Amelia Gray - Threats

“How do you know all this?”

“One of the nurses helped. The girls said I could play bridge with them, and I’m going to give them one hell of a surprise.”

“Here I was thinking you had some use for those glasses.”

She touched them. “The weight is a comfort.”

“I’m glad you’re doing well, Mom. A lot has been happening.”

“I’m doing so well.” She palmed another card. “Slight bow, ace spades.”

He looked. “Ace of hearts.”

“Darn, ace hearts. Ancillary bow.” She tugged on a blanket wedged under her in the chair and pulled a corner of it over the blanket on her lap. “The girls have been teasing me,” she said.

A group of ladies on the other side of the room were passing around a small crystal horse. Each woman in turn lifted the piece up and shifted it slowly to catch the light. She murmured her approval and sent the trinket on to the next woman.

“A lot has happened in the past few weeks,” David said.

His mother placed the card on the table and felt with four fingers the way it bent back. “How is your dear wife?” she asked. “Is she keeping up with the housework? You sound a bit tousled.”

“She’s fine.” David watched her stroke the playing card. “She’s doing fine. I actually was thinking about the house.”

“My sweet child.”

“I keep finding things I wouldn’t expect to find.”

His mother shook her head so slowly that David followed the direction of her eyes toward the corner of the room, where a worker was sweeping tinsel from a countertop into a paper bag. “That darn house gave us trouble from the first day we bought it,” his mother said. “You know that foundation problem didn’t turn up in the inspection? That was a major issue. We could have sued the city, but I was too busy taking care of you and your dad. And then your poor sister,” she said.

“You did a good job.”

“I was among the busiest women on the planet. Did you know? They wanted to give me an award for how busy I always was. They invited me to a reception, but would you believe I was too busy to go? Those were different times. I would have had to buy your father a suit and one of those bow ties. Cuff links too. I already had one nice dress. Nice enough, you know.”

“You did everything you could do,” David said.

“The doctor begged me to take medicine for my sleep. I didn’t want to, because I got so much work done at night, but he practically got down on his knees. Of course, I was obedient. It was that time for women.” His mother touched another card but didn’t pick it up. She turned her head toward the ladies. “They’re playing hide-and-go-seek,” she said. “Hide until someone dies. Everybody. Don’t you think?” One of the ladies heard her and glared.

“Mom.”

“Would you believe I was too busy to go to my own ceremony?” She coughed, gripping the legs of the chair. “For the award. Your father would have required a different type of shirt than the type of shirt he owned. I don’t require you to believe it, but I suggest you do.”

“I believe it.”

“Of course you do, my sweet.” She placed her hand flat on the table in David’s direction and then picked it up and put it on the cards again. “You were always a good boy, even when you were a little difficult.”

One of the other women across the room cleared her throat. David touched the arm of his mother’s wheelchair to turn her away from them. The foreign movement caused his mother to murmur, both hands held still in her lap. David leaned in. “The interesting thing about one hundred forty-three,” she said, “is that it is the lowest quasi-Carmichael integer you will find in base eight.”

The blanket had fallen off his mother’s lap and David adjusted it, tucking it at her side.

“The interesting thing about seventy-eight,” she said, “is that it is the smallest integer you can write in three different ways as the sum of four squares.”

David crouched closer to his mother’s face. “I know it seems like a bad time to talk, Mom. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the house. It’s important.”

She paused and lifted her face. David saw the full constellation of broken capillaries. Her glasses caught a piece of fluorescent light and illuminated a square on her cheek. “The interesting thing about one hundred seven,” she said, leisurely drawing a hand up to scratch the side of her face, “is that it happens to be the exponent of a Mersenne prime.”

“I’ll come back later,” David said.

His mother’s murmuring voice was barely audible. “The interesting thing about seventy-six—” she said as he stood to go.

He peeled his nametag off and crumpled it over the trashed tinsel.

IT ALL DEPENDS on the conditions of the wash. On the twentieth wash in hot water with a strong detergent, a delicate shirt is known to split at the seams. However, mix the same shirt in with cool water and the proper cycle, and the shirt can last five times as long. A miracle of modern fabric technology. And to think, women used to blanch their hands with lye.

Shelly picked the pills from a sweatshirt she had washed five times that morning. She didn’t look at the back of the shirt, which had three slashes across the upper part that almost looked like they could have come from aggressive moths. The fabric felt slick, as if there had been too much detergent building up. She made a note to run it through a cold-water wash without chemicals, to clear everything out.

The regular crowd worked silently in the laundromat. A young woman corralled kids out of rolling baskets and toward the pinball machine. Two college kids, a boy and a girl, paged through thick anatomy texts while waiting on their individual spin cycles. Shelly had a sock full of quarters tied around the belt on her waist. The sock was so heavy it caused her to lean. She untied the sock and fished four quarters out with the tips of her fingers.

The college boy was watching her feed clothes back into the machine. “You already did that,” he said. “Ma’am?”

Reluctantly, she looked at him.

“Those are all messed up. Those clothes,” he said.

She saw that he had a terrible haircut. “Do you ever get the feeling that something isn’t quite right?” Shelly asked.

The boy shrugged and looked back at his book.

“I’m serious,” Shelly said, waiting until she had his attention again. “Do you ever get the feeling?”

“Those pants have a big hole in them,” he said, pointing.

“Have you never, not ever stood in the center of a room and looked at the people looking at one another and gotten the feeling that something was badly wrong?”

“You should throw those socks out. My grandmom says red wine stays.”

“Listen,” Shelly said. “Think about the way a group of people can look at one another. Think about just a pair of people, how they can sit in a room and stare. These are not strangers to each other. They have spent nights sharing their secrets. They see each other and think of those complexities, yet there is nothing that can truly draw them together. It’s a primary flaw of human distance. And what causes it? It’s not from a lack of desire for closeness. For most of us, closeness is a major life goal. No, there’s some additional factor causing this separation. Could it be what we eat for breakfast in the morning? Could it be the mechanism of the human eye? Who’s to say that it’s not the condition of cleanliness in our clothing? My hypothesis is built on the concept that there is an element of comfort inherent in our dress that contributes to our closeness.”

The college boy thought about it. Not everyone did. Shelly wanted to give him some credit for that. She dug into her sock for a quarter and placed it in the boy’s hand. “Thank you for thinking about it,” she said.