Alice Sebold - The Almost Moon

The small scratch on my mother’s cheek had congealed. Her eyes had purpled in halos around their sockets. I remembered turning her in bed and adjusting strips of sheepskin under her to stave off the inevitable bedsores during the lengthy convalescence that followed the surgery for her colon cancer.

Mr. Fletcher placed the steaks on a plate, took his meat and his radio, and went back inside. He was the sort of man who could be counted on, I realized, never to look up. I saw the coals still orange in his grill.

I would have had to yell “Fire!” for anyone but Mrs. Leverton or Mr. Forrest, who lived down the road, to pay attention. In the years after the final death throes of Phoenixville Steel, the streets nearby had become increasingly desolate. Properties often sat vacant, and from the spare bedroom where my grandfather’s guns had once been kept, I had watched the demolition of a beautiful Victorian two streets away. Once the conical roof fell in, there was nothing to see but ancient dust floating up and out above the house’s less prosperous neighbors.

I had tried to get my mother to move into a retirement home, but she would not budge, and part of me admired her for it. There was an ever-diminishing network of the originals now: Mrs. Leverton behind her, Mr. Forrest five houses down, and the long-suffering widow of Mr. Tolliver.

The one my mother had once considered her friend was Mr. Forrest. He lived at the end of the circle and didn’t have any family at all. He had a house the same size as my parents’, and his rooms were filled with books. When I drove by his house, I often thought of the afternoons he and my mother had spent together, starting cocktails at five in anticipation of my father’s joining them by six. I would answer the door, and Mr. Forrest would hand me a paper bag. Inside would be cured olives or fresh cheeses or French bread, and within thirty minutes of his arrival, I would tuck myself into a corner at the top of the stairs and listen to her laughter fill the house.

I leaned my body over my mother’s, took the towel I had used to suffocate her, and covered her face with it. Then I made the sign of the cross. “You are so not Catholic!” Natalie said to me growing up, as I tried to imitate her. My cross remained a sort of flailing X marks the spot.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

I crawled back inside to retrieve the felt-covered brick that we had used forever to prop open the door. I thought of Manny, bringing in a month’s supply of staples from the big-box store. I had been standing in the living room, and ever so briefly, when I turned to be introduced to him, his eyes had traveled to my chest. Later, my mother admonished me for wearing such tight clothes.

“It’s a turtleneck,” I said.

She had burst out laughing. “I guess you’re right. The boy’s a perv,” she said. I remember wondering where she’d learned the word, if it had been something Manny had taught her. I’d known that, sometimes, when he’d had nowhere to go, he would bring movies over to watch with her. My mother had seen The Godfather more times than I could count.

I stood and put my hands on either side of my lower back to arch backward in what Natalie called my “construction-worker stretch.” I was aware that I would have to pace myself as I did while modeling. That what I had done and what I was about to do would take the kind of physical stamina that a thousand dance classes might not have prepared me for.

I walked back onto the stoop and towered over her. If Mrs. Leverton was watching, back upstairs with her husband’s binoculars, how would she account for what she saw? If she told her son, would he think that his mother was finally slipping? I smiled down at my mother. She would have loved that, loved that in reporting the way I handled her dead body, Mrs. Leverton might finally be knocked off her high horse and into the land of the elderly insane.

I nudged my mother’s body with the edge of my jazz flats. Then there was nothing left but cursing and exertion.

“Fuck,” I said repeatedly, regulating it like breathing, as I tightened my stomach to prepare for the lift. I grabbed my mother’s body by the blankets, making sure to grip her up under her shoulders so she wouldn’t slip. I kept cursing as I reentered the kitchen, dragging her after me. In one final tug, I got her whole body past the lip of the doorway and then lowered myself slowly down on the floor, with her between my legs. “In,” I said, and kicked the brick out of the way. The door closed a little bit on its hinge, and then, with my foot, I helped it the rest of the way. As the door clicked shut with that whispering mustache seal of black rubber along its bottom edge, I became aware of my mother’s death rattle. The long, slow rasp releasing from her chest.

At my own house that morning, I had methodically dusted the clear-glass globes and painted wooden herons I’d strung from invisible thread over the bedroom window. Now, in my mind, the spread wings of these birds fluttered like a warning. I would be a different person when I saw them next.

I looked at the clock over the kitchen doorway. It was after six. Somehow more than an hour had passed since I’d spoken to Mrs. Leverton.

I stopped for a second, holding on to my mother’s body, and imagined Emily and her husband, John, climbing the stairs with their children, John taking Jeanine, who, at four, was the heavier of the two, and Emily cradling the two-year-old Leo. I thought of the sometimes successful Christmas presents I’d sent over the years: the pink and blue PJs with boots were a hit; the hard-knocking marbles-on-string game was judged age-inappropriate.

I stood up with the thought of Leo in his crib to bolster me, but then came its companion memory of my mother, her arms outstretched to hold him, allowing him to fall.

After positioning her body closer to the stove, I turned to run the water in the sink as cold as it would come. Again and again I took water in my hands and brought it up to my face, never splashing, exactly, but pressing my cheeks into the shallow puddles that remained in my palms. On hot nights, my ex-husband, Jake, had taken ice cubes and run them along my shoulder and back, curving them onto my stomach and up to my nipples until goose bumps covered my limbs.

I unwrapped the blankets from my mother’s body. First the red and rough Hudson Bay and then the softer white Mexican wedding cotton. I walked around her body, pulling each corner taut. The downy towel remained on her face.

Leo did not bounce, as my mother confessed she thought he might, but his fall was broken by the edge of a dining room chair. Though he will have a scar on his forehead to mark the moment for the rest of his life, that chair may have saved him. Otherwise it would have been the much harder floor. My mother’s face that day was surprised and hurt. Emily had blamed her, wrapped the bawling Leo in a blue fleece blanket, and called her horrible names. I stood between them and then followed Emily down the steep walkway to my car. I did not glance back to see if my mother was watching us from her door.

“Never again,” Emily said. “I’m tired of making excuses for her.”

“Of course,” I said. “Yes,” I said. “I know the way,” I said, and got in the driver’s side of my car. I drove more competently that day than I ever have, all the way to Paoli Hospital, going at top speed along winding roads.

I took my mother’s skirt and flipped it up to reveal her calves and knees, her fleshy thighs. The scent of her earlier mishap flooded me.

“The legs go last,” my mother said once. We sat in front of the television, watching Lucille Ball. Ball’s hair, by then, was so red and false it looked more like Bozo’s blood sample than Bozo’s wig. She wore a specially tailored tuxedo jacket that created a largish hourglass shape and went down low in the back, but her legs, fishnet clad and decked out in high heels, went on and on.