“What, you got your rumas again?” his mother asked. At the steering wheel, between two fingers, his mother held a Newport 100. The embers glowed a bright red, pulsing with the air rushing in through her open window.
“Maybe it’s time to take you back to the doctor,” she said.
“I don’t need to go the doctor,” Daniel replied. “It’ll go away.” He reached down and began massaging his knees.
“It’s up to you,” his mother said. “I’d go, though.” She brought the cigarette to her mouth.
When Daniel was a young boy his mother had taken him to four separate doctors, pediatricians. Finally she had taken him to a fifth, a geriatrician, looking for some answers about the arthritic-like pains Daniel was experiencing in his joints. “Just growing pains,” they all said. “He’ll outgrow them.” They all said this with a smile. They all patted him on the head and called him “Sport.”
Daniel had yet to outgrow his growing pains. He was now ten years old. Whenever the weather changed, whenever the air was thick and wet, Daniel felt his joints swell and stiffen. When he was younger the ache had been so bad he’d had to soak in steaming hot baths for hours at a time. He often wasn’t able to sleep and instead would sit and cry until his mother came into his room with the Ben-gay. Now, at his older age, Daniel had come to accept the pains like one does an annoying relative: just put up with them, they’ll eventually go away. In his sock drawer he kept his own tubes of Ben-gay, two of them, just in case one ran out.
Cool air from his mother’s open window swirled around Daniel and his pains. The car had no radio and instead his mother sang Smokey Robinson tunes one after another—“Baby That’s Backatcha,” “The Love I Saw in You Was Just a Mirage.” She hummed the words, stopping only for a Newport inhale, or when she suddenly seemed deep in thought.
“Mom, can’t you close your window?” Daniel asked. His mother was quiet for the moment, driving, looking straight ahead. Daniel could see the distance his mother’s gaze often assumed, like on days off when she parked herself in front of the TV and watched The Price Is Right, or Friday nights, when she watched Dallas. Daniel hated that look of his mother’s. He thought she looked dumb at those times, helpless.
“Mom,” he said again.
“What, baby?” his mother asked. She reached across her body and tapped her cigarette on the top edge of her window.
“Your window,” Daniel said. “Can’t you close it?”
“Oh. Sorry,” she said. She took one last inhale, then made a motion to throw the cigarette out. Just before releasing it she stopped and brought it back for a quick, final tug. Then she tossed the butt out the window. In the light of the expressway, Daniel caught sight of the faded green tattoo on the web of his mother’s right hand. It was small, a six-pointed star with a T in the center. The tattoo had been there since before Daniel was born; he’d grown up with it, but it never failed to catch his eye. When he’d asked about it in the past, the only answer he’d gotten was that it was a club his mother used to belong to. “We did stupid things,” his mother said. Daniel knew the truth, that his mother had actually been in a street gang. The Tokers didn’t even exist anymore as far as Daniel knew. But some of their graffiti, old and faded, was still scrawled on the factories and warehouses back in their neighborhood.
The fact that his mother’s gang no longer existed made Daniel wonder how old his mother really was. She was twenty-eight, Daniel knew. But age wasn’t what he thought about when he considered her “being old.” Instead Daniel felt like his mother had been someone else entirely before he was born. Someone he wished he knew more about.
His mother exhaled as she rolled up her window. Daniel coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. His mother stared at the road and began humming.
The pains continued. Gradually, with his massaging, the ache transferred from his knees to his hands, and he began kneading his palms. This was how the process usually went. On a bad night he’d go through a massage of nearly every joint in his body, the pain switching locations constantly, as if his rubbing actually chased it to the next set of joints. Alongside him his mother fell silent again. Daniel began concentrating on the car, listening for the pangs that announced the engine was about to smoke and stall.
He was happy to be going to the airport. The last time he’d been there was two years earlier, when he and his mother had gone to pick up Birdy, his mother’s childhood friend. Birdy and his mother had grown up as neighbors. Birdy had worked for Bell Telephone and been transferred to Sacramento, California. Sacramento. The word had always sounded warm and tropical to Daniel. His mother had had the opportunity to go. At least according to Birdy. “Sunny California,” Birdy said that first night of her visit. “You guys could be living there right this very second, blue skies, valley air.” Daniel was sitting across from Birdy. He had been listening to her tell stories about his mother’s past. “Could’ve taken you, Maggie.” That’s what Birdy called his mother, that’s what most people called her, friends she would see on the street, friends from a long time ago. Magdalena was her real name. “Could be working right next to me,” Birdy continued. “Partying like the old days. But nope, never, can’t do the easy thing, right?” Birdy reached for her rum and Coke. At the table his mother rattled the ice in her glass. “I offered,” Birdy said to Daniel. She leaned over the table and whispered, “I think there was a man involved.” Birdy’s breath was sharp with liquor. Daniel smiled. He knew she was talking about his father. Birdy leaned back again. Daniel wanted to hear more. “But hey,” Birdy continued. “Don’t want no help, don’t get no help, right, Maggie?” Birdy sighed and shook her head. She took a sip of her dark drink.
“I’m doing fine right here,” Daniel’s mother said. She wasn’t mad, Daniel could tell from her voice, but he could tell also that she was about to get mad, like this was a warning shot, the kind she gave him about dirty socks, a messy bedroom. “Clean that room or your ass is grass,” she often said.
“Uh, yeah, right,” Birdy responded. “I like working for asshole lawyers too, my favorite. File this, copy this, get me coffee. Fuck that,” she said. She looked to Daniel as if giving him the opportunity to add to the list. Yeah, Mom and I love our house too, I mean apartment. Especially how the toilet leaks, those roaches, great. Daniel didn’t say a word. Birdy took another sip of her drink. Daniel felt his mother’s temper then. He felt it take shape in the blank space, after Birdy’s last word.
“You think I need to hear from you how my life is going?” Daniel’s mother asked. Her voice started to rise. “I got enough people think they know what’s good for me.” Daniel wondered who his mother could be talking about. “Fuck California,” his mother said sharply. “You think I give a shit about California…” Daniel rolled his eyes.
“Maggie, calm down. I was just saying. Relax,” Birdy said.
“Who do I need to relax for?” his mother asked. “You? You come into my house and tell me how to live. Fuck you. Fuck California.”
Daniel put his chin down on his arms.
“Maggie, calmate. I was just talking, girl. It’s my opinion. Don’t do anything, do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
“I know I can do what I want. I don’t need you to tell me what I can do. Fuck all of you think I need guidance.” Daniel watched as his mother fumed. Her forehead was wrinkled. She looked ready to smack somebody’s head off.
After a moment Birdy leaned into Daniel. “You know, she used to be worse,” Birdy said. “You think she’s bad now.” She raised her eyebrows.