Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [40]
He emptied the container of soup into a saucepan and heated it on the stove, taking tastes as he did so. The smile that seemed pasted on his square, dusky face when he was with her had disappeared the moment he entered the kitchen. It took resolve to feign pleasure at being there. The house smelled as though an old person lived in it, sour and oppressive, dusty and depressing, the drapes always closed, a TV on twenty-four hours a day. And there was the smell of the cigarettes she smoked despite her frail health. A large ashtray next to her chair was always filled with foul-smelling butts. She was visited each day by a nurse, and twice a week by a cleaning woman, but that was inadequate for the task. The nurse had recently told him that it might be time for his mother to be admitted to a nursing facility, but he wouldn’t hear of it, nor would he consider moving in with her. He’d rather see her die than allow either of those things to happen.
When the soup was ready he ladled it into a large bowl, carried it to the living room, and he placed it on a special wooden table that brought it close to his mother.
“Where’s the crackers?” she whined. “I like crackers with it.”
He returned to the kitchen and brought back two packages of saltines. “There you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”
“Aren’t you eating, Emile?”
“I had lunch before I came,” he said as he tucked a napkin beneath her chin. “You go ahead.”
“Will you play music for me later?” she asked.
“If you wish.”
He left her to enjoy her soup and went upstairs to what had been his boyhood bedroom. It was exactly as it had been when he left home to join the marines, all the toy bears and dogs lined up where they belonged, the bed made with his favorite sheets, which featured tanks and combat airplanes, the wallpaper, now faded from sunlight, picturing the planets. The mural on the ceiling depicted the heavens. Lined up on top of a dresser were framed photographs of him—his high school graduation, wearing his marine uniform on the day of his completion of basic training, shots with his mother when he returned home on leave, and of him with his dog, a small, mixed breed he’d named Lucky who turned out to not be as lucky as his name. Emile never allowed the dog to be loose outside the house. But one day his mother left the door open and Lucky ran outside and was hit by a passing car. Emile was devastated by the loss of his best friend, a pain that had stayed with him to this day. He couldn’t watch a TV show or motion picture showing animals in distress; his only charitable donations each year went to various shelters and animal-rights groups.
“Emile,” he heard his mother call.
He went to the head of the stairs and said, “I’m here, Ma-ma.”
“I finished my soup.”
“I’ll be down in a second.”
“Remember we’re going to have music.”
“I remember, Ma-ma.”
He returned to his bedroom, opened the closet door, picked up a case from the floor that contained a clarinet, and carried it downstairs. She’d lit up again, despite another freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray. The blue smoke stung his eyes.
“Was the soup good?” he asked as he took the empty bowl and napkin from her.
“It wasn’t hot enough.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll heat it better next time.”
He washed the bowl in the kitchen sink and put it in the dish drainer.
“Emile!” she commanded.
He went to her. “Yes, Ma-ma?”
“You said you would play music for me.”
He sat on the hassock and removed the clarinet parts from their case. He’d owned the instrument since high school, when he played in the school’s marching and swing bands. There had been a time when he dreamed of becoming a jazz musician, like Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw, and he had practiced a lot during that period. But his interest in a musical career soon faded and he turned to his other interest—stories of military conflicts and the weapons used in them.
With the clarinet’s parts securely joined, he removed a reed from the case and attached it to the mouthpiece, wetting it first with his saliva. He blew a few test notes before asking, “What would you like me to play?”
“You