Percival Everett - Erasure

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “This is going to be difficult enough as it is.” I heard music in the background. Nina Simone, I think. “It’s all arranged. I’m going to take her and stay the day with her.”

“We can both visit with her.”

Some water is so clear that trout will swim to your fly, your silhouette all too visible to them as they gaze up and through the water and air, and will inspect your tying job, the amount of head cement you applied, observe whether you used a good stiff hackle or whether you used natural or synthetic dubbing material, nose the thing, then swim away. Occasionally, one will take the fly, not caring that a bit of thread is visible where the tail is tied down, not even caring that your tippet is corkscrewed. A trout hiding behind a rock in fast, muddy water might or might not take a nymph fished deep through the riffle. For all the aggravation a trout can cause, it cannot think and does not consider you. A trout is very much like truth; it does what it wants, what it has to.

I was exhausted, my eyes burning from having been open and staring at either Mother or the book in my lap all night. The backs of my legs had gone numb from sitting in the round-rimmed wooden chair. I was completely distrustful of any measure of stability the old woman exhibited that evening of Lorraine’s wedding. I was terrified that I would wake and find her bed empty, then, after a brief search, her lifeless body floating in the creek or simply laid out at the bottom of the stairs. The business of committing her seemed so much more urgent now. I was desperate to know that she was safe and I was desperate to discontinue my feeling of desperation.

When Mother awoke, she took me in for a few seconds, then said, “Good morning, Monksie.”

“Good morning, Mother. How did you rest?”

“Fine, I suppose. I had dreams I didn’t like.” She sat up, smoothing the sheet and light blanket around her. “I can’t recall any of them.”

“I can never remember my dreams either.”

“You weren’t in that chair all night, were you?”

“No, Mother.” As I lied, I wondered how I was going to bathe and dress for the day. I didn’t have Lorraine to watch her now. “Mother, if you wait right here, I’ll bring you some tea.”

“That would be nice, dear.”

She began to hum as I left the room. I believe it was Chopin, a polonaise, but I could only place the quality of the melody and not the piece itself. I hurried to my room where I washed up at the sink and threw on a clean shirt and socks. I returned to her door and listened. She was still humming. I could hear her turning the pages of a magazine. I ran to the kitchen, put on the water and sat at the table to catch my breath. My eyes must have closed and sleep taken me because I woke with a start, finding Mother removing the whistling kettle from the burner.

“You’re tired,” she said.

I watched as she poured the water into the pot and dropped in the ball that I had already filled with tea. She put the cups and saucers on the table and set the pot between us.

“Isn’t this nice,” she said.

“Yes, Mother.”

“My favorite time is always waiting for the tea to steep.” She looked past me to the screened porch. “Where is Lorraine?”

“Lorraine was married last night.”

“Oh, yes.” She seemed to catch herself. Then she appeared very sad.

“Will you miss her?” I asked.

She looked at me as if she’d missed the question.

“You were just thinking about Lorraine, weren’t you?” I asked.

“Of course. I hope she will be very happy.” Mother poured the tea.

“I’d like you to pack a bag this morning,” I said.

“Why?” She held the cup in her hands, warming them.

“I have to take you someplace. It’s a kind of hospital.”

“I feel fine.”

“I know, Mother. But I want to make sure. I want to be certain that you’re all right.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Your father can give me a pill or something.” She sipped her tea, then stared at it.

“Father’s dead, Mother.”

“Yes, I know. There was a cardinal outside my window this morning. A female. She was very beautiful. The female cardinal’s color is so sweetly understated.”

“I agree.”

Mother looked at my eyes. “I must have spilled something in bed last night.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Shall I pack a small bag?”

I nodded. “A small bag will be fine.”

I could feel the leaves wanting to change color. But still the days were warm. I talked Mother into strolling with me down to the beach. The morning was clear, just a few clouds searching for each other out over the bay. Mother had managed to dress herself; however, her sweater was on inside out. This was a mistake that even I could make, but it gave me a much-needed nudge to keep perspective. That morning, while picking up her room, I had found some stained underwear she’d attempted to hide.

She wore khaki trousers and sneakers and I could tell she was trying to walk briskly. “When you were a little boy the bay wasn’t so dirty,” she said. “You used to dive off the back of the boat and swim around like a fish. You’d go down and disappear under the bottom and my heart would just stop.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, I know. You were just so small. Actually, I enjoyed watching you, Bill and Lisa having fun like that.” We were at the community dock now and she stopped to stare at a line of weathered boards. “I can’t believe Lisa is gone.”

I put my arm around her. “Neither can I. Lisa was special. She loved you very much, Mother.”

“I know. I loved her too.”

“Lisa knew that.”

She rubbed my arm. “Why aren’t you married, Monksie?”

“Haven’t found the right person, I guess.”

“I suppose that’s the important thing, finding the right person. Still, life is short.” She paused. “I wish I were closer to Bill’s children. The distance has been so difficult.”

“I know.”

“Do you talk to Bill?”

“Occasionally.”

“I think I haven’t talked to him in months. Poor Bill. Bill and your father never got along. Sad thing.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I don’t think Ben was fair to Bill.”

“I think you’re right.”

“But you. Your father was crazy about you. He’d talk about you when you weren’t around. Did you know that? Well, he did. You were his special child.”

“I suppose I knew that. Lisa certainly believed it. Bill, too. Actually, I appreciated your evenhandedness more than his attention.”

“You would.” She smiled at me. “He was right to consider you special.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

The conversation was unraveling my resolve. She was so lucid, so reasonable, so much herself.

Pollock: You first.Moore: No, you.Pollock: No, I insist.Moore: You.Pollock: You.Moore: Very well.

As I stood there with Mother, the breeze off the bay filling my shirt and chilling me, I tried to consider her coming loneliness, waking in a strange bed, with strange faces, strange food, but instead I thought of my own loneliness. I had allowed the letters of friends to go too long unanswered and I imagined they had written me off. I felt small for regarding myself, for being so self-centered in the face of Mother’s coming day and life.