بخش 02 - فصل 05

5 Brady calls ahead to Sammy’s Pizza on his way home and picks up a small pepperoni and mushroom pie. If he thought his mother would eat a couple

of slices, he would have gotten a bigger one, but he knows better. Maybe if it was pepperoni and Popov, he thinks. If they sold that, I’d have to skip the medium and go straight to a large. There are tract houses on the city’s North Side. They were built between Korea and Vietnam, which means they all

look the same and they’re all turning to shit. Most still have plastic toys on the crabgrassy lawns, although it’s now full dark. Chaz Hartsfield is at 49 Elm Street, where there are no elms and probably never were. It’s just that all the streets in this area of the city–known, reasonably enough, as Northfield–are named for trees.

Brady parks behind Ma’s rustbucket Honda, which needs a new exhaust system, new points, and new plugs. Not to mention an inspection sticker. Let her take care of it, Brady thinks, but she won’t. He will. He’ll have to. The way he takes care of everything. The way I took care of Frankie, he thinks. Back when

the basement was just the basement instead of my control center. Brady and Deborah Ann Hartsfield don’t talk about Frankie. The door is locked. At least he’s taught her that much, although God knows it hasn’t been easy. She’s the kind of person who thinks okay solves all of life’s problems. Tell her

Put the half-and-half back in the fridge after you use it, she says okay. Then you come home and there it sits on the counter, going sour. You say Please do a wash so I can have a clean uni for the ice cream truck tomorrow, she says okay. But when you poke your head into the laundry room, everything’s still there in the basket.

The cackle of the TV greets him. Something about an immunity challenge, so it’s Survivor. He has tried to tell her it’s all fake, a set-up. She says yes, okay, she knows, but she still never misses it. “I’m home, Ma!” “Hi, honey!” Only a moderate slur, which is good for this hour of the evening. If I was her liver, Brady thinks,

I’d jump out of her mouth some night while she’s snoring and run the fuck away. He nonetheless feels that little flicker of anticipation as he goes into the living room, the flicker he hates. She’s sitting on the couch in the white silk robe he got her for Christmas, and he can see more white where it splits apart high up on her thighs. Her

underwear. He refuses to think the word panties in connection with his mother, it’s too sexy, but it’s down there in his mind, just the same: a snake hiding in poison sumac. Also, he can see the small round shadows of her nipples. It’s not right that such things should turn him on–she’s pushing fifty, she’s starting to flab out

around the middle, she’s his mother, for God’s sake–but . . . But. “I brought pizza,” he says, holding up the box and thinking, I already ate. “I already ate,” she says. Probably she did. A few lettuce leaves and a teensy tub of yogurt. It’s how she keeps what’s left of her figure.

“It’s your favorite,” he says, thinking, You enjoy it, honey. “You enjoy it, sweetie,” she says. She lifts her glass and takes a ladylike sip. Gulping comes later, after he’s gone to bed and she thinks he’s asleep. “Get yourself a Coke and come sit beside me.” She pats the couch. Her robe opens a little more. White robe, white panties.

Underwear, he reminds himself. Underwear, that’s all, she’s my mother, she’s Ma, and when it’s your ma it’s just underwear. She sees him looking and smiles. She does not adjust the robe. “The survivors are on Fiji this year.” She frowns. “I think it’s Fiji. One of those islands, anyway. Come and watch with me.”

“Nah, I guess I’ll go downstairs and work for awhile.” “What project is this, honey?” “A new kind of router.” She wouldn’t know a router from a grouter, so that’s safe enough. “One of these days you’ll invent something that will make us rich,” she says. “I know you will. Then, goodbye

electronics store. And goodbye to that ice cream truck.” She looks at him with wide eyes that are only a little watery from the vodka. He doesn’t know how much she puts down in the course of an ordinary day, and counting empty bottles doesn’t work because she ditches them somewhere, but he knows her capacity is staggering.

“Thanks,” he says. Feeling flattered in spite of himself. Feeling other stuff, too. Very much in spite of himself. “Come give your Ma a kiss, honeyboy.” He approaches the couch, careful not to look down the front of the gaping robe and trying to ignore that crawling sensation just below his belt buckle. She turns her face to

one side, but when he bends to kiss her cheek, she turns back and presses her damp half-open mouth to his. He tastes booze and smells the perfume she always dabs behind her ears. She dabs it other places, as well. She places a palm on the nape of his neck and ruffles his hair with the tips of her fingers, sending a shiver all the

way down to the small of his back. She touches his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, just a flick, there and gone, then pulls back and gives him the wide-eyed starlet stare. “My honeyboy,” she breathes, like the heroine of some romantic chick-flick– the kind where the men wave swords and the women wear low-cut dresses with their

cakes pushed up into shimmery globes. He pulls away hastily. She smiles at him, then looks back at the TV, where good-looking young people in bathing suits are running along a beach. He opens the pizza box with hands that are shaking slightly, takes out a slice, and drops it in her salad bowl.

“Eat that,” he says. “It’ll sop up the booze. Some of it.” “Don’t be mean to Mommy,” she says, but with no rancor and certainly no hurt. She pulls her robe closed, doing it absently, already lost in the world of the survivors again, intent on discovering who will be voted off the island this week. “And don’t

forget about my car, Brady. It needs a sticker.” “It needs a lot more than that,” he says, and goes into the kitchen. He grabs a Coke from the fridge, then opens the door to the basement. He stands there in the dark for a moment, then speaks a single word: “Control.” Below him, the fluorescents (he installed them himself, just as he

remodeled the basement himself) flash on. At the foot of the stairs, he thinks of Frankie. He almost always does when he stands in the place where Frankie died. The only time he didn’t think of Frankie was when he was preparing to make his run at City Center. During those weeks everything else left his

mind, and what a relief that was. Brady, Frankie said. His last word on Planet Earth. Gurgles and gasps didn’t count. He puts his pizza and his soda on the worktable in the middle of the room, then goes into the closet-sized bathroom and drops trou. He won’t be able to eat, won’t be able to work on his new project (which

is certainly not a router), he won’t be able to think, until he takes care of some urgent business. In his letter to the fat excop, he stated he was so sexually excited when he crashed into the job-seekers at City Center that he was wearing a condom. He further stated that he masturbates while reliving the event. If that

were true, it would give a whole new meaning to the term autoerotic, but it isn’t. He lied a lot in that letter, each lie calculated to wind Hodges up a little more, and his bogus sex-fantasies weren’t the greatest of them. He actually doesn’t have much interest in girls, and girls sense it. It’s probably why he gets along so well with

Freddi Linklatter, his cyberdyke colleague at Discount Electronix. For all Brady knows, she might think he’s gay. But he’s not gay, either. He’s largely a mystery to himself–an occluded front– but one thing he knows for sure: he’s not asexual, or not completely. He and his mother share a gothic rainbow of a secret, a thing not to be

thought of unless it is absolutely necessary. When it does become necessary, it must be dealt with and put away again. Ma, I see your panties, he thinks, and takes care of his business as fast as he can. There’s Vaseline in the medicine cabinet, but he doesn’t use it. He wants it to burn.