bearing books
He and his sisters talked as they worked in the kitchen, six days a week, and I talked with them. They talked about the Stones concert, which was the first major act to play their city. They talked about L. breaking up with his boyfriend of six years, about the local shrink and the retinue of boys he “helped,” about the local gay bar owner burning down another new bar that dared open up. They talked about coffee versus Dr. Pepper as a morning drink and whether or not one peppermint drop dissolved in a cup of coffee was optimal. Ice cubes too? No. Drink it hot and smooth, out of a perfect brown cup. They talked about B’s drinking, and about finishing raising D’s son for her. H. was in jail again. And they talked about their momma and all she did bringing up the whole brood of them. They talked about her a lot. Momma made bread. That time he got accused of plagiarizing a poem and she gave the teacher what-for. Momma thinks this. Momma went and did that.
I liked them all, but was awkward at showing it. After six months of talking, I brought in a stack of books. Paperbacks, popular fiction, some romances. “I thought your momma might like them,” I said. “They seemed like her taste, from what you’ve told me.”
There was a pause. “She’s been dead for eight years now,” he said. Another pause. “You didn’t know that?”
“Well, no. Ya’ll talk about her in the present tense. Um, no. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know.”
“Well, I guess we do. Still, you better take those books back on home.” He turned to the bushels of lettuce head that filled the stainless steel sinks and began slamming each one on the counter, knocking the cores out and pitching them to the next section to be washed and shredded.