Part 2 (1/2)

”I'm giving a paper at the Nouveau Roman Society meeting.” Her silence seemed to request elaboration. ”I'm working on a novel, I guess you'd call it a novel, which treats this critical text by Roland Barthes, SI/Z, exactly as it treats its so-called subject text which is Balzac's Sarrasine.”

Lisa grunted something friendly enough sounding. ”You know, I just can't read that stuff you write.”

”Sorry.”

”It's my fault, I'm sure.”

”How is your practice?”

Lisa shook her head. ”I hate this country. These antiabortionist creeps are out front every day, with their signs and their big potato heads. They're scary. I suppose you heard about that mess in Maryland.”

I had in fact read about the sniper who shot the nurse through the clinic window. I nodded.

Lisa was tapping the steering wheel rapid fire with her index fingers. As always, my sister and her problems seemed so much larger than me and mine. And I could offer her nothing in the way of solutions, advice, or even commiseration. Even in her car, in spite of her small size and soft features, she towered over me.

”You know why I like you, Monk?” she said after a long break. ”I like you because you're smart. You understand stuff I could never get and you don't even think about it. I mean, you're just one of those people.” There was a note of resentment in her compliment. ”I mean, Bill is a jerk, probably a good butcher, but a butcher nonetheless. He doesn't care about anything but being a good butcher and making butcher money. But you, you don't have to think about this c.r.a.p, but you do.” She put out her imaginary cigarette. ”I just wish you'd write something I could read.”

”I'll see what I can do.”

I've always fished small water, brooks and streams, and little rivers. I've never been able to make it back to my car before dark. No matter how early I start, it's night when I get back. I fish this hole, then that riffle under that undercut bank, that outside bend, each spot looking sweeter and more promising than the last, until I'm miles away from where I started. When it's clear that the hour is late, then I fish my way back, each possible trout hiding place looking even more exciting than it did before, the new angle changing it, the thought that dusk will make the fish hungry nudging at me.

My mother had just awakened from her nap when we arrived at her house on Underwood, but as always she was dressed as if to go out. She wore blush in the old way, showing clearly on her light cheeks, but her age let her pull it off. She seemed shorter than ever and she hugged me somewhat less stiffly than my sister had and said, ”My little Monksie is home.”

I lifted her briefly from the floor, she always liked that, and kissed her cheek. I observed the expectant expression on my sister's face as the old woman turned to her.

”So, Lisa, are you and Barry pregnant yet?”

”Barry is,” Lisa said. She then spoke into our mother's puzzled face. ”Barry and I are divorced, Mother. The idiot ran off with another woman.”

”I'm so sorry, dear.” She patted Lisa's arm. ”That's just life, honey. Don't worry. You'll get through it. As your father used to say, 'One way or another.'”

”Thank you, Mother.”

”We're taking you out to dinner, madam,” I said. ”What do you think of that?”

”I think it's lovely, just lovely. Let me freshen up and grab my bag.”

Lisa and I wandered around the living room while she was gone. I went to the mantel and looked at the photographs that had remained the same for fifteen years, my father posed gallantly in his uniform from the war in Korea, my mother looking more like Dorothy Dandridge than my mother, and the children, looking sweeter and cleaner than we ever were. I looked down into the fireplace. ”Hey, Lisa, there are ashes in the fireplace.”

”What?”

”Look. Ashes.” I pointed.

The fireplace in the house had never been used. Our mother was so afraid of fire that she'd insisted on electric stoves and electric baseboard heat throughout the house. Mother came back with her bag and her face powdered.

”How did these ashes get here?” Lisa asked, sidling up to the subject in her way.

”When you burn things, you make ashes,” Mother said. ”You should know that, with your education.”

”What was burned?”

”I promised your father I'd burn some of his papers when he died. Well, he died.”

”Father died seven years ago,” Lisa said.

”I know that, dear. I just finally got around to it. You know how I hate fire.” Her point was a reasonable one.

”What kind of papers?” Lisa asked.

”That's none of your business,” Mother said. ”Why do you think your father asked me to burn them? Now, let's go to dinner.”

At the door, Mother fumbled with her key in the lock, complained that the mechanism had become sticky lately. I offered to help. ”Here,” I said. ”If you turn the key this way and then back, it turns easily.”

”Monksie fixed my lock,” she said.

Lisa groaned and stepped down ahead of us to her car.

Mother spoke softly to me. ”I think there's a problem with Lisa and Barry.”

”Yes, Mother.”

”Are you married yet?” she asked. I held her arm as she walked down the porch steps.

”Not yet.”

”You'd better get started. You don't want to be fifty with little kids. They'll run your tail into the ground.”

My father had been considerably older than my mother. In June, when school ended, we would drive to the house in Highland Beach, Maryland, and open it for the summer. We'd open all the windows, sweep, clear cobwebs, and chase away stray cats. Then for the rest of the summer we would all remain at the beach and Father would join us on weekends. But I remember how the first cleaning always wore him out and when it came time to take a break before dinner and play softball or croquet, he would resign to a seat on the porch and watch. He would cheer Mother on when she took the bat, giving her pointers, then sitting back as if worn out by thinking about it. He had more energy in the mornings and for some reason he and I took early strolls together. We walked to the beach, out onto the pier, then back, past the Dougla.s.s house and over to the tidal creek where we'd sit and watch the crabs scurrying with the tide. Sometimes we'd take a bucket and a net and he'd coach me while I snagged a couple dozen crabs for lunch.

Once he fell to his b.u.t.t in the sand and said, ”Thelonious, you're a good boy.”

I looked back at him from the ankle-deep water.

”You're not like your brother and sister. Of course, they're not like each other, either. But they're more alike than they're willing to admit. Anyway, you're different.”

”Is that good, Father?” I asked.

”Yes,” he said, as if figuring out the answer right then. He pointed to the water. ”There's a nice fat one. Come at him from farther away.”

I followed his instructions and scooped up the crab.

”Good boy. You have a special mind. The way you see things. If I had the patience to figure out what you were saying sometimes, I know you'd make me a smarter man.”

I didn't know what he was telling me, but I understood the flattering tone and appreciated it.

”And you're so relaxed. Hang on to that trait, son. That might serve you better than anything else in life.”