CHAPTER XIV. THE LONELY HIGHWAY

Your hero finds a woman’s bed.

The pigtails retarded recognition. I still made the find. Our curiosity was pacing a row of courtesy vans, bemused drivers giving her the eye. Cradling a phone, bobbling her head, twirling her tassels, she spotted me through the glass wall and pranked a pirouette. I am a beacon of tolerance, but my sister strains the sympathy, her denim jacket, tartan miniskirt, knee-length white socks, and black Doc Martens suggesting the delinquent schoolgirl of comic-book cartoon. The doors parted, and I wheeled my unfortunate baggage out to a furnace.

 “Annie!” She shelved her dilemma, closing her cell. The siblings do not hug, though I would be quite receptive, trust me.

“Little sister, don’t you . . .”

“How was the flight?”

“Nightmare.”

“Screaming babies?”

“Another cat! On the next seat.”

“My brother, you really need to let it ago. Hypatia just liked a good scratch.”

“A vicious unprovoked attack! But here’s my favorite person, we’re all good now. You look incredible. Literally.” Was this her new thing, or whimsy of the day? The classroom is surely no place for a teen porn star, but now the third wave is crashing against the walls . . .

“Let’s hit the road. The vultures are circling. I pull over for a second, and this pig is already blowing her whistle in my face. Smell my pussy, bitch!”

I do apologize. And I would love to offer some reassurance. In truth, there is little guarantee. You might wish my manners ran in the family, but the liberated sister operates under a wearisome assumption: Offense only furthers the cause.

“I admire the woman’s dedication in this heat.”

“No kidding. I saw a hundred and ten on the way over. The folks retired to a crematorium. What’s the big hurry?”

“It was either Arizona or Florida. Pick your poison.”

 My sister took the wheel. She also had a phone. A compact rental car has room for two, but I was on my own.

The congested interstate skirted the runway. A pause in jet propulsion passed the skies over to a hovering hawk. Flowering bushes of unnatural color lined the shoulder, where gaps of rigid regularity opened onto a spread of tract homes, shimmering in the desert broil. Behind the wheel, my sister’s powers of concentration fall short, mishap likely following any quiz of her apparel. The drive-through chicken wings spilling over the back seat competed with the rental-car smell, but my starving research found only skeletal remains. We exited the freeway for a two-lane artery that skirted faux Spanish malls, gated communities of mosaic walling, and lonely cacti. Churches of futuristic architecture suggested a hidden world, but a suicidal roadrunner offered the only sign of extra-vehicular sentience. Dark clouds threatened the crawling traffic: A jalopy overloaded with yard tools had broken down, and an oversized truck of white supremacist slogan conspicuously circled los tres hermanos sleeping in the cab.

Rap music erupted from a purse. The guilty party pleaded extenuating circumstances. We pulled off into an oceanic shopping center, where I had to borrow the price of our prepackaged flowers and special-offer beer. Mission accomplished, I surveyed a vast parking lot with desperation: a migratory bird blown off course, the malevolent concrete of the inferno willing my collapse. Heatstroke takes a tender transient? A blur of movement condensed out of the vapor, the cavalry riding up to the rescue, a phone glued to her ear. I planted a frigid beer in the driver’s lap, and we merged back onto a barren thoroughfare.

 Our destination fronted the highway. We only got lost once, a detour due more to the pilot’s phone than her navigator’s beer, trust me. She dropped me outside the main entrance, where I conveyed a bouquet across asphalt-refracted heat to the sanctuary of the lobby. Her nose in a book, the receptionist gestured towards a row of glass doors, but refused my further inquiry. A panel pinged, and the elevator discharged me onto the eighth floor. Her hallway was deserted, the doors closed, the notices unhelpful. But all signs led me to a bed. Betty has a way.

The patient plumped her pillows. “Not you, as well—”

“Hi, Mom. What a welcome!”

The ward was a ward. But a wall of windows was generous with the light, framing a distant range of arid mountains. And a floral abundance ringed her center, so I made my sorry offering with minimal ceremony. Other beds in the room were occupied, wizened eyes trained on the main attraction. A hospital always takes me back. Yet I shudder at no memory, an intake of free will.

“Always happy to see my son, shirt tucked in or not. But there’s really no need, I’m quite well. Sonja was here this morning, she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“We wanted a surprise. She’s parking the car, said she’d be back soon. But so did Amelia Earhart.”

“I didn’t say anything, but what do you make of her getup? Isn’t she a little old for . . . or am I just an old fuddy-duddy?”

“You are an old fuddy-duddy, Mom. As for the catastrophic fashion statement, probably best not to dwell. Her midlife crises are a point of pride.” Sonja’s desire for disapproval gives neither woman any peace.

“Your sister’s still complaining about that check we wrote you, needed money just as bad.”

“She shacks up with a jailbird. Go figure.”

“Not her first experience. Twenty years, and I still think about it every day. My own daughter in prison. Your father’s lawyer could have taken care—”

“And spoiled her show.”

“My family! I try to be a good mother. Not always easy.”

“Things could be worse.”

“I suppose. Mildred’s eldest son has just opened a homosexual video store.”

“Give thanks you’re not a spider.”

Matriphagy! Since you ask, it means having your mother for lunch. Immediately after giving birth, the desert spider, Stegodyphus lineatus, regurgitates a store of nutrition for her young. But once the ungrateful brats have scarfed down this limited resource, they proceed to eat her alive. Look it up, if you don’t believe me!

“Not always easy! I’ll never forget seeing my son on the stand.”

“Where he acquitted himself admirably.”

“You did look most handsome.”

“The tax thing was an honest mistake. You both meant well, I’m sure, but no need to show up in court.”

“And your business survived—”

“Thriving.”

“At least one of my children is trying to stay out of trouble. Aren’t you going to stay a while? Sit down, boy.”

“Mom, I need the inheritance, shouldn’t you be dead by now? You look better than I do.” I had not seen the good woman in some years. She had aged but not horribly deteriorated, retained her midwestern heartiness, eyes radiating a wrinkled mirth. “How do you feel?”

“Like getting the hell out of Dodge, is how I feel. They insist on keeping me for observation. Am I a goldfish?”

“You’ve had company.” I toured the wealth of flowers.

“Everyone has been worried about me, and very kind. Now Anselm, you still haven’t given your mother a kiss.”

 “Had to talk to a colleague.” Sonja materialized at the bedside, a full hour behind schedule. “But I see lunch is getting cold.” Two adults exchanged glances as a third party requisitioned a chair.

“Wonderful to see you both, I must say. Anselm Thomas, do you want this?” The good woman prodded a hospital hamburger.

“Anselm Thomas Merrywood!” The sister is not timid of taunt. “The ATM was out of money today.” Her humor is no improvement on her fashion sense, as you surmise.

“After your filthy germs, Mother?” The son had noticed the discarded sandwich, but was far from fixation, trust me. I will own to some care with my spending, though the cheap suggestion has no justice. An upright citizen refuses the price of airport food on moral principle.

“Couldn’t you two wait until I’m out of this dump? There’s always wine in the fridge, I think. Do you know something that I don’t? What have they been telling you?”

“You’ve been hitting on the doctors. Tut-tut.”

“That orderly was pretty cute. I’d do him.” Sonja finds a way. She removed her denim jacket to the revelation of a new tattoo, revolutionary flames licking at the sleeve of her faded, black Ramones T-shirt. A frail elderly woman started to cough uncontrollably, but the family considered the curiosity with calm.

“Where’s Pop?” Sonja’s lifelong mission of disfavor is selective; Mother’s grief is Daddy’s girl.

“Playing golf somewhere. He’s got more sense than to worry about me. Not like you two.”

“Mom, it’s got to be a thousand degrees out there. Playing golf, at his age? Does he have a death wish?” I would shortly die as well, for lack of nourishment.

“And I don’t I tell him? The old fools drop like flies on the golf courses round here. Now where are those darned nurses? I’ve been ringing for ages. Out of water.”

“I’m on it.” Sonja grasped at the excuse. All heads in the ward turned to follow a skirt riding over forty-year-old knees.

And all ears heard the sigh. “Where did we go wrong?”

 I suggested the visit. My sister needed little persuasion. Mary Mary is quite contrary, but will not miss a family gathering. The maternal bane lives in Oregon, hunts wild boar, and teaches at a large state school, whose immigrant and blue-collar students find her license comical. At least they should. The chosen career cages the cantankerous canary, clueless conservatives clipping her wings. Please pity the poor professor! An evil economy harrows the halls, a cabal of conniving administrators and reactionary regents the curriculum. She has tenure, a designated parking space, collegial solidarity, but anxiety is a mark of academic rigor. The struggles must never, ever cease.

“Well dear, what seems to be the trouble?” A plump middle-aged nurse had answered the summons.

“Sally Mae, there you are. This is Anselm, I was telling you about him. My son normally looks quite presentable, but he’s just flown in from San Francisco.”

“I have a son. He’s dyslexic, so he refuses to come here in the summer.” Sally Mae was fussing with the sheets, addressing no one in particular. “My friend lives in San Fran—”

“Maybe Anselm could give you a tour.”

“What was the problem, dear?” She ignored the motherly machinations.

“Oh, I just wanted some water. My daughter is taking care of it, but who knows.”

“If you need anything else dear, just ring.”

“They think I’m an old nuisance.” Mother puts the world at ease. And a rapt audience proved her boss of the ward. Her bed had the only visitors; on what lonely highway did the others dwell? “I’m sure George will have to pay good money for this.”

Sonja returned with the jug, to stare pointedly out the window. “High desert. Good for deer in Oregon. Always happy to hunt, but I think I’ll give Arizona a miss.”

“My girl, I’ll take the heat over arthritis any day.”

 “Mrs. . . . Mellywood, how you doing, ma’am?” A young nurse pulled up with a cart, her clipboard under cursory examination. The American medical facility offers a range of provision. I am fond of hot tea, find jasmine particularly inviting.

“Young woman, if you can’t read English, I pray you’re not dispensing my medication.”

“The Merrywoods are proud of the name.” I stroked a finger of tutelage over the block letters of offending pronunciation. “Though Sista Sonjah had her moment.” And effective education calls for some proximity. But please, the nurse’s looks had no influence over my diplomatic mission. Betty was in town!

“What indignities, now?” The incivility was not entirely feigned, Mother’s antagonism towards fetching young women as predictably exposed as vehemently denied.

“Going to take temperature, ma’am. And doctor wants to know chart.”

 “My dear mother is only kidding.” I closely followed a thermometer. The intriguing new arrival leaned over the bed, and the dip of loose green smock was generous enough to reveal warm brown skin, leading to the clinical whiteness of a bra. How often did she make her rounds? However, the delight was compromised by a darned pain in the district of a disc. The provenance was evident, whatever you might suppose: Is it really impossible for a hospital to provide enough chairs? “We’re visiting. I’m from San Francisco. I own a bookstore. That’s my sister, in case you’re wondering how she got past security.”

The nubile nurse turned to the source of wonder. “Cool shoes.”

“You have a Band-Aid?” Sonja came to life. “I bought them yesterday. Department store, not my bag, but I had to escape the heat. I thought my town was criminal extortion. As my sex-starved brother noted, I’m not from here. Portland, Oregon.”

“Been there. Dig scene.”

Sonja and I had dispatched the six-pack, a decision I was beginning to regret.

“Don’t know what got into me. I sometimes have to shoot, can’t resist.” My sister played the mime, training a rifle on her newest purchase.

“I can never say no.” The young woman had a wistful way.

Even so, I had to leave. And I disappeared with dispatch, despite the dorsal discomfort.

 My only sibling is five years my junior. We have been gifted decent, loving, well-adjusted parents, but our respective childhoods and subsequent careers testify to the burden of that blessing. I bear them no ill will, my life story just happening to thwart a mother’s every expectation. Whereas the woman’s middle-American rectitude and wifely contentment has driven Sonja to open rebellion. Student years occupying administration offices paved the way for more consequential activism, a burst of police brutality making the ten o’clock news. She wore her jail sentence as a badge of honor, insisted on visiting home to flaunt a baton-inflicted wound—whereupon she suffered my own lash, have no fear.

Thankless politics take an inevitable toll. The revolt against bourgeois oppression modulated into the personal: a series of unworthy men, the deliberate disappointment of which she vehemently denies. Annie, you insist on sharing every last detail of my personal life with our mother, what do you expect?! The career started young. Was the farm boy to blame for the bio? She has crossed the border, relying on an undocumented yard worker to pull her weeds until his services assumed a more intimate course. She met a recovering alcoholic when tagging along with her father to Sunday Mass, a development about which I have been sworn to silence—the suspect has no compunction with one parent, but would spare the old man. She is presently enmeshed with a gun-toting, out-of-work contractor who lives in a trailer park with his pregnant daughter. But the approach of middle age has sanded down the splinters. The full professor took a temporary chair, has purchased permanent housing, and threatened to dump Donnie, the Second Amendment enthusiast, unless he finds a job.

 “We were just talking about you.” The good woman rejoiced on my return. My unbidden tour of cardiology led to a destination of disappointment: The nurse never said no, but was quick to say goodbye. “We think you’re brooding over Chris.” Sonja’s rolled eyes denied complicity. Agreement with her mother amounts to existential crisis. “I was talking to that nurse. Well, it turns out she’s single, the poor girl has had all kinds of trouble meeting the right man. I can tell she likes you. It’s unnatural for a man your age to be on his own.”

The man of my age jumped at the news. I removed a green smock, ran fingers over flawless brown skin, unclipped pure-white bra. My matchmaker continued, “She’s got a couple of kids, but they’re already in college.” A desert landscape loomed. I was staring at the clutches of matronly Sally Mae.

“Brooding, yes. Did I really marry an alien? One minute my wife is a professional with a pension, sensible shoes, likes her meat and potatoes. The next, she’s gone full chakra, Birkenstocks when we go out to dinner, bean casserole, complains about my drinking—”

“It’s hard when a woman loses her mother.” Betty retook her rightful place, the center of attention. “I was never the same.”

“You still vote for the forces of darkness.” Sonja will not be denied.

“You two can’t stop talking about the woman. Does she really deserve the attention? I’m so over it!”

“Don’t listen to him, Mother.” Sonja resides in Oregon, but lives in a world of her own. “Desperate Dan would still love to dance.”

“Would he ever!” The play runs in the family. “Cha-cha-cha.” The bedridden can still rise to the occasion. “Your brother left his wallet on that chair when he went to the bathroom. It happened to fall open when I asked the nurse to pick it up. Guess whose photo?”

“Happened to fall open?!!!” I had every right to the rage! “Actually, that wallet is a spare . . . haven’t used it in years . . . that photo is stuck.” Would I rifle through her purse?

“Calm down boy, you’re spitting!” A mother made a show of wiping her magazine. “You want me to call security?”

 Complain, who me? A good mother has her son’s interests at heart. Let us wind back the clock. Charity work consigning her to the church-hall kitchen, Betty took charge, volunteering a nice parish daughter to help young Anselm with the deliveries. Her son dutifully walked the gifted pies and skirted company to some gratitude at the destination, but received no other blessing, other than a subsequent interrogation. How did you get on, my boy?—Fine.—Isn’t Patsy pretty?—If you say so. In truth, the girl was too skinny, wore soccer cleats, and wouldn’t stop giggling. She did find my silence intriguing, a sign of unusual depth. At least she should have.

A good mother’s love is unconditional. But she wants the best for her son. And doing her proud, I enjoyed quite a distinguished school career, trust me. Another singular distinction extending into adulthood, she fretted lest Uncle Percy’s inclination ran in the family and so welcomed in the Christine era, even inviting us to stay. Our first visit started inauspiciously, one guest conspicuously refusing to say grace when she sat down at the table. And the sanitation engineer then took her future family on an extended tour of a sewage system, over a roast beef dinner of daylong preparation.

A good mother is forgiving. The two women warmed to each other, confounding the practiced antagonism of female in-laws, my wife a tap of the womanly conversation that my sister screwed shut. An unlikely pair joined forces, one midwestern, God-fearing and full family, the other a homesick Bostonian, secular and only child. They did share a love of horticulture, spending visits in the yard, but would happily cultivate the garden while leaving me in the shed. The younger sought out the elder’s confidence, to my further disadvantage and the confidante’s detail. Betty, I’ve been married to your son for seven years. Every evening it’s the same old: his comfy chair, his paper, his glass of whisky. Couldn’t we go dancing, every now and again? False! I am quite partial to a splash of gin. And my maligner knew I loved to dance; she just has no taste in music. The malcontent also knew a mother would not meddle, but neither hold her tongue. Betty, I don’t need a rich husband, just hate the idea of losing money, so unnecessary. A sounding board does not distort, but will repeat a message. Betty, I could turn that shop around, he refuses to listen. An engineer is equal to any enterprise.

A good mother dotes. But Betty was in a bind, the impending breach pitting the burden of wifely complaint against the loss of surrogate daughter.

Merrywood! . . . Give me a break! . . . A good mother has faith . . . A good Christian has to listen . . . Her son can do no wrong . . . However sad the squawk.

I bear no grudge, trust me. The perfect is the enemy of the good! And my conscience is clear. A friendly woman might nurse a little disappointment, denied the company of another. But we are talking about a Merrywood, for heaven’s sake! Betty took the news in stride; a farm girl knows hard winters.

 Give me some credit. I could have written a letter; I bravely picked up the phone. A good mother was losing her daughter-in-law. But Betty was not lost for words. Poor Chris, I feel for her. Nor did she lack for birthday presents, my bygone betrothed gifting her some overpriced paperbacks of profoundest platitude. No Anselm, I didn’t toss them immediately in the trash. At least someone remembered! I am her only son, but claim no exclusive privilege, as you appreciate by now. She sent poor Christine a letter of thanks, probably profuse, but the greatest generation is infallibly courteous. I do not feel betrayed. All right, one of the books was written by my replacement and sits shamelessly on her shelf. I do not care, believe me. Whose sweater am I wearing?