Marie-Helene Bertino - Safe as Houses

“Don’t worry,” I say. “If you get killed in Iraq, I’ll come home for the funeral.”

I am standing; then he is standing, his napkin clinging to the waistband of his jeans.

My mother is suddenly fluttering with activity. “I have an idea!” Her voice is high, strangled. “Let’s do the wishbone now!” She throws her napkin on her chair and darts into the kitchen, where we hear a clattering of utensils. Then she emerges, a small, gray v in her hand. “Who wants to?” She looks at me, her eyes pleading. “Let’s you and me do it.”

I say, “Are you serious?”

“We’re doing this now?” My brother grins.

“Yes, now.” Her face is wild. “Now.”

My brother and I share a look.

“This is crazy,” I say. “In the middle of dinner?”

“Now.” She turns to Bob. “What do you say, Bob? You and me!”

Bob Dylan has no designs on the wishbone. He shakes his head.

“Well, I’m not doing it either,” I say.

My brother wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Jesus Christ, I’ll do it. Me and you, Mom.”

My mother cheers. “Let me warn you,” she says. “I’ve been practicing.”

He grabs one end of the wishbone. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are we going to do this right here?” I say, but they have already started, my mother and brother on either side of the table, pulling.

Bob and I remain seated. He reaches over me for the gravy.

After a moment, my brother says, “This is taking forever, Mom.”

“Maybe it’s not completely dry.” My mother leans forward over the table, her American flag necklace idling over the cranberry sauce. “Give up?” she says.

“Never. Battle to the finish.”

It goes on, neither side showing any progress. My mother says, “This is a good one!”

Then, my brother pulls his arm away in a sharp motion forcing my mother farther over the table, and the v between them cracks. She is thrown backward with the release. Her limbs go into a frantic star position, and she brings her elbow solidly into the mouth of Bob Dylan. The force of it upends the front two legs of his chair. Bob Dylan teeters, and it seems he will topple over. But I am on my feet, and I catch him.

“Shit,” I say. “You’re bleeding, Bob.”

My mom disappears into the kitchen. I hear the faucet go on and a clattering of silverware.

My brother laughs and I turn on him. “You did that on purpose.”

He throws his hands up. “How would I know that would happen?”

“You knew Mom would do that!”

He waves me off. “Shut up, punk.”

Bob Dylan paws at his busted lip, touching it with his calloused fingers, then showing himself the blood. My mother comes out with a wet cloth and kneels next to him. There is no more hope on her face. Someone is bleeding at her Thanksgiving table. “I am so sorry,” she says. “I am so sorry.”

I say, “It wasn’t your fault, Mom. Just a small gash. No harm done.” I am lying. It is a small gash, but I know Bob Dylan will be relentless about it, looking at it from all angles in every car window and mirror we pass for the next week.

“Now you can say you gave Bob Dylan a fat lip,” says my brother.

“You hit Bob Dylan,” I say. “You did.”

“Are you on another planet? Mom hit him.”

“Stop,” she says, quietly, still kneeling. “It was my fault.”

“Are you happy?” I say. “What an asshole.”

“Everyone just sit down and eat, please.”

My brother obeys. He replaces the napkin on his lap, primly spears a string bean and places it in his mouth.

“At least,” he says, “I’m not a fucking phony.”

I look to my mom for some clue she knows I am being wrongly maligned, but she is staring out the window to a ratty tree that has gotten rid of every leaf except one. Her hands are still folded but she has freed her index fingers. She stares past us to the point on the lawn where winter is advancing on her family so fast that she has time to do nothing except tap her index fingers with the nonchalance of someone deciding whether to add eggs to a grocery list.

Bob Dylan holds the washcloth to his lip with one hand and with the other pats down his denim shirt where he will, I am certain, not find cigarettes.

“Bob,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

…

The day after Thanksgiving, my brother and I move the table into the garage. We maneuver it around the corners of our house without speaking. It is thick between my hands and I worry I will drop it. When we finally put it down, there is a moment when it is the only thing between us.

He says, “Mom needs to clean this garage,” the same time I say, “Don’t do anything stupid over there.” I don’t know if he hears me.

We rub our chapped hands.

I say, “I brought Bob Dylan here for you. To make you happy.”

His eyes move over the tools hanging from nails on the wall. The hammers, the wrenches, the screwdrivers.

“So what,” he says. “You want a fucking medal?”

This salesman came to my house. He was my age, thirty or so, but seemed to have had a better life, a life that led him into pressed pants and a sharp-looking button-down, or at least a job.

I said, “What’s up?”

“I’m a salesman.” He held a plaid suitcase the size of a turkey.

“That I can see. What are you selling?”

“Something very special indeed.”

“Oh yeah?” I leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Let’s see it.”

“I need a table to set up.”

“I don’t know if I should let you into my house,” I said. “I’m alone in here and a woman.”

He stared at me. He seemed to want me to take the opportunity to process his unmuscular forearms, his unassuming chin.

“Are you going to murder me?” I said.

“Not today.”

We laughed.

“Did you go to my high school?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“We’re all just passing through,” I said. “You can come in,” I said. “But the place is a mess.”

The front room of my house has a table and not much else. The large bay windows invite nature in; it was the major selling point when I bought this house, but it’s not much for privacy. Now, as I held the door open for the salesman, I was glad for it. If he planned to murder me, he would have to do it in front of these large windows, in front of nature and the neighbors.

He looked at the bare table, the blank bookshelves. There was a dead geranium I hadn’t gotten around to throwing out. It hung its head, a dehydrated ghoul. I had just taken my sweater off before he came and had thrown it on one of the couches.

“What a beautiful space,” he said.

I was fond of him immediately, in the way we feel kinship to those who compliment us.

“Coffee?” I said.

“If you have some made.”

“I don’t but it’s no trouble.” I walked toward the kitchen. “Anyway, you can use the time to set up, can’t you?”

I know when people want to be alone to do their own thing.

In the kitchen, I hummed and heated water. I was happy for an opportunity to use my French press. I heard his suitcase land with a thump on the table and two sharp clicks of the locks opening.

“Okay in there?” I called, in between humming. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m fine,” he said, sounding like he was wrenching the lid from an old jar.

I walked back into the room. I held a tray with coffee, sugar, cream, and a plate of gingerbread cookies. He sat in front of the suitcase, his head near its open mouth. Nothing was displayed on the table.

“I only have gingerbread cookies,” I said. “I guessed that you liked sugar. Was I right?”