Sara Majka - Cities I've Never Lived In - Stories

In the morning, when I woke, chilled, on the floor, I didn’t know where I was. I pulled the recollection from bits around me. I walked to the kitchen and from the window saw my mother talking to the man next door. She held a coffee mug and he, a rake. A leaf blew in her hair and he picked it out and she smiled. They stood still. He touched her hair again. She reached up and touched his hand. They stood holding hands, and then she turned to come inside, their grasp loosening as she pulled away.

I asked if she had eaten breakfast. Some toast, she said, but I would have a little more with you.

I was going to make a full thing, I said, at least if you have things to make French toast with.

She found a skillet and a plastic spatula that had melted some and a plastic mixing bowl, then went into her room to change, coming out in a wool skirt and turtleneck sweater. We ate French toast and clementines. How is Ian? I asked.

Fixing the drain, she said. He asked if I needed anything from Home Depot. Do we need anything? Besides mousetraps?

I drove her to work at Puritans so that I could use her car and from there drove farther out, first to a thrift store to buy items she was missing — a can opener, a strainer — then to the swap shop at the dump to look at clothing, considering an oversized coat made in Yugoslavia, and then thought, Enough of coats. I read in the town library, then went to pick up my mother, stopping inside the store to watch her. She had the habit of looking as if she was studying the women around her for how to act. She straightened a stack of sweaters while the other two employees talked by the desk.

Outside it had grown dark. We drove to a bar on Main Street with stained glass windows and plank walls. Inside felt snug and warm. We got stouts and she talked about work, of the coworker that was always complaining about her boyfriend and also about a neighbor who had been arrested for guns. Mom, I said, with Ian. Am I interrupting something by being here? Would it be better if I went?

What do you mean? she said.

I could leave tomorrow, or I’m grown now, you could just go over.

He’s married.

That kind of thing. It’s one of those things. It is what it is.

We could go down Cape tomorrow, she said. There’s a show at PAAM of artists who painted the light in Provincetown.

You’re always taking me to shows.

I always think you like them, she said.

Do you?

Sure. They’re fine.

You noted, right, that I let it go?

I noted it, my mother said.

I dreamed that I had a baby — that it simply popped out; there was no terrible birth, no pain, even in the dream I was aware of the unlikeliness of what had happened — and when the baby wanted milk, I called for my mother because I didn’t know how to nurse.

I didn’t tell my mother about the dream. What she would have said. Maybe I loved her best because she believed the things I said. She even took my dreams as fact. Well, she would have said, You just figure it out. It’s just something that happens.

It’s impossible to see your mother as a middle-aged man might see her. To see her as a girl grown older. But I still tried to imagine it. At the beginning of fall, when the mornings were growing cold and the family next door had gone away — going back to their town outside Boston, leaving only the man to weatherproof the house — my mother had taken to swimming. She had an old red suit, the material softened by age. From a distance she probably looked like a flag. She would have worn a towel until she got near the water and then dropped it to wade in. The man next door would have noticed it one morning and then taken to making coffee by the window overlooking the lake. He had an estranged marriage — he was there, after all, at the summer cottage while his wife and kids were back home — and my mother would have been easy company. She was spare, self-sufficient. And she was such a small woman; she must have looked like a girl emerging from the water. He would have started with offers — to get her groceries, to help nail a shutter — and then would have offered his dock to dive off.

What I missed most when I lost a man I loved was someone who held a record of my life from that time. It was the way we told each other things. Without them I went back to my quiet life, but with them there was a transcript of living. Transcript , of all words, as a way to describe love. But we all want, in some way, to be able to record our life, and for some reason lovers do that for each other. Of all things. Of all jobs for them to be given.

My mother and I drove down Cape the next day, to the study-of-light exhibit, and when she saw that it hadn’t made me happy, that I hadn’t found the art good, had found it a small-town exhibit, she mentioned a theater show she heard was quite good in Chatham. I said, It’s okay, Mom, I’m just here to see you. Me, she said. Me of all things. We stopped at the lighthouse and kicked off our shoes and walked along the coastline, clutching our jackets and not talking because of the wind. When we got in the car she paused and said, They had been separated, but then were together over the summer with the kids, but they’re separated again, which is why he’s staying here.

Will he be staying for a long time? I asked.

I don’t know, my mother said.

The clouds were going over the sun in the incredible way that happened there. The study of light, I pointed out, this is worth a thousand of those shows.

I’d like to think she said something like, Maybe forever, maybe it will stay like this forever, but of course she wouldn’t have. She would had said something careful. Who’s to say how long any of this lasts, she might have said. It’s nice to have company. I’m going to enjoy it while I’m here. All lines I’ve said myself at one time or another, and no doubt I meant them, too, when I said them.

The last story I have about my father I have from her, so it’s a story with little embellishment, even less emotion, and the kind of odd detail that seeks to compensate, as the person telling the story must linger on something after all. She said that after my father left us, she visited him a few times with me and my brother. He had gone to Boston where he got temporary jobs. She would take us there, and we would sit, and he would say, Well, you must be hungry, and she would say, No, not really, as we had eaten on the drive. She said that we were in the habit, when driving to Boston, of going to Friendly’s, as we liked the clown sundaes. Once we hadn’t stopped for food and she said that we would eat something if he made it, and he put mustard and American cheese on white bread and cut it into triangles. He served peach juice from Dixie cups.

Then he moved and for fifteen years she didn’t hear from him, but one day he got in touch, and she drove to Boston to see him, not telling me, as she wanted to see him first. He had found work as a janitor. My mother had brought a picture of us, but later, when she got home, realized she hadn’t shown him. He had changed. He had gotten older and his health had grown bad. The apartment was cold, the building vacant. The building was to be torn down and the owners were allowing him to live there in the meantime. There were several pianos. She asked if he played and he said they weren’t tuned, but that when he came across one he couldn’t help himself. There were boxes everywhere. He asked after me. How is Anne? She realized she still hadn’t sat down, that she wasn’t comfortable, and, remembering a deli she had passed, suggested they get something to eat. Or she suggested an Irish bar she had seen around the corner. But he pointed to his feet and said he didn’t have shoes on. She was about to say that he could just put them on, but then stopped. She thought, Maybe he has the thing where you can’t go out. She had been alive long enough to have felt that, felt the terror of the world around you, some form of that, some form of most things.