Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

“That might be good, yeah. We have one at the institute.”

“Oh, your institute. And how is that going?” She wanted to sound interested because Guy was very protective of his peculiar interests, bullying and evangelical. She did not like being bullied by Guy.

“It’s going fine, Ma.”

“I’m so glad. I think it’s good that you have that, to occupy you between jobs.”

There was a slight pause. “The institute’s enough of a job, as it is.”

“Oh, I’m sure it keeps you very busy.”

“It does. You’d be surprised.”

“Not at all. I do wonder, though.” She trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Have you given some thought to a more conventional job?”

“Conventional jobs seem to take a dislike to me, Ma. It’s not like I haven’t tried.”

“Oh, well. You may be right. I certainly don’t want to argue with you.”

“Right now I’m really just trying to concentrate on the institute.”

“Hmm. Well, honestly, I just don’t see how a bunch of ex-athletes sitting around hammering away at a typewriter are going to convince anyone of anything.”

“It’s not you we’re trying to convince, Ma.”

“Well, if not me, then who? I certainly count myself among those who believe football players should spend their time outdoors knocking one another down, not cramped in a closet with their big hands all over a little Italian typewriter. I say let the football players play football. Nobody forces them to do it. And it’s been shown to build character.”

Her son’s controlled annoyance was tangible across the miles separating them. She had a picture in her mind of Guy holding the receiver away from his head and staring at it scornfully. It grieved her that he scorned her opinions. She decided she would continue to put her best foot forward with her younger son.

“Guy?” she said. Her voice sounded sharper than she’d intended.

“Yeah, Ma.”

“Are you there?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“So how is your lovely friend?” Mrs. Mock couldn’t bring herself, for some reason, to call a grown woman Randi.

“Randi’s fine. She’s laying out a garden.”

“It’s a little late for annuals, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Mock felt a twinge of guilt, given her own procrastination in the garden this year. But she had sent some perfectly wonderful heirloom seeds to Guy’s lady friend when she’d heard that the two of them were returning to California and it grieved her that the woman was going to plant them for naught.

“She’s actually not planting the flowers, Ma. She’s trying for tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes! ” Mrs. Mock didn’t quite know how to respond to that. The two fell silent, and the line was filled with the ghostly whistling sounds of all the blasted land that lay vacantly between them.

“Mom, listen.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I need you and Dad to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor, dear?”

“I need to borrow your car for a few days.”

“I don’t think your father is going to want to part with his car for a few days.”

She certainly didn’t. Mr. Mock was a man who disliked the slightest deviation from his routine. Just getting him to agree to a new brand of hand soap was an ordeal.

“He wouldn’t have to. I was hoping that the two of you would come with me.”

She laughed.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten your father to go anyplace?”

“Well, see, it’s a good idea then.”

“Who will run the motel?”

“Dad told me the thing practically runs itself.”

“What your father means is that I run it, dear.”

“Can’t you get someone to take care of it for you?”

He could be so insistent. They both — in fact, they all could be. Each concession wearing her down a little further. Look up nub in the dictionary, and there she was. Where are we going? For how long? What was wrong with his car? She would ask, but she had the distinct feeling that she wouldn’t receive satisfactory answers to these questions.

“Where would we be going?”

“East.”

“Nearly everything is east of here, dear.”

“We need to drive to our place in New York.”

“You and your young lady.”

“Randi. Randi. But no. Not with her.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand at all. What happened to your car? Why can’t you take your own car to New York?”

“I really can’t discuss it over the telephone.”

“Then, dear, you shouldn’t have called to discuss it.”

“If you could just say yes, it would be so much easier for me to fill you in later on.”

“And how on earth could I possibly say yes for your father?”

“Believe me, it’d be great for him. He’d love it. You’d both love it.”

“Love what?”

“I can’t discuss it.”

Then the door opened, and Mr. Mock entered the owner’s unit, his beaten Hathaway shirtfront soaked with water and clinging to him. When he peered over at her, Mrs. Mock instantly felt as if she’d been discovered doing something that she shouldn’t. She was having a frustrating and, she hated to admit it but, unwanted conversation with her son and being made to feel as if it were the wrong thing to be doing and she was simply tired of being beset by bullies. She handed the phone off to Mr. Mock.

“Here,” she said, “it’s for you.”

From the designer living room she watched as he studied the phone for a moment before lifting it to his ear. See the Designer Color, to match any household decor? (The Moss Green tone matched the refrigerator and dishwasher, but all three were, in Mrs. Mock’s mind, unsatisfactory compromises.) See how the dial is Built Into the receiver, so that you can make calls more easily? See the lighted dial, allowing you to place a call in Total Darkness if the mood strikes you? See the long Tangle-Resistant Cord, so that you can effortlessly go about your business while enjoying a conversation? See the Contoured Design that rests easily in the hand and against the planes of the face? The Trimline. Mr. Mock finally laid the device against his skull.

“Dad.”

“Guy.”

“Dad, remember telling us about the war when we were kids?”

“I remember telling you. Ernest wasn’t listening to me much anymore by then.”

“He was older.”

“The firstborn.”

“It must have been rough on him.”

“Those were the best years of our lives we spent over there.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“What about the war?”

“Remember telling me how sometimes you just had to do something someone asked of you, do it without question?”

“Or else you’d end up in the brig.”

“But there was a reason, a principle behind the idea.”

“I guess. Mostly you just didn’t want to end up in the brig. All the nuts were in there.”

“Dad, I need to ask you to do something for me, and I need you not to ask any questions. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“What did your mother say?”

“We can’t expect Mom to understand matters of life and death.”

“Why not? She’s a mature woman.”

“She’s a wonderful mother. Ernest and I agree. I’ve no doubt she’s been a loyal and resourceful wife. Sterling reports from the PTA and such. A model citizen. But life and death?”

“Guy, your mother’s a senior citizen.”

“Well, I don’t blame Mom. But she wasn’t real receptive.”

“I’m glad you don’t blame her. What’d you ask her to do? What are you asking me to do?”

“I need you to take a trip with us.”

“Well, I don’t know that I can take a trip. I’d really have to check.”