Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

He ached to feel something. His eyes, his nose, his ears longed for something that would trigger an emotion, something that would tell him he was home. But there was nothing. He walked silently down the main street of the town, and the bells of the First Congregational Church on the hill sounded the hour, do I remember the bells, please do I remember the bells? But he felt nothing until he passed the naval recruiting office, and then he felt only a terrible urge to spit at the plate-glass window. He walked by rapidly.

He stood before the gate of his house, the lawn rolling new and green to the ancient building, the lawn chairs freshly painted. He could hear birds in the trees. A woman was singing somewhere in the house. Mother, he thought. He felt nothing.

He opened the gate. He stared down at the gate latch. He walked across the lawn and to the back door. He looked through the screen. She was singing as she stood at the telephone. She was dialing a number and singing, and he remembered a time long ago when she had stood by a telephone talking to Aunt Millie, but the memory meant nothing to him. He stood with his face pressed to the screen, watching her. She looked a little older, but nothing could ever touch the fine bones of her face, age could never destroy that structure. She’s still a very pretty woman, he thought, watching her as a secret lover would, but feeling neither love nor hate, feeling nothing, seeing the tall, slender woman who finished dialing her number and then tucked the phone under her brown hair, against her ear. He opened the screen door. It creaked noisily.

She looked up as he stepped into the kitchen. She said, “Hello, this is Julia,” into the telephone, and then she turned to look at him, and she said, “Yes?” her eyebrows raised, a slightly quizzical expression on her face, and he realized with grim amusement that she did not recognize him.

“Yes?” she said again. Into the telephone she said impatiently, “Just a minute, Mary, there’s someone...” and then she looked at him, really looked at him. “David?” she said. “David?” She put the receiver back onto the wall hook instantly, recovering immediately from her initial shock, was there anything from which Mother could not recover instantly? He watched her as she crossed the kitchen toward him, watched as she carefully rearranged her face, the shock fleeing before an opening smile, the eyes studying his face and rejecting what they saw and adjusting the new image to correspond with the memory. He marveled at what she could accomplish in the space of ten short steps across a kitchen. The smile she flashed at him was gracious and feminine, as if he were a beau who had come to call too early, but who was welcome nonetheless. He felt a phony theatricality to the scene, and then condemned his own cynicism and tried to think, This is my mother , for God’s sake, but he still felt nothing. For a moment, her poise faltered on the icy edge of his indifference. Her hands outstretched and ready to embrace him, she stopped in sudden embarrassment, pulled back one hand, and then seemed to feel the motion of the other hand had progressed too far to allow checking. Awkwardly, her hand caught in space, she completed the motion, reaching for his crew-cut head, running the palm of her hand across the erect bristles, and saying, “David, you look like a Nazi!”

He wondered if she had seen the scar across the top of his skull, a vivid scar in the stiff bristles, wondered if she had noticed that the hair itself had turned gray, almost white, wondered, and suddenly thought of Mike Arretti and Camp Elliott, the leaded billet crashing into his skull, the way the blood was suddenly gushing onto his face, spilling over his forehead and into his eyes, and Mike Arretti watching him and smiling as he fell to his knees.

His mother laughed once, nervously, and then her poise returned again with new strength. This was her son, he could almost hear the words, this was her son and greet him she would, so she embraced him and held him close and said, “You’re home,” which he felt was terribly stagey, but he answered, “Yes, Mother, I’m home,” and wondered when they would bring down the first-act curtain, and then wondered if this wasn’t all very genuine, if perhaps he was the actor, he was the one fake cog in this big homecoming machinery.

She held him at arm’s length. The gesture seemed corny to him. Would she say, “Let me look at you”? God, he hoped she would not say that.

“I’m glad,” she said simply.

He was thankful for that. He immediately chided himself for having underestimated her. But he could not understand his attitude, this feeling of being an observer rather than a participant.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have arranged a parade.”

He smiled because it was expected of him. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

“Surprise me! I nearly died when you walked through that door.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair under a bobby pin, watching him as she did, apparently pleased with what she saw, or at least presenting a façade of pleasure, which belied that first moment of shocked recognition. You are not fooling me, Mother, he thought. You are looking at a stranger.

“Would you like some tea? How was your trip? Are you discharged now? Are you home for good?”

“Yes, I am. And yes, I’d like some tea.”

“You look tired, David.”

“I am tired.”

“A long trip?”

“Very long, Mother.”

“But you’re home for good?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. She seemed genuinely pleased now. Perhaps she was getting accustomed to him. Perhaps he didn’t look quite so strange to her now.

“Did you hurt your head?” she asked.

His fingers went instantly to the scar. He shrugged. “Oh. Yeah.”

“But you’re all right now?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“You look tired,” she said again.

“I can use a cup of tea.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

He watched her as she moved to the stove. “How’s my room?” he asked suddenly.

“Your room?”

“Yes. How... how is it?” He shrugged.

“Just as you left it, David.”

“I think I’d like to go up there.” He watched her warily. “Change my clothes. Get out of this uniform.”

“Well... well, David...” She seemed bewildered all at once.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, I... I gave your old clothes away,” she said. “Last summer. To the Red Cross.” She opened her hands plaintively. “I’m sorry, darling, I thought... I assumed you’d outgrown them.”

“Oh,” he said. He paused. “All of them? My clothes?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Oh, David, I’m so sorry, really I am.”

“That’s okay.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to get out of this uniform.”

“Yes, I should have realized that. You can go to town later and buy some nice things, would that be all right?”

“Sure.” He began drumming his fingers on the table top. Julia stood near the stove, watching the teakettle. “How’s Ardis?” he asked.

“Ardis Fletcher?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“She’s married, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“No, I didn’t know. I wondered why she stopped writing.”

“Yes, she’s married.”

“Funny how...” he started, and then fell silent.

“I think the tea is ready,” Julia said. She brought two cups to the table and poured. “Sugar?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“You used to take sugar.”

“Yeah, but in the brig they—” He stopped himself short.

They sat sipping tea in the late afternoon.

“Do you remember the villa in Aquila, David?” she asked.

“Yes, I remember.”

“So lovely. So long ago.”