| Joe stood on the porch, waiting for his mother to open the door. How come I have to ring the bell? he thought. This used to be my home. Used to run up the walk and take the steps two at a time and fly in the front door and be in my room with my nose in a comic in six seconds flat; could have done it blindfolded. Now I stand out here like a delivery boy. He rang the bell again. He heard it sound in the hall, muffled and distant: bong bong. Well, she said she’d be here, so she’ll be here. Not the first time she’s late. Joe brushed off the steps, sat on the porch, wincing; he had a headache, again, and his face felt raw. He lit a Winston, even though he knew it wouldn’t help the headache. It was chilly today, windy, and it took three matches to get the cigarette lit. If I were in a trench in World War One I’d be dead. Good thing I'm not a doughboy. Hurrah for me. There were tulips by the wooden skirt around the front of the house. The bushes had been budding last week, and now they were thick with leaves. Joe remembered why he hadn’t fixed the busted lattice along the bottom; the leaves covered up the broken wood, and he forgot about it until the leaves were gone. Then it was too cold. Days like today made you impatient with spring – if it was green around, it ought to be warm. Warm enough so you didn’t need a wool coat. That’s all. Not too much to ask. Joe looked at the matchbook. He’d picked it up the last time he was at his mother’s house, on Easter. He’d seen it sitting on the stack of bills in the breakfast nook, not in the dish where she usually kept her matches. Maybe she set them aside because she was thinking of heading to Florida. Maybe she’d already sent them some money. He’d slipped the book in his pocket. She hadn’t asked about it. But he hadn’t spoken to her since Easter, either. Not that he would mind if she moved someplace warm. But fer chrissakes, land in Florida? That was a joke twenty years ago. And here it is on a matchbook, not exactly the way you want to learn about your investment opportunities in your golden years. Orange Blossom Hills – sure, that’s a real town. Oh, look, it’s rectangular. Oh look, it has electricity. And phones! Why, it’s practically the town of tomorrow! The Main Street of Florida – who the hell wants to live on the Main Street when you’re 66? Main Street is for the old guys who got jobs as dishwashers or broom pushers and rent a room over the Kreske store. He flicked the cigarette onto the lawn, put the matches away. He sighed, got up, found the cigarette butt, picked it up and threw it into the gutter. Man, you could feel your mother’s eyes on the back of your neck just by sitting on her porch when she’s not home. You could probably feel them from Florida. Joe waited another ten minutes, then got back in his car and drove downtown. He was at the Round-Up again, talking to guy at the next stool. Bud something. “No, it’s all how you think about it,” Joe said. “I mean there’s property and there’s the sort of property you get by association. I grew up in that house, it was my house, but I can’t just barge in anymore. You gotta respect other people’s privacy. Of course you don’t think that when you’re a kid; you never think Mom or Dad might be doing something private. The only thing they ever get to do that’s private is take a crap. And then only your Dad. Moms don’t crap. They always time it for when you’re at school. Anyway.” He killed the Carling and held it up so Fred could bring another. "Anyway it’s all private property." “Uh huh,” Bud said. “'S true. Everything in the world. Even the stuff that supposedly belongs to you an’ me and Santa and whoever else, it belongs to someone. You’re on the high seas you’re on a ship and that’s private property. Even the Navy. Ask the skipper if you don’t think so. My point is if she moved to Florida –“ “Your mother.” “Right. If she moved to Florida I could stand on the porch, right, but I couldn’t sit there like I owned the joint. Which I don’t.” Bud sighed. He took a sip of his beer. “Maybe you do,” he said. “Do what?” “Own the joint. Maybe she put it in the will that you get the house, and maybe she slipped and fell this morning and you didn’t go in the house, so as far as you know she’s a goner and you own the house. Right now. And you don’t even know it yet.” “That’s a lousy thing to say, brother.” “Why? I don’t know you and I sure don’t know her, and I think that rules out me being your brother. I’m just waiting for a train. You’re the one who started talking.” He looked away. Joe got up from his stool – he grabbed the edge of the bar to steady himself, dug in his pocket for change, and headed for the phone at the back of the room. What time was it? Too late? Nah. His mother answered on the third ring. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter, just seeing if you’re okay. I came by and you weren’t.” “You said you were coming by tomorrow, not today. I’m fine. I told you that when you called before, Joe.” “It’s tomorrow?” “It will be. Joe, you sound tipsy.” “I am. Had a few on an empty stomach. I think I’m going to go get a hamburger or somethin’. Say, Mom. I gotta ask. You aren’t going to Florida, are you? Or maybe you are.” She laughed. “For the second time, yes. Don’t worry. I would have told you before I left.” “You – you are? When?” “One more summer, one more fall, then I’m off to die out in the land of orange blossoms.” “You’re gonna to die out?” “I said I’m off to dry out. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Go get that hamburger, Joe, and have some coffee before you drive, okay? Call me tomorrow.” And she hung up. Joe made his way back to the bar. He drank his beer in silence, pausing between sips to look down the bar. Bud didn’t look up. Joe stared hard as though he could get Bud to return his look, but it didn’t work. “She’s fine,” he finally said, and the looks of the patrons around the bar told him he’s said it louder than intended. |
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