Part 7 (1/2)

”I thought I heard Buster prowling around, y'know, sleepwalking.”

The only one who ever sleepwalked in our family was Lion, but I didn't say so. ”It's okay-he just wanted company. Lonely in this house tonight.”

”Yeah. Ma?”

I was tired of thinking, and I didn't want to send him away, and I didn't want to talk anymore to anyone so I said, ”Come on, honey, it's a big bed.”

He crawled in next to his brother and fell asleep in a few minutes. I watched the digital clock flip through a lot of numbers and finally I got up and read.

The boys woke early, and I made them what Lionel called a Jersey City breakfast: eggs, sweet Italian sausage, grits, biscuits, and a quart of milk for each of them.

”Buster, soccer camp starts today. Do you feel up to going?”

I didn't see any reason for him to sit at home; he could catch up on his grieving for the rest of his life.

”I guess so. Is it okay, Mama?”

”Yes, honey, it's fine. I'm glad you're going. I'll pick you up at five, and then we'll drive straight over to Grandma's for dinner. You go get ready when you're done eating. Don't forget your cleats-they're in the hall.”

Lion swallowed his milk and stood up, like a brown flamingo, balancing on one foot while he put on his sneaker. ”Come on, Buster, I'm taking you. I have to go into town anyway. Do we need anything?”

I hadn't been to the grocery store in about a week. ”Get milk and OJ and English m.u.f.fins and American cheese. I'll do a real shop tomorrow.” If I could just get to the store and the cleaners, then I could get to work, and then my life would move forward.

Finally they were ready to go, and I kissed them both and gave Lion some money for the groceries.

”I'll be back by lunchtime,” he said. It was already eight-thirty. When his father got sick in the spring, Lion gave me hourly bulletins on his whereabouts. This summer, Lion was house painting and home constantly, leaving late, back early, stopping by for lunch.

”If you like,” I said. I didn't want him to feel that he had to keep me company. I was planning on going back to work tomorrow or the day after.

While the boys were gone, I straightened the house, went for a walk, and made curried tuna-fish sandwiches for Lion. I watched out the window for him, and when I saw my car turn up the road, I remembered all the things I hadn't done and started making a list. He came in, sweating and s.h.i.+rtless, drops of white paint on his hands and shoulders and sneakers.

Lion ate and I watched him and smiled. Feeding them was the easiest and clearest way of loving them, holding them.

”I'm going to shower. Then we could play a little tennis or work on the porch.” He finished both sandwiches in about a minute and got that wistful look that teenage boys get when they want you to fix them something more to eat. I made two peanut-b.u.t.ter-and-jelly sandwiches and put them on his plate.

”Great. I don't have to work this afternoon,” he said. ”I told Joe I might not be back-he said okay.”

”Well, I'm just going to mouse around, do laundry, answer some mail. I'm glad to have your company, you know I am, but you don't have to stay here with me. You might want to be with your friends.”

”I don't. I'm gonna shower.” Like his father, he only put his love out once, and G.o.d help you if you didn't take the hint.

I sat at the table, looking out at the morning glories climbing up the trellis Lionel had built me the summer he stopped drinking. In addition to the trellis, I had two flower boxes, a magazine rack, and a footstool so ugly even Ruth wouldn't have it.

”Ma, no towels,” Lion shouted from the bathroom. I thought that was nice, as if real life might continue.

”All right,” I called, getting one of the big, rough white ones that he liked.

I went into the bathroom and put it on the rack just as he stepped out of the shower. I hadn't seen him naked since he was fourteen and spent the year parading around the house, so that we could admire his underarm hair and the black wisps on his legs.

All I could see in the mist was a dark caramel column and two patches of dark curls, inky against his skin. I expected him to look away, embarra.s.sed, but instead he looked right at me as he took the towel, and I was the one who turned away.

”Sorry,” we both said, and I backed out of the bathroom and went straight down to the bas.e.m.e.nt so we wouldn't b.u.mp into each other for a while.

I washed, dried, and folded everything that couldn't get away from me, listening for Lion's footsteps upstairs. I couldn't hear anything while the machines were going, so after about an hour I came up and found a note on the kitchen table.

Taking a nap. Wake me when it's time to get Buster. L.

”L.,” is how his father used to sign his notes. And their handwriting was the same, too: the awkward, careful printing of men who know that their script is illegible.

I took a shower and dried my hair and looked in the mirror for a while, noticing the gray at the temples. I wondered what Lion would have seen if he'd walked in on me, and I made up my mind not to think like that again.

I woke Lion by calling him from the hall, and I went into my room while he dressed to go to his grandmother's. I found a skirt that was somber and ill-fitting enough to meet Ruth's standard of widowhood and thought about topping it off with my EIGHT TO THE BAR VOLLEYBALL CHAMPS T-s.h.i.+rt, but didn't. Even pulling Ruth's chain wasn't fun. I put on a yellow s.h.i.+rt that made me look like one of the Neapolitan cholera victims, and Lion and I went to get Buster. He was bubbling over about the goal he had made in the last quarter, and that filled the car until we got to Ruth's house, and then she took over.

”Come in, come in. Gabriel, you are too dirty to be my grandson. You go wash up right now. Lionel junior, you're looking a little peaked. You must be working too hard or playing too hard. Does he eat, Julia? Come sit down here and have a gla.s.s of nice iced tea with mint from my garden. Julia, guess who I heard from this afternoon? Loretta, Lionel's first wife. She called to say how sorry she was. I told her she could call upon you, if she wished.”

”Fine.” I didn't have the energy to be annoyed. My muscles felt like b.u.t.ter, I'd had a headache for six days, and my eyes were so sore that even when I closed them, they ached. If Ruth wanted to sic Loretta McVay Sampson de Guzman de G.o.d-knows-who-else on me, I guessed I'd get through that little h.e.l.l, too.

Ruth looked at me, probably disappointed; I knew from Lionel that she couldn't stand Loretta, but since she was the only black woman he'd married, Ruth felt obliged to find something positive about her. She was a lousy singer, a wh.o.r.e, and a terrible housekeeper, so Ruth really had to search. Anita, wife number two, was a rich, pretty flake with a fragile air and a serious drug problem that killed her when the Lion was five. I was the only normal, functioning person Lionel was ever involved with: I worked, I cooked, I balanced our checkbook, I did what had to be done, just like Ruth. And I irritated her no end.

”Why'd you do that, Grandma? Loretta's so nasty. She probably just wants to find out if Pop left her something in his will, which I'm sure he did not.” Loretta and Lionel had had a little thing going when Anita was in one of her rehab centers, and I think the Lion found out and of course blamed Loretta.

”It's all right, Lion,” I said, and stopped myself from patting his hand as if he were Buster.

Ruth was offended. ”Really, young man, it was very decent, just common courtesy, for Loretta to pay her respects, and I'm sure that your stepmother appreciates that.” Ruth thought it disrespectful to call me Julia when talking to Lion, but she couldn't stand the fact that he called me Ma after the four years she put in raising him while Anita killed herself and Lionel toured. So she referred to me as ”your stepmother,” which always made me feel like the coachmen and pumpkins couldn't be far behind. Lion used to look at me and smile when she said it.

We got through dinner, with Buster bragging about soccer and giving us a minute-by-minute account of the soccer training movie he had seen. Ruth criticized their table manners, asked me how long I was going to wallow at home, and then expressed horror when I told her I was going to work on Mon day. Generally, she was her usual self, just a little worse, which was true of the rest of us, too. She also served the best smothered pork chops ever made and her usual first-rate tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. She brightened up when the boys both asked for seconds and I praised her pork chops and the sweet-potato souffle for a solid minute.

After dinner, I cleared and the two of us washed and dried while the boys watched TV. I never knew how to talk to Ruth; my father-in-law was the easy one, and when Alfred died I lost my biggest fan. I looked over at Ruth, scrubbing neatly stacked pots with her pink rubber gloves, which matched her pink-and-white ap.r.o.n, which had nothing cute or whimsical about it. She hadn't raised Lionel to be a good husband; she'd raised him to be a warrior, a G.o.d, a genius surrounded by courtiers. But I married him anyway, when he was too old to be a warrior, too tired to be a G.o.d, and smart enough to know the limits of his talent.

I thought about life without my boys, and I gave Ruth a little hug as she was tugging off her gloves. She humphed and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

”You take care of yourself, now. Those boys need you more than ever.” She walked into the living room and announced that it was time for us to go, since she had a church meeting.

We all thanked her, and I drove home with three pink Tupperware containers beside me. The car smelled like pork chop.

I wanted to put Buster to bed, but it was only eight o'clock. I let him watch some sitcoms and changed out of my clothes and into my bathrobe. Lion came into the hall in a fresh s.h.i.+rt.

”Going out?” He looked so pretty in his clean white s.h.i.+rt.

”Yeah, some of the guys want to go down to the Navigator. I said I'd stop by, see who's there. Don't wait up.”

I was surprised but delighted. I tossed him the keys. ”Okay, drive carefully.”

Buster got himself into pajamas and even brushed his teeth without my nagging him. He had obviously figured out that I was not operating at full speed. I tucked him in, trying to give him enough hugs and kisses to help him get settled, not so many that he'd hang on my neck for an extra fifteen minutes. I went to sit in the kitchen, staring at the moths smacking themselves against the screen door. I could relate to that.

I read a few magazines, plucked my eyebrows, thought about plucking the gray hairs at my temples, and decided not to bother. Who'd look? Who'd mind, except me?

Finally, I got into bed, and got out about twenty minutes later. I poured myself some bourbon and tried to go to sleep again, thinking that I hadn't ever really appreciated what it took Lionel to get through life sober. I woke up at around four, antic.i.p.ating Buster. But there, leaning against the doorway, was Lion.

”Ma.” He sounded congested.