Tom Mendicino - Probation

My mother, demanding an audience with the school principal, making it clear that it was in my swim coach’s best interest to deliver me a heartfelt apology for calling me “Anita” after a dismal showing-second place-at an invitational meet.

My mother, intimidating my father with her steely gaze, forcing him to confront the neighborhood asshole who was mimicking my high-pitched voice. Yeah, and when your kid’s digging ditches, my kid will be doing brain surgery and making six figures a year. He sounds almost convincing. I remember him looking back over his shoulder, making sure my mother had seen and heard him doing the right thing.

My mother, speaking to my lawyer, telling him she’d take care of everything, the judge would be more than satisfied with the arrangements she would make.

My mother’s voice, always fighting for me, as if I were incapable of fighting for myself.

“It’s beautiful, it really is,” I say.

My mother does this quirky thing when she smokes. She flicks the tip of her tongue against her lips, chasing phantom pieces of tobacco, a habit ingrained from all those years dragging on unfiltered cigarettes. Only she hasn’t smoked cigarettes without filters for decades.

“Good.”

“What’s that?” I ask, forever and always distracted.

“It’s good.”

She means the chicken she’s sawing away at. I’m ashamed of myself for not paying attention and, worse yet, for being irritated by her voice. Good. She stills slings a diphthong across those vowels. What’s she saying? Gud? G’wood? That’s it. G’wood. Why does she still speak with that hillbilly twang after all these years? It’s not like she’s some fucking Queen of Country Music who has to market her “authenticity.” And what’s so g’wood about that dry stuffed chicken breast on her plate? How many times has she ordered the same goddamn thing in this same goddamn Gastonia-elegant club dining room with its linen napkins and a dusty silk rose in the lead crystal bud vase? It isn’t g’wood. It’s bland and tasteless, seasoned with nothing but salt and pepper and McCormick’s all-purpose spice blend. She reads the critical glint in my eyes and, not quite certain why she’s earned my disapproval, puts down her fork and wipes her mouth with that linen napkin.

I feel like a piece of shit. Why am I so carelessly cruel? What am I doing? She’s been nauseous for weeks; the antiemetics are finally working. Why am I denying her the small pleasure of her Sunday dinner? I’d apologize, but there’s really nothing to apologize for. After all, nothing hurtful has been said, it’s all just been a misunderstanding, a misinterpretation, a misreading of signals. I want to talk to her, but I can’t. I want to talk about this morning, tell her I heard it all. She thought I was asleep upstairs when I was lying in bed, hiding, tugging on my dick, jacking off twice, three times, until I got nothing but dry heaves for my efforts. I heard the familiar kitchen sounds, cake pans rattling in the cabinet, the whir of the mixer, the cling and clang of spoon on bowl, the oven bell, followed by the unfamiliar, a wail, tears and curses, then a deep sigh before getting on with it, rinsing, washing, cleaning up.

When my sister and I were kids, my mother always baked a cake for Mother’s Day. Red velvet layer cake for me in odd years, coconut sheet cake for my sister in even years. It was supposed to be red velvet this morning, even though it’s an even year. All she got for her time and effort was two thick puddles to be flushed down the disposal. Later, when I finally made my appearance, she made a joke of it. Imagine. Forgetting the baking soda. But what she was really thinking was how the malignancy is chewing up her sticky brain cells, digging deep holes into which things disappear, never to be retrieved.

What time is it? she’ll ask. Ten minutes later than the last time you asked, I’ll think. Two twenty, I’ll say.

She’s sentimental these days; the past has acquired a warm, fuzzy glow. Did I know she wanted to be a stewardess? No, I say, resigned to hearing the story again, knowing the pleasure she gets from telling it. She still has a letter from Mr. Peter van Hussell, Recruiter, telling her the airline was growing and encouraging her to apply again when she was eighteen.

My mother, by TWA, in a perfectly tailored suit and jaunty cap, silk scarf knotted at her throat and immaculate white gloves on her hands, dispatching her duties, maybe catching the appreciative eye of the captain.

Coffee, tea, or milk?

She might have traveled the world, had adventures, met people earthbound girls would never have an opportunity to encounter, had songs and stories written about her. But first, she wanted to see the ocean. The Jersey shore was only an hour away from the ketchup factory and her roommate Betty had a car. Every man should be as fortunate as my father and first appear as an object of desire backlit by a blazing sun. She was on her back, her arm slung across her face to protect her eyes from the sun. The voice, gravelly, with a harsh accent, light-years from the familiar rhythms of the Carolina hills, made her turn her head in the sand. She opened her eyes and saw his flat, strong feet, inches from her face. My mother’s eyes wandered up his calves, his thighs, passed quickly over the wet jersey trunks, and settled on the black thicket covering his chest. Her eyes played a silly trick on her and created a halo effect around his head. He could never have been born in her mountains, not with his thick black brows and crooked nose and eyes such a deep brown they seemed black. He belonged to another world. He had big white teeth and a smile that made her believe he could see through her modest swimsuit. And when he knelt beside her, she was thrilled and mortified at the same time.

He smiled and told her what a pretty voice she had. He made her repeat his name over and over.

Anthony.

Again…

Anthony.

What’s my name?

Anthony.

He persuaded her to wade into the water. She was too shy to tell him she couldn’t swim, had never even stood in water deeper than her knees. And when she wobbled in the surf, frightened and tentative, he stood behind her. His reflexes were quick and, when a wave knocked her off her feet, he caught her before she fell.

My father, too restless to settle for a union manufacturing job and frustrated by the limited opportunities for a journeyman machinist, was rebuilding his life on the G.I. Bill the summer he met my mother, focusing his ferocious energy on mastering the intricacies of heating and air-conditioning. She was not quite twenty and he was thirty-one when they married in a civil ceremony at City Hall in Philadelphia the following year. She didn’t write her brothers; a few of the girls from the factory were her only family at the ceremony. She spent her wedding night and the first year of her married life in his bedroom in his mother’s house. One year after the civil ceremony, after my mother converted, she and my father were married again, properly, in Saint Mary Magdalen de Pazzi Parish. My mother was three months pregnant with me on her second wedding day.

I might have grown up on the streets of South Philadelphia, nourished on cheesesteaks and Italian water ice, but my father had dreams and a wanderlust that would take him far from the neighborhood where he was born. On an unseasonably warm October morning, he helped his expectant wife into a used Oldsmobile packed with their few belongings and drove away, leaving his weeping family behind on the stoops of Montrose Street. He had five hundred dollars and the president of Pennco Technical School ’s letter of introduction to an alumnus who was looking for an apprentice in small city in the South. When he asked my mother, a native of North Carolina, about Gastonia, she looked at him as if he had asked her to describe Jupiter or Mars. And so, within three years of leaving the farm, my mother was back in North Carolina, never to leave again.