Homemaker

The stink of old peoples' things wafted up to greet Alvis. The
things he'd brought back to the hotel room from his dead mother's house
had an airless smell of decay, only slightly slowed by the medicinal
fumes that must have pervaded every pocket of air in his mother's
house. He longed to stretch out on the thin blankets and breathe
deeply, but he stood sickened by the air conditioning that continued to
pump and groan, recycling the air that was nearly colored with sickness
it had picked up from the boxes and bags he'd filled with his mother's
things. One narrow strip along the edge of the bed was all the space
left for him to lie down, next to the mountain of souvenirs he'd
brought back from his mother's life.

Alvis sat carefully on the edge and opened a can of orange soda he'd
bought from the machine in the hall. He held it under his nose,
savouring the sweet scent and the fresh cold air that whispered to him
with the pull of a tab. With his eyes closed he took a long, slow drink
and then rolled the moist can around his forehead and held it to his
neck. He tried to refuse to see the mess around him, focusing between
swallows on the can resting in both hands between his knees, breathing
deeply and deliberately.

He realised his mouth was hanging open, and with a sigh he closed it.
His mother always told him to close his mouth when he breathes. When he
escaped her nagging by going to school, the teachers picked up the
chorus. 'Nobody wants to hear you breathing, Alvis Farmer,' they'd say
day after day, year after year. He tried to breathe silently, but
closing his mouth made it worse. He had to sniff rapidly for every puff
of air he got through to his lungs. The doctor said he had small
nostrils. Clara said that walking around with his mouth hanging open
made him look stupid.

He really tried to make her happy. One Sunday they were going to have a
visit from a very important friend. Clara had been happier lately, and
he'd even caught her singing once or twice while she baked. Usually she
just grumbled about how she worried about having enough money for food,
and then how much work it was to get the food on the table, only for it
to be gone after fifteen minutes, leaving more work. But this Sunday
dinner was going to be special, and as she'd helped him get dressed and
combed his hair, she even told him a joke:

"What do you get when a bird gets caught in the lawn mower?" she asked
playfully. Alvis thought it was a reminder of when he'd borrowed Mr
Schaum's lawnmower to try to cut their grass as a surprise and had
broken the blade after he'd accidentally tried to cut down one of their
azaleas. He tried to decide whether to defend himself or brace himself
for a scolding, then suddenly realised she was smiling.

"A bird in a lawn mower?" He couldn't imagine the mess. He'd be in so
much trouble. He thought so hard what he'd say to defend himself he
forgot to answer the joke until Clara tugged his hair.

"Shredded tweet, silly! Do you get the joke?"

They both were still laughing at her cleverness when the doorbell rang.
She put her arms on his shoulders and knelt down to straighten his tie.
"You look very handsome, dear. Do try to behave." As she turned away
she looked back and gently pushed his chin up so his mouth was closed,
but she didn't say anything.

Alvis was so happy that his mother was finally happy, he determined to
not make noise with his breathing. After he'd shaken hands with Mr
Dudley ("He works at the bank!", his mother had said), he stood up
straight in the corner, watching them talk, not making a noise. If his
keeping his mouth shut and being quiet was what his mother needed to
stay this happy, he was going to do everything he could. He took a deep
breath, and then held it. Even when he ached to gasp out, even when he
felt his lungs burning and that they would burst into flame, he held
still.

It wasn't good enough, though. He woke to find himself lying on the
sofa, with his mother saying goodbye to Mr Dudley at the door. Seeing
he was awake, as she walked by she said, "Even when you're passed out
you still breath through your mouth." Alvis turned over to bury his
tears in the prickly red upholstery.

"At least furniture's more comfortable these days," Alvis thought. He
lay carefully back on the hotel bed and folded his arms over his
stomach. He'd be all right sleeping like this, he thought, even if he
couldn't turn back the blankets. Sleeping with Sharee had taught him to
settle into small spaces. Not because she was fat. He thought of his
wife in her group of friends, and she was actually one of the smaller
of them. She just didn't see the point in making up a bed just to mess
it up again, so she didn't do either one. They each lay under the
turned-down and tucked-in blankets with their arms lying carefully
stretched over the white sheet, or they pulled them under and rested
under the still square of fabric. In the morning they climbed carefully
out, pulling their legs up onto the pillows and then crawling out over
the bedclothes.

He thought of his mother lying still in the ground. The funeral had
been over in twenty minutes, which she would have been happy about, and
there was a respectable number of visitors without actually being a
crowd. He'd gone to one funeral with her, when he was ten, and had been
confused by it. He'd never heard of Mr Martin before, and he didn't
know any of the other mourners. The women wore black, and a few of them
patted him on the head. One even kissed his cheek, but most of them
looked at them as if he and Clara weren't welcome. He just thought that
people were unfriendly at funerals because they were so sad. Even
though his mother began sobbing inconsolably in the taxi, he was glad
they'd left.

A few years later he'd thought of Mr Martin, but couldn't bring himself
to ask about him directly. He'd taken his weekly nickel and gone to the
movies with Rodney and Mike from down the street, and they'd seen a
news story about a young soldier who doesn't have a family so he reads
novels to blind people, only to discover that the dying woman he is
reading Jane Eyre to is actually his own mother. When he got to the
part where Jane returns to Mr Rochester, she asked him to stop
reading.

"It isn't fair!" she cried. "It isn't real! The blind need to be loved
and held more than anyone, and we are the last to be loved." She
dropped her head into her hands. The soldier put his arm around
her.

"How many times I've cried out for my own son to be returned to me,"
the woman sobbed. "My life is difficult enough without having to face
the dark future alone! I cry out, 'Charles! Charles!' in the night,
during the day, even in my head, and still you are the first to
befriend me, dear boy."

The soldier shifted uncomfortably at hearing his own name called out.
"My son would be about your age now, but I had to give him away." Her
face turned angry and bitter. "'Blind women aren't made to be
mothers'," they said. "Then why did my body give me a son?"

"Where was your son born, Mrs Davidson? And when?" he asked
tentatively.

Through sobs she told him that she was married in 1940, right before
her husband had been sent to war and killed, and her son was born in
1941 in Springfield, New Jersey. The soldier held her away from him to
see her better. "Mrs Davidson, I was born in 1941 in Springfield, and
my name is Charles." He was paralyzed with emotion. "Could it be that I
am your son? Could I finally have found the family I have been deprived
of all my life?"

The blind woman grasped for the sides of his jacket. "Charles? My son?
Have you come to me at last?" The two collapsed crying into each
others' arms, and the boys collapsed into giggles.

"This is sloppy. Let's go," said Rodney. They climbed over the weeping
women clutching tissues and handbags and finally burst through the fire
escape into the light. All the way home, the other two boys pretended
to be reunited with strangers. Mike even worked up a distraught face
and spoke to a woman at the bus stop.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he sniffed. "Could you really be my mother, after
all these years?" Alvis pulled him away by his collar while Rodney
apologised for him.

At dinner his mother asked him what picture they'd seen. He couldn't
remember the title and shrugged off her question. But even though he'd
agreed with the boys that it was stupid, he couldn't stop thinking
about it. Of course it was impossible that Jane and Mr Rochester could
be reunited, but she was so beautiful running out into the night like
she did, and Mr Rochester had needed her so badly. And the soldier was
so handsome and good, surely people can deserve to find their families.
He kept thinking of Mr Martin's funeral and how sad everyone had been.
"Mother, do I have a father?" he asked.

Clara choked a little on her cabbage. "What a question to ask! Of
course you do." She pushed her potatoes around on her plate. "He died
before you were born."

So that was that. Alvis put his fork down. He couldn't hope to find his
father, no matter how he many books he read to dying blind men, if he
was already dead. Clara picked up his plate and scraped the rest of his
dinner and most of her own into the bin.

"What brought that on? We're a family too, even if it is only two of
us."

Alvis kicked his feet, scuffing the floor. "I just thought maybe one
day I'd have a dad." He scraped his chair behind him and went to his
room. Clara stepped out on the back step and lit a cigarette.

Alvis sat up from the bed and looked at the funeral program. "The
family will be grateful for donations made in memory of Mrs Farmer to
the Lung Cancer Foundation." He wondered who had arranged all this.
He'd only been called about his mother's death four days after it
happened, giving him only a few days to sort out his visit. Sharee had
been glad enough not to come with him, and their daughter
Elizabeth-who'd last week announced she prefers to be called
Meaudelle-wouldn't stop giving him reasons why she shouldn't go. He
hadn't even asked. He'd hung up the phone and sat in his chair, letting
the news sink in. He needed to just be still at times like that. When
Elizabeth was at her most bewildering, he felt himself sink into a
trance, and her words just seemed to whiz past him. The more hurtful
comments seemed to clunk him on the head, and those that got in flew
out again straight away. He couldn't keep up with her. Sharee took her
place in the seat next to his. "Something wrong, darling?" she
asked.

"That was a funeral home in Jackson. My mother died last week."

"Oh." She picked up a magazine, then put it down again. "Oh I am sorry,
dear. This must be terrible for you." She patted his arm and sat gazing
at their hands, then stood up again. "I suppose I should tell
Meaudelle." She wandered into the kitchen. Alvis heard the refrigerator
door open and murmuring voices. The voices began to get louder, and
then his daughter stalked into the room.

"I hope you're not expecting me to go along to any funerals. I don't do
'dead.'"

"Elizabeth, I haven't thought that far-"

"It's Meaudelle, Dad. God, you'd think you could remember at least my
name. I'm not going to wear black in this heat, and besides, death is
hell on your spirit. I can't color my aura like that. And do you know
what that kind of negativity would do to my complexion?" She stood in
front of him with her hands on her hips and staring threateningly at
him. He wondered if she could imagine that he found her as unpleasant
and embarrassing as she must find him.

Sharee stepped in. "Darling, your father's just had a blow. You don't
have to go if you don't want to, but let's be a little easier on him."
The girl threw herself on the sofa and turned on the tv.

"Besides, if you never took me to see her while she was alive, why
should I bother visiting now she's dead?"

Alvis felt a weak angry impulse, but a look at his daughter made the
flash fizzle out. He left the room and got his suitcase out.

Sharee found him as he began packing the second case, and sat next to
it on the bed. She began putting lotion on her legs. "Surely you don't
need that much. You're only going to a funeral. And you wear the same
clothes almost every day anyway."

"I don't know when I'll be back," Alvis said limply. "They didn't have
many details."

"Did she have a will?"

"I don't know." His mother had never had much. "I expect so. I don't
know."

Sharee opened a bottle of red nail polish. "You know I'd like to come
along, darling, but if Meaudelle is uncomfortable with death, I really
ought to be here to support her. We can't push her into emotions she's
not ready for." She put a spacer between her toes and began
painting.

"Of course not." Alvis usually agreed with his wife's ideas. He didn't
want to be alone, but he knew he didn't want her or their daughter with
him. Lying in the hotel room he suddenly felt a resonating pang of
disappointment. As he sat up, the mountain of bags trembled a little.
He went into the bathroom and put a hot washcloth over his face.

"Sharee isn't going to like this mess," he said to himself. "What was I
thinking bringing all this away?"

He was thinking of the piles of his mother's belongings which formed
vague shapes through the worn cloth that hung limply across his vision.
That morning he had driven to his mother's house. Though they'd always
called it their house, it was actually just the upper- and lower-level
extensions on a bigger house that had then been re-divided. They only
had windows on two sides, as the other sides were built against the
rest of the house. When he was very young, the house was owned by an
old woman who took in boarders. After she died a family with countless
children moved in. Once he and one of their hoard had tried to count
them all, but there were so many always coming and going that even the
other little boy didn't know how many lived there.

The street was quiet now. He stopped the car before the house, well
back so he could see the side they had lived in. He thought it looked
crooked as he sat on parked on the hill. Whoever lived in the main part
of the house must still have a lot of children, he thought, as the
clothesline flapped dozens of pairs of shorts and socks and t-shirts
like flags across a ship. The trees rustled in the wind, and a few
crows flew over the car. He could only hear himself breathing, and he
stayed watching the still scene for several minutes.

He climbed out of the car and was mid-stretch when he saw the door of
their house fly open. A tall woman carried a box onto the grass and
left it, then went back in. Alvis threw open the door and ran up the
hill.

By the time he had reached the woman, she had brought out three garbage
bags and two more boxes, and had stopped to rest. Though she was young
she was out of breath, and she sat on the step with her eyes closed.
Alvis stopped in front of her. She opened her eyes when he stood in
front of the sun.

"You must be Alvis," she said. "You're just in time." She put a thick
hand in his, to shake it. "The junk man's coming tomorrow to take off
anything that's left. We've already taken the pots and pans, I hope you
don't mind. You can have them back if you want them. Now you're here
you can give me a hand." She turned around and walked back into the
house.

"Wait a minute," Alvis said. "Who are you, and what are you doing with
my mother's things? And how do you know who I am?"

Her muffled answer came from inside the house, and he followed her.
"I'm Loretia. I live next door, and I used to help your mother out-you
know, with things like shopping and going to the doctor, but also when
she'd get stuck in the tub or something she'd bang on the wall and I'd
come over. Either me or Harold. Me and Harold's splitting up, though,
and he's moving in over here, now it's empty" She came out of the
downstairs bathroom and spoke over a stack of folded towels. "That way
he can stay close to the kids." She dropped the towels in a box, then
put her finger thoughtfully on her lip. "Actually, I could probably use
some towels. Do you mind?"

Alvis breathed loudly and heavily. He wanted to stop this woman, tell
her that she had no right, but she was large and moving quickly, with
more purpose than he'd seen in anyone. And she had been Clara's friend.
He answered the question. "Yes. No. I mean, I don't need any towels.
You go ahead. I mean with the towels. You can have the towels." He
opened a drawer and found it full of tarnished silverware, keys for
cans of corned beef, and broken knives. While he looked in drawers,
Loretia continued to move around him, dropping burdens in boxes and
carrying them outside.

"Are you going to give me a hand or what?" she asked as she struggled
with the screen door.

He held the door open for her, then stood in her way to prevent her
coming back. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Hell, somebody's got to look after an old lady, and the work's not
done once she's dead and buried." She pushed his arm out of the way and
squeezed back into the house beside him. "Seems like if you'd do more
than just standing around watching people work you'd have more right to
ask questions." She put an empty box on the table and started filling
it. "And you'd probably have a lot fewer questions if you'd not left
all the work to people like me." She stopped working and looked at him.
"Where the hell have you been, anyway? Do you know we had to get the
police to find your number?"

Alvis had been watching her work in amazement, and when she stopped and
spoke to him, he was trapped in her accusing gaze.

"I-I've got to go," he stammered.

"Well go then! Get out of my way; you're not doing any good here." He
fumbled with the door handle.

"What did you come here for then? Don't you even want to take anything
with you to remember her by? You know anything left will be thrown out.
That or Harold will use it when he moves in."

It hadn't occurred to him that his mother would leave anything behind.
He'd never cleaned up after his mother; she'd never needed his help
when he was a boy, and she'd never asked for it once he was grown. He'd
assumed everything would be sorted out by the time he'd got there, and
he felt the room beginning to spin around him. "What did I come for?"
He repeated her question.

"Take what you want, kiddo." She began working again. "Clara said I
could have the house and do what I wanted with the stuff, but it's your
life I'm throwing out. If you don't want to keep any of it, that's up
to you."

Alvis grew defiant. He didn't recognise the feeling that took hold of
him, but he stared at the woman's bent back. "I came for this." He
reached for the bag on the chair in front of him and carried it with
one hand out the door. As he passed a suitcase on the lawn, he picked
it up and took it to the car. He called out, "I'll be back in a
minute."

When he got to his car he threw the two parcels in the trunk, and then
drove with its lid open up to the house, right over the curb and up the
sidewalk between the bushes. He filled the trunk and then the back seat
with boxes. There was some extra room in front of the back window, so
he went back in the house and took a bag out of Loretia's hands. "I
came for this as well," he said.

"Damn," she said. "Somebody lit a fire under you." She began loading
another box, putting the occasional pretty thing to the side.

"Did you want the furniture?" she called out from the next room. "Cause
Harold was kind of planning on using it."

He found her sitting in the armchair smoking. "Well if you're doing all
the work for a change," she said, "I thought I'd take my chance for a
break." Alvis walked behind her, unplugged the floor lamp, and carried
it to the car. Before she'd finished her cigarette he came back for
three more lamps and a pair of bookends. He loaded them into the
passenger seat of his car. Just as he started to squeeze himself in,
she came to the door again.

"Harold won't mind a bit you taking those things. He doesn't read too
good anyway," she said.

She put both hands on the top of the car door and peered inside. "I
don't guess you'll be back, now you don't have anything left
here."

Alvis suddenly remembered seeing her at the cemetery. She'd stood in
the distance in a thin faded coat, holding a cigarette with a line of
children behind her. He suddenly felt afraid. He turned his head away
from her, looking only at the grass he worked the car down. For the
first time in his life he'd made a decision, defying this woman and
taking back what part of his family he could salvage.

As he stood in the bathroom he remembered how she'd suddenly turned on
him. She was right outside his car window, screaming at him. In her
pinched, high-pitched voice he heard his mother, his wife, his
daughter, all instructing, bossing, belittling him, and he resolved to
fight it. "Stop the car!" she kept screaming, chasing him.

"You can't have it!" He called back. "It's mine! She was my mother, and
these things are mine!" He turned away from her, focusing on the grass
that slipped under the car as he reversed back down the hill. "Nothing
in here is worth that racket," he thought.

"Stop! Please!" She was begging him. Her screeches grated on his ears,
and she became all the teachers and classmates he'd ever known. But now
he was in control. He clenched his teeth and went faster. He wasn't
sure how long his resolve would hold, or how she was keeping up with
him.

"Oh God, please stop!" she sobbed. Suddenly it was quiet, just as he
bumped down off of the curb. He thought he could hear her in the
distance, but the elation at having resisted her pushed him on. He
wondered what she was after in the car, and put it back into first
gear.

Going forward he felt the curb bump again, and was conscious of the
people on the street he'd grown up on staring at him. He was sure it
wasn't his imagination. When he felt the curb bump a third time, he
stopped the car and got out.

At first all he saw was Loretia's enormous white arms, pointing wildly
out from under the car like a disembodied prophetess. Then he realized
that the rest of her was under the car, too, that she'd got caught in
the door as he drove away, and as he'd speeded up she'd fallen under
the wheels. He got down on his hands and knees to look under the car,
and while her body was bent away from him, her neck turned her face
towards Alvis. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. She made no sound.
Alvis gasped, flinched, doubled over again, and waited for her fury to
come, but it did not. Neighbors rushed around calling the police and
telling each other what had happened, but no one spoke to him. He
looked around at the crowd that formed around her, and stood to go back
to the porch to sit until the police came. He sat up straight.

In the hotel he pulled himself up straight again. He looked in the
mirror and tried to make the same strong face he'd used when the police
put a numbered board in his hand and took his picture. "I wonder if the
police would give me a copy of it when I visit them next time," he said
out loud. They had kept him overnight, but they had all had a good
laugh in the morning. He smiled as he remembered the sausage and eggs
they'd cooked in the police station, and his stomach grumbled.

"Now where was that tortoise-shell picture frame?" he asked himself. He
was surprised at his voice. It was still soft, but it contained a
certainty he didn't recognize. "It could sit on the television." As he
looked for the frame, he placed items from the boxes and bags around
the hotel room, making it home.