University of Northern Iowa

ClassicalAuthor(s): RONALD WALLACESource: The North American Review, Vol. 295, No. 3 (SUMMER 2010), p. 28Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25750659 .

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N A R

What happened was this: she walked around to the sidewalk where he stood, he handed her a small shopping bag and

jacket, she took this bundle from him, they hugged briefly. He

disappeared down another street. I thought it was weird and strangely intimate since I didn't

recognize this man and my mom isn't affectionate. When she met me in the restaurant all frazzled, I gave her a look of

daggers, icicles, barbed wire, for being late, for making me bus it all the way out to the Richmond.

She seemed nervous, she kept looking at me and then

quickly glancing away. Slumped, mouth slack, defeated. I felt

powerful.

"Why are you so mad?" she asked. "Did you see me?" "What are you talking about?" "Did you see me park across the street?" "Yes!'

"Did you see that man?" "7es."

"That's Stan. He's a very nice man, he's my friend," she said. "He came with me to look at houses today. He owns proper ties all over the city."

"Huh."

"Did you see me do something?" "Do what? What are you talking about?" Her brows went up in the middle and slanted down. Her

eyes looked wet.

"Nothing," she said.

My mom sits in the rocking chair, hands cradling the mug of hearts. The yellow sun shines through the blinds, leaving parallel lines across her face. She's wearing a lot of makeup. She used to not wear any. The skin is pulled taut from the

facejob and when she talks only her mouth moves. It's as if she's wearing a mask.

She says, "I shouldn't have given your sister-in-law that stuff. You should have gotten my jewelry. She's not my

daughter. You re my daughter." "I don't care about that anymore," I say. "I don't even wear

jewelry." "I don't like her anymore. She doesn't care about me. Don't

you? "Don't I what?" "Don't you think your sister-in-law is fake? I think she's

been tricking me." My mom puts the mug on the coffee table, her hands grip the armrests. "How long are you going to be

here? Do you think you'll still be here when I move? If you have time we can do things together like mother-daughter." It

all comes out crashing like a wayward canoe tumbling down a waterfall.

I feel uneasy. "I don't know. I might move at the end of the

year," I hear myself say. "Well, where would you go?" "I don't know, someplace else. Away from California." She says, "Why would you leave? Why don't you stay here?

I'm going to move to San Francisco! We can do things

together. I need you to help me settle in. You need to tell me

where things are, how to get around, what to do here. Don't

you?" "Don't I what?" "I need help. I can't do it by myself." Her lips are outlined

in plum-colored liner that's way too dark. "This city is so

brave," she says.

"Oh." I can hear the parade outside. It sounds like disco

music. Maybe some floats are going by. "Where? Where would you go? How can you live like this?

How can you live your life like this, not knowing where

you're going? I always have to know where I'm going to end

up. Don't you?" "This is the way I like it. Nothing happens the way

you plan anyway." Once in a cab ride out to North Beach, the driver said to me, "Where did you get your baby confidence?" when I told him how I was going to change

my life.

RONALD WALLACE

Classical

My granddaughter says she'd rather be a worm

and go squirming underground than be a bird and fly too near the sun. No Icarus she, at three

(and three-quarters as she likes to say) she'd rather be Persephone. Let Daphne have her tree

and Artemis her hunts and Medusa her dangerous hair, she won't go there.

No, she'll stay firmly grounded in what she knows to be

safe and familiar, underfoot. Give her the worms.

The world and its aspirations are all Greek to her.

28 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW Summer 2010

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