Where the God of Love Hangs Out - Amy Bloom [40]
“Go to bed, Lion.”
“How about you?”
“I’m not really ready for bed yet, honey. Go ahead.” Please, go to bed.
“Okay. Good night, Ma.”
“Good night, baby.” Nineteen-year-old baby.
He pulled himself up and went off to his room. I peered into the kitchen, looked at all the dishes, and closed my eyes again. After a while, I got up and finished off the little bit of Jim Beam left in the bottle. With all Lionel’s efforts at sobriety, we didn’t keep the stuff around, and I choked on it. But the burning in my throat was comforting, like old times, and it was a distraction.
I walked down the hall to the bedroom—I used to call it the Lionel Sampson Celebrity Shrine. It wasn’t just his framed album covers, but all of his favorite reviews, including the ones I wrote before I met him; one of Billie’s gardenias mounted on velvet, pressed behind glass; photos of Lionel playing with equally famous or more famous musicians or with famous fans. In some ways, it’s easier to marry a man with a big ego; you’re not always fretting over him, worrying about whether or not he needs fluffing up.
I threw my black dress on the floor, my worst habit, and got into bed. I woke up at around four, waiting for something. A minute later, Buster wandered in, eyes half shut, blue blankie resurrected and hung around his neck, like a little boxer.
“Gonna stay with you, Mama.” Truculent even in his sleep, knowing that if his father had been there, he’d have been sent back to his own room.
“Come in, then, Bus. Let’s try and get some sleep.”
He curled up next to me, silently, an arm flung over me, the other arm thrust into his pajama bottoms, between his legs.
I had just shut my eyes again when I felt something out of place. Lion was standing in the doorway, his briefs hanging off his high skinny hips. He needed new underwear, I thought. He looked about a year older than Buster.
“I thought I heard Buster prowling around, y’know, sleepwalking.”
The only one who ever sleepwalked in our family was Lion, but I didn’t say so. “It’s okay—he just wanted company. Lonely in this house tonight.”
“Yeah. Ma?”
I was tired of thinking, and I didn’t want to send him away, and I didn’t want to talk anymore to anyone so I said, “Come on, honey, it’s a big bed.”
He crawled in next to his brother and fell asleep in a few minutes. I watched the digital clock flip through a lot of numbers and finally I got up and read.
The boys woke early, and I made them what Lionel called a Jersey City breakfast: eggs, sweet Italian sausage, grits, biscuits, and a quart of milk for each of them.
“Buster, soccer camp starts today. Do you feel up to going?”
I didn’t see any reason for him to sit at home; he could catch up on his grieving for the rest of his life.
“I guess so. Is it okay, Mama?”
“Yes, honey, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re going. I’ll pick you up at five, and then we’ll drive straight over to Grandma’s for dinner. You go get ready when you’re done eating. Don’t forget your cleats—they’re in the hall.”
Lion swallowed his milk and stood up, like a brown flamingo, balancing on one foot while he put on his sneaker. “Come on, Buster, I’m taking you. I have to go into town anyway. Do we need anything?”
I hadn’t been to the grocery store in about a week. “Get milk and OJ and English muffins and American cheese. I’ll do a real shop tomorrow.” If I could just get to the store and the cleaners, then I could get to work, and then my life would move forward.
Finally they were ready to go, and I kissed them both and gave Lion some money for the groceries.
“I’ll be back by lunchtime,” he said. It was already eight-thirty. When his father got sick in the spring, Lion gave me hourly bulletins on his whereabouts. This summer, Lion was house painting and home constantly, leaving late, back early, stopping by for lunch.
“If you like,” I said. I didn’t want him to feel that