| Joe paused on the porch and took stock of the house. The paint around the door frame was chipped; he’d have to do that in the spring. The porch was sagging, but that was nothing new. The wooden latticework around the porch had half a dozen broken slats: handyman work. The mailbox had the same faded decal of a flower. He rang the bell. The dog began to bark - high angry urgent yips. He waited. “Quiet, Cocoa!” he heard; the curtain on the door drew back a few inches, and he saw his mother’s face. She smiled and opened the door. “Joe! Come in come in. Cocoa quiet. Cocoa quiet.” Cocoa, an old chihuahua, sniffed at Joe’s cuffs, then clattered off, nails clicking on the floor. Joe’s mother gave him a hug. “I have some cookies coming out of the oven if you can stay,” she said. “You’re baking? I brought some doughnuts from Hough’s. I didn’t know. When did you start baking?” “Oh, something to keep me busy. Learn new things, you never get old, that’s what they say. Hah! As if growing old doesn’t teach you new things. Take off your coat, don’t stand there looking like you’re going to run as soon as you can. I haven’t seen you since Christmas.” She headed into the kitchen, and Joe trailed behind. “How was your New Year’s? Go out? Paint the town? Don't tell me, I'll worry if you did and I'll worry if you didn't." The kitchen was exactly the same as ever, right down to the round ugly ceramic cookie jar with a garish rooster on the side. (Had there ever been cookies in there?) Same shiny toaster, same bakelite radio – no doubt tuned to WHK because the dial had rusted in place from disuse – same ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like little chefs. He felt 12 again like he always did, and it felt alright. She waved him towards in the breakfast nook; on the table was a pale pink coffee cup, a book, an ashtray, a pack of Viceroys and some matches from the United store. “You don’t use the matches I give you? Mom.” “Oh I hate to. I save them.” “Mm hmm.” "I do! I have a collection." "Mhm hmm." He tapped up the book. “Henry Miller?” “It’s a little raw. I don’t know if I like it but I don’t see what the fuss is about.” She poured Joe a cup of coffee and sat across from him in the nook. “So you look good. Job okay?” “Mm-hmm.” He sipped the coffee. Burnt. “Went up to Ashtabula, big road trip.” “Did you call your uncle?” “I have an uncle in Ashtabula?” “Your father’s brother, Harry. You remember him. He sends a card every year.” “Not to me, he doesn’t. Here.” He took a matchbook out of his pocket and put in on the Viceroy pack. “Another for your collection. I just dropped off this order over on Broadview, and thought I’d stop by since I was in the neighborhood.” “It’s lovely. Did you draw this?” Joe shook his head. “Just the lettering. And not the seal, either, that has to look that way. Federal law or something. They had a picture of the bank I had to work in – kinda hard to make it out, if you ask me, but they insisted. And they wanted red – for a bank. I don’t get it. You’d think they’d want to be black. Red ink for banks, I don’t know why they want the association.” “Such nice lettering. You know we used to have an account there.” “I know. I remember I’d go down with Dad, and it always seemed like, like church without the smell of candles and the whole sin business. But still sort of hushed and holy.” “Yeah, it’s the temple the moneychangers went to after they got kicked out of the other one.” She lit a Viceroy. “You get a sucker?” “No.” He smiled. “That’s right, they always used to give me a sucker. And they gave me a little folder for saving dimes and nickels, too.” “You filled it all out and then you wanted to keep it. You didn’t know why you should give it to them after you’d saved all the money.” The timer dinged; Joe’s mother sighed, stood up and put on an oven mitt. “Eventually, you started your own bank,” she said. “First National Bank of Joe, or something like that, and then you spent all the dimes on those awful gangster comics. Am I supposed to let these cool? Aren’t they best when they’re warm?” “Warm’s good.” She put some cookies on a plate and set it on the table. Joe took a bite: hard, and almost bitter. “’S good.” She took a bite, made a face, put it down. “I think I left something out of these. Let's have a look at those doughnuts.” Joe made a fresh pot of coffee, and they had two doughnuts each. When Joe got up to go she took the coffee cups to the sink, washed them and dried her hands. She excused herself – “too much coffee,” she said – and went upstairs. He put on his coat. Looked in the cupboard. Looked in the drawers. Lots of towels; who needed so many towels? He looked in the rooster cookie jar, half expecting to find hard remnants from a previous run. It was stuffed with matches. And every one was one of his. |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home