“I missed you after church,” she said. “For that matter I missed you in church, but. Well.”

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“Don’t start? I’m your mother. I never finish.” She put a hand to her chest, frowned, then shrugged. “You’ll understand. Someday. If –“

“Mom.”

“Fine.” She put her hand to her chest again.

“Anything wrong?”

“Canapes. Ruth Munsen makes these canapés with fish. They always come back on me. Her husband doesn’t eat fish. She takes it out on the rest of us.”

“I can’t stay.”

“I understand. The box is in here.” She walked down the hall to his parents’ room. It hadn’t changed since Joe was a kid; same wallpaper, same furniture, same pictures, same stuff on the vanity. If anything of his father had been here in the first place, he’d never noticed it. Hair brushes and jewelry cases and old photos and two sets of bronzed baby shoes on the dresser. Men just didn’t have bedroom stuff to strew, he thought. If they couldn’t carry it in their pocket they dumped it in a drawer. A comb and some coins. Everything else was jewelry.

There was a box on the bed with a hat on top.

“That’s it. These things fashionable again? Some of it smells awful of mothballs. Not a smell that the girls like, Joe. I read the magazines. They say they want this, or that, but none of them really want a man who reeks of naptha.”

“That’s why God invented Martinizing.”

“Funny. That didn’t come up in the sermon. Just something about heaven and earth” She looked at Joe and got that worried look he hated. “What have you been up to? You look rough.”

“Long weekend. I went to see a friend,” he lied. “In Des Plains,” he lied some more.

“Des Plaines? Illinois? You mean Chicago?”

“Yes,” he lied again. It was easy. “Old friend from art class, uh, Harvey? Got a call, he wanted to catch up, and –“ He looked at the box on the bed, the box with the hat on top. “I’ve been in a rut, Mom. It’s the same damn thing all the time. Pardon the French. He said why don’t you come out and see me, and I just got in the car and drove, you know?”

“I hope you rested on the way,” she said. “I read an article – where was it, Coronet? Something like half of all accidents on the highway are due to fatigue, it’s much worse than drinking.”

“I fell asleep as soon as I got there.” Tell the truth if you can. “Got there and it seemed like a stupid idea, really. It’s not like he was my bosom buddy or anything. I stayed at this motel, got up, had lunch with the guy, then I drove downtown and went to the art museum.”

“You did! I love the Chicago museum. It’s been years. Your father would never go. What did you see? Did you see the Impressionists?”

Joe was surprised: she knew about the Impressionists?

“Yeah – sure, you have to. They’re nice. Anyway to tell the truth I got a little claustrophobic. I get that way in museums. Too much beauty. Everywhere you look, something marvelous. But it’s all . . . silent and locked up, you can’t really get to it, you can only look and touch.”

“You touched it?”

“What? No – no, I mean, the statues. You can touch them. If the guards aren’t looking. Anyway I just took a walk and saw the sights and got my head clear. Then I went back inside and looked it all again. And it was better. But maybe because I was, I don’t know, willing to look at it now? Just take it for what it was instead of expecting it to speak to me, like I used to.”

“I love paintings,” she said. “I love them all except for the drippy stuff. I don’t know what that’s about at all. Well, if you don’t mind, kid, I have to use the ladies powder room. Ruth’s Revenge.”

She picked up the box of his father’s clothing and handed it to Joe. It wasn’t too heavy. But it wasn’t too light.

“Thanks. Sorry about not coming by yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You have your own life. Now go home and sleep. You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Good. I mean good that you know it. You know, Joe, I don’t worry about you.”

“That’s good, Mom.”

“Maybe not. I’m used to not worrying about you. I’m not sure I’d know how to start. I wouldn’t believe I should. Don’t surprise me.”

“I’m an open book, Mom.”

“Uh huh. The Reader’s Digest Condensed Version.” She patted his arm. “But that’s okay.”

Joe put the box in his car. He leaned up against the door, took out his pack and lit a cigarette. He looked at the matchbook.

Six matches gone. Well, he’d walked a lot that night. Three smokes walking away; three smokes walking back. The key i the door woke her up.

“You were gone,” she’d said.

“But I’m back.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “Come here.”

Stiff hotel sheets. Laughter down the hall. Light under the door. The toilet running in the next room. Saturday night in Columbus.

Maybe next time they’d go dancing.