I Am the Messenger

I shake my head.

At myself.

The waitress takes away my meatballs and brings out the Doorman's lasagna in a cheap plastic box. He'll be very happy with that, I expect.

As I slip to the counter and pay, I look back at Ma and the man, cautious not to be seen, but she's totally engrossed in him. She stares and listens with such intent that I don't even bother trying to hide myself from view anymore. I pay up and get out of there, except I don't go home. I walk to Ma's place and wait on the front porch.

It smells like my childhood, this house. I can even smell it from under the door as I sit here on the cool cement.

The night is alive with stars, and when I lie down and look up, I get lost up there. I feel like I'm falling, but upward, into the abyss of sky above me.

The next thing I feel is someone's foot nudging my leg.

I wake up and find the face that belongs to it.

"What are you doing here?" she says.

That's Ma.

Friendly as ever.

I rise to an elbow and decide not to dance around this. "I came to ask if you had a nice time at Melusso's."

An expression of surprise falls from her face, though she's trying to keep it. It breaks off and she seems to catch it and fidget with it in her hands. "It was very nice," she says, but I can tell she's stalling to go through her options. "A woman has to live."

I sit up now. "I guess that's fair."

She shrugs. "That the only reason you're here--to grill me about going out to dinner with a man? I have needs, you know."

Needs.

Have a listen to her.

She steps past me toward the door and inserts the key. "Now if you don't mind, Ed, I'm very tired."

Now.

The moment.

I nearly give in, but tonight I stand up. I know full well that out of all of her offspring, I'm the only one this woman won't invite into the house in this situation. If my sisters were here, she'd already be making coffee. If it was Tommy, she'd be asking him how university's treating him, offering him a Coke or a piece of cake.

Yet, with me, Ed Kennedy, every bit as much one of her kids as the others, she steps past and refuses friendliness, let alone an invitation to come in. Just once, I'd like her to be even the slightest bit affable.

The door's nearly shut when I stop it with my hand. The sound of a slapped face.

Her expression swells as I look at her.

I speak, saying the words hard.

"Ma?" I ask.

"What?"

"Why do you hate me so much?"

And now she looks at me, this woman, as I make sure my eyes don't give me away.

Flatly, simply, she answers.