Albert's Mom
When I stepped from the sidewalk onto the chipped concrete porch, I caught my own face in the leaded glass inset of the front door. I looked like a revenant—haggard, shadow-eyed, but with a forced alertness that would probably pass for enthusiasm to anyone who hadn’t grown up watching my tells. I let myself in. The door still shrieked at the hinges, even after I’d oiled them every year for as long as I could remember. Some things don’t lose their voice, no matter how hard you try to silence them. Mom was waiting just inside, in the vestibule, doing her best impression of a woman surprised by a homecoming she’d been tracking down to the minute.
“Albert,” she said. It was always my full name when she was afraid. Never Al, or Bert, or the string of nicknames she’d used until I was thirteen. She’d started using just “Albert” again the summer after that year, and never stopped. “Welcome home. You’ve been missed.”
“Hi, Mom.” I set my bag down by the stairs, careful to keep the smirk out of my voice. “You look… wow.” I let my gaze drag over her, slow enough to notice her instinct to shrink, but not slow enough to be overtly cruel—yet. “Older.”
She was done up for church, or maybe a real estate open house: lavender blouse buttoned high enough to choke a stork, pleated navy skirt that made her look like the world’s oldest altar girl, hose with the faintest whisper of a run up the right calf. She’d even curled her hair, or tried to, but the effort had mostly highlighted the increasing gray at her temples.
“I didn’t expect you this early,” she said, voice quavering just enough to ruin the attempt at a warm smile. She hovered, awkwardly, between the desire to hug me and the instinct to keep something—furniture, a wall, a cross—between us. “I don’t have dinner ready yet.”
“I caught an earlier train.” I let her off the hook by dropping onto the couch and sprawling out, arms thrown wide. “Long day. I could use some tea.” I said it like a joke but left the command hanging in the air.
“Of course, dear,” she said, and hustled into the kitchen. The clatter of china and the telltale creak of the ancient faucet followed, echoing up the staircase and through the walls like distant gunfire.
The house was unchanged. Same dull beige carpet, same nicotine-yellow walls, same regimented parade of dusty framed photos lining every horizontal surface. There was the one of me at age seven, gap-toothed and sullen in a Cub Scout uniform I’d worn once. The one of her and my father, frozen in a grimace that some hack photographer probably called a “smile,” shot just after the final mortgage payment. And all the others: birthday cakes, graduations, Christmases that blurred together. I studied the faces with a kind of disinterested contempt—so much ritualized happiness, so little warmth.
Mom came back balancing a chipped ceramic tray, the tea service rattling with each step. I watched her knuckles go white as she set it down. Even after all these years, she hadn’t learned how to stop her hands from betraying her. She poured with exaggerated care, keeping her eyes on the cups so she didn’t have to meet mine.
“You must be tired,” she said, voice feather-light as she passed me a mug. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Sure. Sat next to some fat guy who smelled like onions and wet dog.” I sipped, ignoring the heat, letting the burn remind me I was alive. “Why do you always buy this flavor?”
“It’s soothing.” She half smiled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought you liked it.”
“Mom, it tastes like potpourri and regret.” I took another scalding mouthful for effect. “Next time, just get Lipton, okay?”
She nodded, chastened, and glanced at the grandfather clock looming in the hallway. It was still five minutes fast, a trick she’d learned in college to keep herself punctual. I’d once set it back to the right time, just to see how long it would take her to notice. Three weeks, and a minor nervous breakdown.
“Anything new with you?” I asked, even though I didn’t care. The ritual demanded it, like an offering to whatever gods ruled over these suburban mausoleums.
“Oh, you know.” Her eyes darted everywhere but my face. “The same old things. I started volunteering at the library. We’re running a fundraiser for the new children’s wing.”
“Perfect,” I said. “You always did have a thing for shushing people.”
She flushed, the pink riding up her cheeks like a fever. “I suppose I do.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap, kneading invisible dough. “How’s work?”
“Same as ever. Boss is an idiot, coworkers are idiots, customers are idiots.” I shrugged, staring over her shoulder at the family photo wall. “Nice to be somewhere I’m the smart one for a change.”
A flicker of pain crossed her face; gone so fast I almost missed ...