Эйми Бендер - The Color Master

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”

“I just want to know one of your friends’ names,” she said, slowing down at a light.

“Gath,” I said.

“Last name?”

“Gath.”

“First name?”

“Gath.”

“Gath Gath?”

“Sure.”

She smiled straight ahead, but her eyes were wavering.

“What do you mean, sure ?”

“That sounds about right,” I said. “Can we stop for fries?”

“But is it his real name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Gath Gath?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“You don’t know your friends’ names?”

I opened the glove box to discover many neat stacks of paper about cars and their insides.

“So what do you call them if their back is to you?”

I thought about it for a second. The car in front of us had a kid facing out in the backseat, waving and waving.

“I call them Hey or You,” I said, waving back.

She almost laughed, but it turned into a grunt. The kid turned left. Bye. We drove into the mall, and I sat in the parking lot while she went shoe shopping. Half an hour later, she returned, smelling suspiciously of chocolate cake. “The shoes in there,” she said, “are so expensive!” She handed over a bread roll. She didn’t want to bring me in with her because last time mall security found me quietly moving items in the department store into the wrong departments.

She brought it all up again at the dinner table that night, over spaghetti and red sauce.

“My friends have many names,” said my little sister, Ginny, promptly. “Angie, Kevette, Marjorie, Orrel—”

“Shut up,” I said. “Eat your dinner.”

Dad tilted his head down to his plate. He wasn’t often home before nine, so this was a rare encounter, to be all eating at the same time. It felt like some kind of grand coincidence.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

My mother shook her head. “You don’t get it,” she said. “He honestly doesn’t know his friends’ names , and these are kids he sees at school every single day.”

“I know who they are,” I said. “They’re my group of friends.”

“Do they look different to you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean can you tell them apart from each other?”

I took a sip of juice to stall. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—do you know one from the other?”

“Three of them are kind of the same,” I said, wiping my mouth. “Then there’s the really tall one! He’s different.”

My mother stared at my father. “Are you hearing this?”

“I’m exhausted,” he said, drawing his hand down his face. “I think I single-handedly saved the company today.”

“Which company?” asked Ginny.

“The one that sells bottles,” he said. “The plastic-bottle one.”

“Oh!” she said. “My favorite!” She jumped down from her chair and sped into the bathroom, then returned with a yellow plastic bottle of shampoo, just to show she could identify his work in the world at large. He mussed her hair. My mother poured herself a little glass of cheap sherry and forwent her spaghetti altogether, and who can blame her, since it was pretty much just noodles stirred with ketchup.

“So,” said my mother. “You can’t tell your friends from each other. Can you tell me from your father?”

“Sure, Dad,” I said. “Easy.”

She coughed mid-sip. Dad was explaining plastic-bottle structure to Ginny and didn’t hear, which is too bad, because he, for one, might’ve laughed.

“Am I Mom?” asked Ginny, pretending to listen to Dad.

“Your uncles,” asked Mom.

“I’ve never met,” I said.

“Your grandparents?”

“Which ones?”

“Any.”

“I can mostly tell them apart,” I said. “For example, there’s the demented one.”

“William!” said my mother, clearing her dish. She scraped spaghetti into the trash can.

“There is a lipid in the cellular structure,” said Dad.

“We need to take you to the doctor,” Mom said. “There’s something very wrong with you.”

“He is so messed up,” murmured Ginny.

“Why’d you pick me up today in the first place?” I asked.

My mother sipped her sherry in the kitchen and sniffed. My father had evaporated from the table by now; I found him reconstituted on the sofa, asleep, with a book on his lap about the history of plastics, and the bottle of shampoo nestled against his stomach like a baby.

The next day, my relentless mother:

“Enough kidding around, William,” she said. “You’re very funny. Now, who, specifically, did you eat lunch with today?”

“All five Gath brothers,” I said. “They were at school two days in a row!”

“And which one is the nicest?” she asked.

“None of them is the least bit nice.”

She stopped dusting a birdbath made of wire, complete with wire birds and little wire-looped water drops falling from a wire tree.

“Or which Gath brother talks the most?”

“All of them the same.”

“No one talks more than the others?”

“No,” I said. “All of them at once.”

“How can you possibly understand anything if they’re all talking at once?”

“Easy,” I said, swaying. “You just go with the flow of it.”

She shook her rag in the air, and a muggy cloud of dust sank to the carpet. “This is rapidly becoming like a bad Abbott and Hardy routine,” she said. “Except it isn’t funny.”

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden?” I said. “Who are your friends? How come I don’t know any of their names?”

She closed the shelf and locked it, half-dusted. She always locked it, like I was going to steal a wire birdbath and keep it for my very own. Then she brought out a series of knickknacks and put them on the coffee table. A stone lizard, an ashtray of rock, a glass princess.

“Never mind me,” she said. “Now, which one is glass?”

I pointed to the princess. “I’m not stupid,” I said.

“Which one is a lizard?”

I pointed to the ashtray.

“The lizard, William,” she said.

I pointed at the ashtray again, with no expression.

She blinked up at me, alarmed, and I held it for a second and then just laughed and laughed until I fell on the floor, laughing. I had to eat dinner that night in my room. Leftover ketchup spaghetti, cold. I have no problem at all identifying objects.

Later that night, when I took out the trash, I found a magazine called Mother Magazine on top of the pile, and to make my sleuthing even easier, it fell right open to a quiz called “How Well Do You Know Your Children?” I could see her fresh pencil scrawls all over the page. Questions like: Do you know where your child is after school? She had G: “yes.” W: “no.” Do you know the names of your child’s friends? G: “yes.” W: “no.” Do you know your child’s favorite color? G: “yellow.” W: “blue.” (Which is wrong. I don’t believe in picking a favorite color; it seems like a pretty dumb thing to rank, if you ask me.) Do you know any of your child’s fears? G: “death, and chemical warfare.” W: “?Friends?” And: Do you know what your child might like to be when he/she grows up? G: “vet or singer.” W: “?army?”

The magazine had a rating scale too—if you got 85–100 percent of the questions, which she did with Ginny, you were “A Mother to Be Reckoned With!” and it said how great you were, how tuned in, how involved. The middle category was something like “Hang In There, Mom, You’re Trying!” and the final one, which she got for me, was “Mother, May I Suggest Some Mothering?”