First memories

Her erstwhile name was Jacqueline--now she went by Anna. She kept
her real surname for two reasons: firstly, to avoid confusing her young
son, and, secondly, Brown was a common enough surname.

In 1970, she left her hometown, moving nearly across the country in a
borrowed van (borrowed from a convict) and settling in a small city in
downeast Maine. Her little boy Riley was only a year or so old, too
young to ever remember his birthplace, or his father.

His father had been a very well-off young man, with a good heart, even
if he was a little snobbish. His father had told Jacqueline that he
didn't love her enough, that he didn't deserve her. Then he had gone on
a tour of Europe, away for more than a year. Riley Brown was born in
the summer of '69, while his father was away, with a mother who loved
him more than anything.

After waiting for months for the return of young Riley's father and
facing disapproving glares in town, Jacqueline decided it best to
leave. She knew that someday Riley's father would be back, pursuing the
town's most beautiful debutante endlessly, and probably to no avail.
Then, when that same debutante's real love killed himself during a bad
trip, she decided there had never been anybody for her but Riley's
father. So, Jacqueline left.

Their new home in Ellsworth, Maine was a brick building on the inlet
where a river with and Indian name met the ocean, stirring up silt, the
dusty brown mixing with the rich sapphire of the Atlantic.

The apartment was small, with only one bedroom where Anna slept, and a
pull-out sofa in the living room for Riley to sleep in when he had
outgrown his crib. Out the window was a psycadelic shop on the street
corner. It really was a fine place to live, even if Riley had no yard
to play in. The little boy would never forget his few years there, and
he would later return as an escape, much like his mother had.

Riley's first memory, well, what his first memory is now, at 34, was a
day when he was four years old. His mother had taken him down to the
IDA for groceries, and had bought him a candy bar. He couldn't remember
what kind it was anymore, but it had been his favorite. And it probably
had had a blue wrapper, which matched his mother's eyes. His favorite
color.

The apartment was on the fourth floor, up four long, dark flights of
stairs. Stairwells, he thought, after he had asked his mother for the
word, must always be like this. Of course, having no other stairwell to
compare this to, he was just guessing. He had always liked the color of
the paint that showed underneath the peeling wallpaper, a dusty green
that reminded him of the plants he saw in the windows of the big, old
houses on the road on the way to the grocery store.

After the long walk up the stairs, Riley's mother opened the door,
letting him enter before her. Later on, he supposed that she must have
been struggling with the groceries, but that wasn't a part of the
memory.

What was a part of the memory was the man sitting on Riley's sofa bed
when he looked up.

"Mummy, who dat?" He had asked. He couldn't remember the answer
anymore, but he remembered the crash as his mother dropped her
groceries.

"Riley" she said to him "Honey, go out in the hall and play while Mommy
talks to this man." Riley nodded and went out into the hall, just like
he was told.

A long time later, he saw that man leave, and he went back to his door
and knocked. His mother ushered him in and told him,

"Honey, Mommy and Riley are going to go away. Pack up your things,
please Honey. Quickly."

"Ok" The little boy answered, rather confused, and did as he was told,
yet again.

He didn't have many things to pack up, and neither did his mother. The
two were ready to leave in less than an hour. They, between then, had a
small suitcase of clothing, a few books, even fewer dishes and pots and
pans, and an old quilt, along with Riley's teddy bear. His mother
loaded their belongings into the van while Riley watched, sitting on
the front stoop of the building. Then they drove away, leaving an
envelope with some money and a note slipped under the landlord's
door.

They drove for a long, long time. Years, Riley had thought. His mother
bought him a coloring book with some crayons, but that soon bored him.
As they drove, his mother said little, just stared at the road. Riley
knew something was the matter with her, but every time he asked what
was wrong she told him that it was grownup stuff. And every time he
tried to make her laugh or even smile, she told him to please be quiet,
she was thinking. So Riley soon stopped talking. He stared out the
window, looking at the faces of the people they drove past, looking at
the buildings they passed, eventually figured out how to write the
names of the various types of businesses. Pizza Parlor, Tanning Salon,
Thrift store.

When they finally stopped, Riley was asleep, only to be woken up by his
mother as she carried him inside a house, a real house! She laid him
down on the sofa, and he went back to sleep again.