The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [34]
April 24. When I got back from the library, the minute the Bath Lady left, Mom bombarded me with questions: “When are we going back to our other house, and stop renting this one?” You own this one. “How much did we pay for it?” A lot. “How many bedrooms does it have?” Seven. “Where did we get the money for it?” From selling your mom’s house in Aberdeen. “When is that lady going to move out?” Which lady? “How much rent do we pay?” None, you own it. “Where did we get the money for it?” From Dad’s insurance and selling your mom’s house in Aberdeen. “When the lady moves out will she take the clock and the microwave?” Which lady? “Where does that door go to?” To the basement. Any more questions, Mom? “Yes. Where are my car keys?” Any others? “What time does the train leave?”
May 2. My matinée day with Norval (Tati’s Jour de Fête). Mom freaked when I told her the Bath Lady would be staying with her all afternoon. “I hate that sexpot and I hate this Norval creature!”
In the audience was someone who works for Dr. Vorta, an eccentric gentleman named Jean-Jacques Yelle (“JJ”). When Norval saw him he ducked down in his chair, but too late—JJ spotted us both and came bounding over to sit beside us. A white candy cigarette was hanging out his mouth and he was wearing pink socks. He’s a really nice guy, smiles a lot, but I sometimes have trouble with his voice, which has the cracking quality of an adolescent. When the film started Norval told him to go back to his seat.
After the movie I discovered that Norval is an absolutely merciless judge of his mother. Most of the people I know, in fact, complain about their parents— the way I complained about my mom when I was a teenager. But the fact is, without any bias at all, she was is one of the most beautiful women in the world, inside and out. The most selfless person I’ve ever met. Do women like her still exist today or is that a thing of the past?
May 8. We watched a video this afternoon: House of Mirth. Mom had told me that she wanted a “matinée—like you have with your boyfriend, whatever his name is. Be careful of him, by the way, because he carries a knife.” She’s never met Norval (and never will). She then told me that my cousin Rita got married and that we should have gone to the wedding “at St. Rose’s.” Three times she told me this, and three times I agreed with her, although I don’t have a cousin named Rita. And St. Rose’s is not a church, but a building not far from where we used to live in Long Island, on Route 110 in Farmingdale. It’s derelict now, its windows smashed and roof long gone. It used to be a home for wayward girls.
May 11. Had another all-nighter. First at 2:15 and then at 4:30 Mom woke me with her trusty lamp. How is it that she loses everything but her bloody Australian Hunter’s Lamp? When I shouted at her, ordered her back to bed, she said, “This is not working out. You’re impossible to live with.” She stormed off and slammed her bedroom door. I tossed and turned for half an hour, then went to her bedroom, where I got her another blanket, as she seemed to be shivering. I said I was sorry, but she just stared silently at me, her face empty of expression, looking like a waxwork model of herself.
May 19. Tonight I made tuna tartare with roast tomatoes, which I didn’t think was all that bad. But at the end of the meal Mom said she couldn’t “understand why this place keeps serving this junk. Hard as a rock. You could’ve soled your boots with it.”
May 24. Mom didn’t get up until 4:40 in the afternoon. Three times I tried to wake her, but no go. When she finally did get up she claimed it was my fault she slept so late. “I sleep a lot better when you’re not here playing your bloody music,” she said. I replied that I only play classical music (which she used to like) and never when she’s sleeping. She