer is your blow up David Hasselhoff doll." "Stop that this instant," she once again cuts me off, "You have no right to say any of this stuff.“ she looks to the other guests. "I'm sorry about this. I can't believe that he'd do this at such an important dinner." I know that I've crossed the line between okay and not okay. In fact, I've ventured far into the latter, which it not something that I wanted to do yet. Now I have to work to cross back over the line, ironically only to repeat the process. I currently have four cold stares directed towards me, but I am not bothered by it. I have the ability to turn the cold stares into hateful energy that I will later use to completely decimate the dinner. My thoughts are broken by the noise of Clairese taking a sip of water. I have to refuse to laugh, even though I'm dying to. "My, that's not good watta!" she notes in a particularly annoying Mobile trailer park accent. "That happens every once in a while," Gary explains. A silence continues after the brief notation. As I realize that the icy stares have eased off of my direction, I breathe a narrowly earned sigh of relief. "Why don't I bring in the crab cakes?" Mom offers, noticing that we have almost finished stabbing the turkey. "I don't like crab that much, so none for me," Grandma sits her fork down on her plate. "Me either," I add. "Since when have you not liked crab?" Mom questions. "Since you were always too cheap to buy it," I quip, leading her not to re-question. "If you'd have been paying attention, you'd know that I've never cared for seafood since you found that stuff on the shores of the St. Lawrence after you had spent all of your money on liquor and had no money left for food." "You lie too much," she growls. "And you don't lie enough," I realize that it is the perfect time to cause more trouble,"You shouldn't have been so open when you were asked about that Hepatitis thing." "That's nobodies business, and especially not yours. Shut up now," she warns. Gary looks as if he has just been hit by a life-altering blow, "You have Hepatitis?" "I had Hepatitis," she stresses, "The antibodies killed it off. And besides, that was a long time ago. There's nothing to worry about now." "Well, I think there is," Clairese adds her trouble stirring opinions to the pot. "An STD is nothing to be tranquil over." "I don't have one," Mom snaps, "It's none of your business anyway. Its nobody's business but my own. Can we let this go now?" she urges. "Did you get the same pills you had when had Chlymidia?" Grandma sincerely asks, although it only aggravates the situation. "You Chlymidia too?" I react to the shock value of Grandmas announcement. "I imagine that you have AIDS too," Clairese jumps to conclusions. "Do you have it now?" Gary asks, seemingly concerned for her welfare, though truly only concerned for his own. "Of course not, that was eighteen years ago. Don't be so crazy," she tries to quell the revelations, "Anybody for crab cakes?" "Clairese tries to be friendly, "Ya' know that I'll eat anything." "Obviously," I comment, bringing hidden laughs. "Sho' you can joke 'bout me, I don't mind." "I apologize. I shouldn't have said that. It was rude and uncalled fo'," I try to patronize her, although she is unknowing. Mom exits to the kitchen while we watch. This instance could be a measure of the entire diner: both quirky and tension-filled. Although I'd like to take all of the credit for then tension in the room, I disappointingly share the crown with the ever-opinionated Clairese, who, by any standard, is probably hated by all in the room, maybe even by Gary. Although her latest attempt at a 'Jew' bond worked relatively well, it couldn't have possibly erased her early words of racism and hatred. Mom reenters the room and sets the overcooked crab cakes on the table, "I think that I burnt them, but they'll probably taste the same." Anxiously, Clairese grabs one of them off of the cold glass plate, "They look good." Gary too grabs one, sitting it on his plate. Her stares at in awe, knowing that eating it will give him brownie points, but also an early death. "Well aren't you going to eat it?" Mom becomes anxious. I can't let him eat it; I cant be that cruel. What am I talking about? This is me here. So I sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. "Hot! Hot! Dear God get me a glass of water!" "What?" Mom exclaims, "Hot? How could that be, there's nothing hot about them. They've been cooling for the last hour." "Not that kind of hot," he gasps as he grabs his mothers glass of water. "Spicy hot!" He gulps it down, which he, because of the saltiness, spits out all of the crab cakes, "Why is this so salty?" "I'll get you a glass of milk," Mom rushes to the kitchen. All that I have to do now is sit back and let the hyjinx unfold. To avoid capture, I know that I must not let even the tiniest of laughs escape from my decidedly evil mouth. But even if I did, nothing really bad could come of it. Sure I'd get yelled at, but I've grown so accustomed to it that the day wouldn't seem complete without it. I'd just ignore the yeller anyway, as I've always done. It's not as if I'll miss an important life lesson, not at least from my mother. She still hasn't realized that giving herself to every man that comes along could present moral conflicts. She's never listened to her conscience anyway, and its probably been withered down to just an afterthought. Oh well, although its had a great impact on my life, its not as if I can do anything about it. I have enough problems with my own morals, let alone trying to redeem those of others. My thought is broken by Clairese's incessant coughing. "Could you stop that?" I react rudely. Gary gives me a cold stare, which is partly distorted because of the contortions of his face from the crab cakes. Mom returns to the living room and sits the glass down in front of him. He quickly gulps it down, trying to satisfy the unrelenting burn. "No more of those for me," he exclaims. "I don't know why they'd be so spicy. I know that I didn't put anything in them," Mom amusingly beats herself up over the incident. There is a silence once again. "Well, I think that I'll retire for the evening," Grandma breaks it, "It was a long drive and I'm not a late caller." "It's only seven thirty," Mom tries to reason with her, "We still have an announcement to make." Grandma grows impatient, "Make it then!" Mom looks to Gary. He appears to want to get the evening over with. She looks around to the others at the table and they all appear to want the same, with the exception of myself. There is still much trouble to be caused. In a ere of disappointment, she decides to tell all, "Gary and I have mutually decided... 'Please break up, please break up,' I pray to myself. ...that it would be for the best if we were to get married!" ‘No! Please God no, say this isn't true! ' "You are!" Clairese slaps her hands together, "You could have a traditional May weddin' in Mobile! All of the family will be there ..." I interrupt, "I don't believe this." "So you're happy?" Mom questions, although she already knows my response. "No. This will be the biggest mistake that you've ever made, including your afro years." "I think that this is great. You'll have to hold the wedding at the synagogue. I have some great ideas," Grandma too gets into the spirit. "I think that this is crap." "Can't you just be happy for us?" Mom pleads. "So what about a Mobile weddin'," Clairese annoyingly dwells on the subject. "I don't know," Gary tries to shut her up. "I just love the synagogue in Ottawa," Grandma also continues on her inane idea. In frustration, I stand and yell, "Cant you all just shut up!" A shocked hush falls over the room. I receive all eyes because of my brash manner, "Don't you realize what this is?" Mom also stands, "I don't believe you. I'm happier now than I've ever been and you're still in your little funk over my relationship with Gary. Sometimes I think that you wish me dead." I sit back down, "I've never wished you dead." "Maybe not, but you still don't want me to be happy," she follows my lead by sitting down and lowering her tone. As I swiftly flashback to what has made her unhappy, only one question comes to mind. Gustily, I demand, "Why couldn't you have been happy with my father?" The room seems to darken and all fades out but my mother. She lowers her head, seemingly embarrassed. She orders, "I want to talk to your in your bedroom now." "No," I refuse. "Now!" she orders in a voice that I have never heard before. Both curiosity and a fright induced obedience force me to follow her order. On one hand, I am curious as to why she used the tone of voice that she did. Obediently because she did use that tone of voice, knowing that she must be to the breaking point. I have never experienced her at the breaking point, but I can imagine as to what it will be like. For any situation, I am prepared.
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