Where the God of Love Hangs Out - Amy Bloom [38]
SLEEPWALKING
I was born smart and had been lucky my whole life, so I didn’t even know that what I thought was careful planning was nothing more than being in the right place at the right time, missing an avalanche I didn’t even hear.
After the funeral was over and the cold turkey and the glazed ham were demolished and some very good jazz was played and some very good musicians went home drunk on bourbon poured in my husband’s honor, it was just me, my mother-in-law, Ruth, and our two boys, Lionel junior from Lionel’s second marriage, and our little boy, Buster.
Ruth pushed herself up out of the couch, her black taffeta dress rustling reproachfully. I couldn’t stand for her to start the dishes, sighing, praising the Lord, clucking her tongue over the state of my kitchen, in which the windows are not washed regularly and I do not scrub behind the refrigerator.
“Ruth, let them sit. I’ll do them later tonight.”
“No need to put off ’til tomorrow what we can do today. I’ll do them right now, and then Lionel junior can run me home.” Ruth does not believe that the good Lord intended ladies to drive; she’d drive, eyes closed, with her drunk son or her accident-prone grandson before she’d set foot in my car.
“Ruth, please,” I said. “I’d just as soon have something to do later. Please. Let me make us a cup of tea, and then we’ll take you home.”
Tea, her grandson Buster, and her son’s relative sobriety were the three major contributions I’d made to Ruth’s life; the tea and Buster accounted for all of our truces and the few good times we’d had together.
“I ought to be going along now, let you get on with things.”
“Earl Grey? Darjeeling? Constant Comment? I’ve got some rosehip tea in here, too—it’s light, sort of lemony.” I don’t know why I was urging her to stay; I’d never be rid of her as long as I had the boys. If Ruth no longer thought I was trash, she certainly made it clear that I hadn’t lived up to her notion of the perfect daughter-in-law, a cross between Marian Anderson and Florence Nightingale.
“You have Earl Grey?” Ruth was wavering, half a smile on her sad mouth, her going-to-church lipstick faded to a blurry pink line on her upper lip.
When I really needed Ruth on my side, I’d set out an English tea: Spode teapot, linen place mats, scones, and three kinds of jam. And for half an hour, we’d sip and chew, happy to be so civilized.
“Earl Grey it is.” I got up to put on the water, stepping on Buster, who was sitting on the floor by my chair, practically on my feet.
“Jesus, Buster, are you all right?” I hugged him before he could start crying and lifted him out of my way.
“The Lord’s name,” Ruth murmured, rolling her eyes up to apologize to Jesus personally. I felt like smacking her one, right in her soft dark face, and pointing out that since the Lord had not treated us especially well in the last year, during which we had both lost husbands, perhaps we didn’t have to be overly concerned with His hurt feelings. Ruth made me want to be very, very bad.
“Sorry, Ruth. Buster, sit down by your grandmother, honey, and I’ll make us all some tea.”
“No, really, don’t trouble yourself, Julia. Lionel junior, please take me home. Gabriel, come kiss your grandma good-bye. You boys be good, now, and think of how your daddy would want you to act. I’ll see you all for dinner tomorrow.”
She was determined to leave, martyred and tea-less, so I got in line to kiss her. Ruth put her hands on my shoulders, her only gesture of affection toward me, which also allowed her to pretend that she was a little taller, rather than a little shorter, than I am.
She left with Lionel junior, and Buster and I cuddled on the couch, his full face squashed against my chest, my skin resting on his soft hair. I felt almost whole.
“Sing, Mama.”
Lionel had always wanted me to record with him and I had always said no, because I don’t like performing and I didn’t want to be a blues-singing Marion Davies to Lionel’s William Ran dolph Hearst. But I loved to sing and he loved to play and I’m sorry we didn