The man looked to me for help, but what did he expect? That I would drive my hands into the maw to pry his pant leg free? I turned to get my sister, the tough one.
Ishkabibble said, — Throw him the chicken leg.
— Why should I?
— What?!
The skin was reddish and greasy. Now he wanted me to give it away?
He kicked stiffly at me, but moved off-balance like a marionette.
— Okay, I said to Ishkabibble. I’ll help.
But not right away. I picked at the chicken tenderly.
To his credit Ishkabibble checked the dog in the jaw with his heel.
When it barked Ishkabibble got free and tried to shut the gate, but soon as he pushed it the dog stuffed its charged face in between and there wasn’t enough room to throw down the little metal clasp.
— What the fuck are you doing? he yelled.
— I’m just taking the skin, I said. Let me get the skin at least.
The man actually spat on me.
On the lapel of my jacket.
I stopped tearing at the meat then threw it to the road.
As the food went over its head the dog disengaged from Ishkabibble. It caught the morsel in the air then made a choking noise as it swallowed the bone then broke it under the teeth. And chewed. I watched the Peking-pug do that for a whole five minutes.
Until Ishkabibble asked me, — Are you crying?
There was a fight in the backyard, but I was in the basement so it had no effect on me. After four hours with the guests I felt I’d made the strongest impression I could. Strategically speaking, retreat was victory.
In the basement, beside my bed, were the ten boxes of books I’d brought home. Each one smelled like vanilla because Grandma sprayed them with air freshener that morning.
My mother was outside, saying, — Just come out and tell me what he said.
A woman answered. — You told him I was old!
— I just told him you looked older than me!
Any book would do. I wanted to read quietly for an hour. Growing up with lunacy means learning to allow the skirmishes. Other people don’t understand and think: look how badly your mother was acting. But one fight was nothing. You can’t imagine how much worse it used to be.
My learning wasn’t remarkable. When I was enrolled at Cornell I read enough to pass, but couldn’t remember much of it now. Only after the expulsion did learning start to seem important.
— I don’t want you coming onto my block now, I heard the woman tell my mother.
— Well then get your husband to stop driving down mine!
Through the basement windows I saw partygoer legs, but not bodies. The shins had gathered into a circle around Mom and the married woman. Maybe it was true that Mom had slept with the lady’s husband. Though she was on Haldol there were other explanations for that kind of behavior. After losing weight Mom became bitter. It must have been the fat times, decades of being treated like a burlap sack by men and women. Now that she was dazzling Mom used her beauty as a shiv.
— Please, Mom! My sister yelled out there. Mrs. Hattamurdy, please!
That’s when I should have gone upstairs, but I’d already chosen the collected stories of Algernon Blackwood. The book was in my hand. They were supernatural tales which, like Edgar Allan Poe’s, were ripping good until the last few pages.
I might still have helped my sister. She was yelling my name. She was forced to be referee at her own mother’s cockfight. I stayed below. Soon, Grandma came with me.
Down the basement stairs as I was reading Blackwood’s “The Man Who Was Milligan,” a dumb story that I still wanted to finish.
— Your mother has trouble, Grandma said.
— I don’t really want to go up.
— No?
I made room for her. — Sit down here, Grandma.
— I will, she whispered.
She was wearing yellow rubber gloves. — You’ve been doing the dishes? I asked.
— Who else?
— I would.
The ceiling in the basement was lower than on the first floor. Eight feet instead of eleven. The room felt crowded amid Grandma, our cowardice, and I.
— A woman says your mother has had friendship with her husband.
— Did she call it friendship?
— No she did not.
I shut the book then put it in my lap. My breath smelled bad even though I’d brushed my teeth this morning, so I tried not to breathe on her but then remembered that this was my grandmother; not every woman was a potential partner.
— I’m always glad to see how much you like books, she said.
— How do you stay so thin, Grandma?
She sighed. — You know I have always wanted more weight. They called me skinny names when I was young.
— I would give you some of mine if I could.
— I have always been trapped between small and smallest. She put up two threadlike hands to show the parameters.
— People expect me to stay somewhere between bigger and bigger forever.
— Maybe your sister will stop the fight, Grandma said.
— She’ll learn how. I did.
— Your mother has been doing so well for a long time.
— Yes?
— I just don’t want her to now make new problems. My sadness comes from your pain.
— I like the way my boxes smell. Thank-you.
Grandma nodded. — I will spray them every day.
She took the book from my lap then set it facedown on my pillow. The cover showed a hazy painting of children wearing grotesque masks. She didn’t think much of the subject matter, I guess, but then all she read was tabloids. — Will you get a job? Grandma asked.
— I’ll apply for some tomorrow.
— A safe one.
— I want to move furniture.
— Oh, you will break your back.
— I worked even after I stopped going to school, Grandma. I cleaned houses in Ithaca.
— Why don’t you do that here? That’s no danger.
— Moving is like cleaning. I like to see things get organized.
— How long did you work like that. Houses in Cornell?
— The last two years.
— Two years! Such time. Why didn’t we know?
— Because I didn’t tell you.
— We believed in your letters. You wrote us about classes.
— But you never asked to see my grades. I touched my knees. What made you come up in September? I asked.
— Your sister begged us to take the time.
Of the noises outside Grandma and I ignored most of them. I was an expert at it and she was the grandmaster.
— Being a moving man is hard, she said.
— I could get an easier job, but it won’t pay any better.
— Not easy, she said. You should labor. So much of your problem would be solved. Your grandfather toiled harder when he was sick and it always healed him.
I nodded. There were many suggestions. Everyone wanted to make me better, but we couldn’t even name the problem.
3
I met Lorraine on the 6 train when it was between 14th Street and 23rd. We were in a tunnel, but I choose to remember this as meeting when it was dark.
Sunday, October 8th, my mother woke with bruises on her cheeks because the married Haitian woman was a better fighter.
That morning we sat nearly together in the living room, with Mom, Grandma and I on the sectional couch. Nabisase on the floor eating cereal from a yellow bowl in her lap.
My mother and sister talked, but I was quiet just like Grandma. When anyone’s tea was finished I made more. Grandma convinced Nabisase to let her comb and braid her hair. In this way we hoped to apologize to Nabisase and even Mom.