How kind. Always. She’d stop beating me with a broom to answer the phone as kind as could be. Liar. But her beating days are over. Age. The vibrating chair. Shows, magazines, bridge club, church. Nowadays she has trouble beating an egg.
“Ma. It’s me.”
She turned on her chair. I held the phone from my ear. “How you been?” Her voice vibrated.
“Not so good, ma. Fuck you too, buddy. Sorry ma. I’m driving.”
“Don’t you call me when you’re driving. You want an accident?”
“I’m on speaker phone, ma.”
“I don’t care. You concentrate on the road. Call me later.”
“Ma, this isn’t why I called. All right. Fine. I’m pulling over. There. I just pulled into McDonald’s. Now I’m looking for a parking spot. There. I’m pulling in. I’m parked now. I’m parked.” A Caddy jumped two lanes, cutting me off, then took an exit. “Ma, what do you think of uncle Marcus?”
“He’s a saint.” She turned off the chair to give her long speech praising her baby brother’s divine nature, about how he always had the best intentions for his family by launching business after business so he could earn enough to provide for us all. When a business fell apart he wouldn’t grumble. He’d dust himself off and start another.
A Clucker’s Chicken. I remember. Sort of. She took us and Marcus was there. It was a bigger deal than just lunch. We never went back. It doesn’t exist anymore. What else? A tobacco shop. A mini-mart?
About how he soldiered through the disappointments because he loved his family so much, how he refused to be beaten because he had his family to inspire him, how he had now found himself and was doing so much good.
Bullshit. Family didn’t motivate Marcus. Guilt did. He got dad’s money. Should’ve gone to ma but dad had the meanest will any man ever wrote. Marcus bought her the precious chair. Paid off a few bills. Gave me a job.
“I know you believe all that ma, but Marcus wants me to do his dirty work.”
“Oh honey. He’s the boss. That’s what a boss does.”
“You know what I mean by dirty work?”
She has no clue. Marcus throws her shimmering trinkets so she can’t see. Soap in her eyes.
“Can’t be that bad, son. I’ve seen worse. My daddy’s brother was worse. Anyway, you know what it means to be a man? It means doing something you might not want to do. If your uncle tells you to do something, then do it. Not because he’s smarter than you, which he is. And not because he worked himself up from nothing to be where he is, which he did. And not because he can fire you, which he can. I told him so. Do it because if you don’t, then I have no idea where life’s going to carry your sorry ass. You always were the problem child.” She turned on the chair and listed the ways my brothers were better than me.
But I couldn’t be like them, ma. Never the guys who raise themselves up farther than their parents. Can’t. Couldn’t. It wasn’t in my blood. You never understood me. I couldn’t jump into college, ma. And I couldn’t join the Air Force. I couldn’t do anything until anything made sense. Nothing makes sense. Made sense. And you never helped. You hated. I was helpless.
“Now you get to work. Don’t act crazy, making calls on the road.”
“Yeah.”
“And tell Marcus not to forget me.”
“Sure.”
Will you cry, mother? Will you mourn? Sit in the vibrating chair till they shake out some tears? Blame Marcus? No? Marcus is a good man? He paid for the funeral? Blame yourself? For one minute? No? My fault? You knew something like this would happen? I give up. I give up all memories of you. I’ll never think of you again.