She
is swimming, swimming with a leisurely sidestroke, around and around the
pool, singing as she goes. Her knotty, blue-veined legs pump in frog-leg
rhythm; skinny arms stretch out to propel her body forward, gray head
well out of the water. "It was just one of those crazy things… a flight
to the moon on gossamer wings," she pants. Oh yes, she knows the lyrics;
Cole Porter is from her day. She has memorized a varied list of favorites:
Hoagie Carmichael, Richard Rogers, Noel Coward; some hymns. Often she
includes a sentimental gem from The Golden Book of Song, a treasured volume
that sat open on her Aunt Nanny's piano years after the family had stopped
singing from it. She puffs her way daily through the repertoire, as far
as breath and memory will take her.
Jason Harley, watching
from his wheelchair next door, is not familiar with lyrics from the Dark
Ages, but by now he can recite a few stanzas himself. He is certain that
the old gal is not aware of his presence. Though the aboveground pool
may hide her from street level view, she is easily observed from the raised
deck of Jason's home. He is glad of this, because the sight greatly amused
him. Her reedy soprano renditions have recalled melodies of old standards
he used to play on his clarinet when he bummed around with the Hotzones,
a small band organized in high school. Its main attraction was permission
to miss class, to play dance music for senior citizens in local hospitals
and nursing homes.
By his senior year,
football had taken a toll on Jason's volunteerism, using up much time
and most of his interest. The clarinet has been cooling in his closet
for many months. Thinking of it and the Hotzones today calls up feelings
too close to self-pity for a stalwart ex-football star to entertain for
very long. The Hotzones are gone, along with football, Porsche and partying.
And that is that.
Right now all he
can handle are the daily therapy sessions that may-or may not-have him
walking again. Before he is old like the ancient swimmer. Man, imagine,
old as Mother Theresa and singing away, evidently with no thought that
a mortician might be waiting behind the next high note.
At times he is
tempted to call out a request (--oh, sure--like she'd know numbers by
Jewel, or Sting, or anybody alive today). Better not. If she were to catch
him chuckling while she warbles away with pausing between Darktown Strutters'
Ball and Old Rugged Cross, she might not go on singing and swimming and
splashing through those jumping-jack routines she faithfully counts out
before embarking on her musical circles.
Each day, after
the diva climbs out and wraps herself in a mysteriously acquired yellow
beach towel inscribed I SAW THE MIKE TYSON FIGHT, Jason watches with regret
her slow progress down the pool deck stairs and across the summer-browned
grass to her back door. She is certainly more entertaining than Judge
Judy or ice skating re-runs. Who could have imagined that songwriters
ever wrote lyrics like "thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou
art"? Or "a fairy tale of paradise where roses bloom"?
"You are harboring
unkind thoughts about her singing. I know you. You are very judgmental
when it comes to music."
"Wonder if she
thinks she has a future at the Met?"
"Now don't be hateful,
son."
Jason whips his
wheelchair around and heads indoors toward the TV room his mother has
furnished for him at the back of the house. The big screen Sony is located
there, next to the washer and dryer. Jason knows why his mother doesn't
want him underfoot in the living room. It is her gathering spot for gossipy
bridge games and low-voiced sessions during which his mother's fellow
churchwomen proclaim their beliefs. In hushed tones some tell of personal
contacts with a higher power. Murmured prayers on Jason's behalf often
reach his ears and, he hopes, God's.
One compensation
for being tucked out of sight is having easy access to a daily performance
by the aquatic chanteuse. Jason can't explain even to himself why she
lifts his spirits. A skinny septuagenarian in a faded fifties bathing
suit singing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes"? Get out of here.
Still, he regrets
the coming of autumn. One of these days soon, Mrs. Taylor's stuffy lawyer
son (donor of the yellow towel? surely not.) will send some men over to
cover the pool. Where will she be performing then? In a swimmers' chorus
at the local Y? Jason will doubtless be wearing leg braces through the
cold months, probably longer. A handicapped male wanting to audit a ladies'
water aerobics class? Man, he must be losing it. Imagine a twenty-year-old
male looking forward to a show whose star may well have been a WAC in
World War II. Is this Heaven's answer to the Dear Ladies' prayers?
His mother interrupts
Jason's fit of gloom by placing in his lap a tray holding a bologna sandwich,
a glass of milk and a stack of orange-colored snack food that she loves
and he detests. If he were his former heedless self, he would complain.
But his mother has been gentle and patient, though not in any way as entertaining
as the swimming songbird. Marybelle Harley wouldn't be caught dead in
a bathing suit of any vintage, nor has she ever been known to sing; even
in church she simply mouths the words. (Doubtless there is more to her
reproach about musical intolerance than Jason is aware of.)
Despite her occasional
tattle-tale reports to his therapist, Jason is grateful for his mother's
uncomplaining nursing care. The raising of low spirits is a job she expects
him to do for himself. After all, his buddies do come by to exchange jokes
and sports scores, and to report on the dimensions of the latest cute
chick exercising at the local gym. Jason knows he is lucky to be alive.
Rehabilitation
is the obvious goal, but he has not forced himself to work at it, certain
that he will never again star in football or hockey, never compete in
any sport for that matter. Not even swimming, which he may eventually
attempt, just for the exercise. Well, if he does start doing laps, he
sure as hell won't be singing Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.
He had planned
a lifetime of athletic achievement, had never imagined any other. First,
a college team, then the pros, with luck, a Super Bowl, possibly the Heisman.
Even "Jason Harley, MVP." What now, law school? An office with a desk?
Stacks of books, midnight oil? Yeah, right.
***
George
Merriweather Taylor slams horn and brakes simultaneously and lets loose
a snarling "Jesus freaking Christ!" The traffic gets worse by the day,
drivers more greedy and reckless, and now this moron has cut him off and
made him miss his turn. It isn't enough that he has to look in on his
mother and try to convince her to move into Managed Care. No, now Sister
phones from Tucson and complains that he is practically inviting Mom to
drown herself, letting her swim alone in that damn aboveground pool. It
was Holly's own idea, and now she is complaining. He had opposed erecting
that monstrosity from the very first; had been overruled by impractical
females. Now, as usual, he is obliged to take over.
Free of the Poplar
Avenue bumper-to-bumper jam at last, he tools down Colonial and on the
familiar neighborhood of his childhood. Situated on an ivy covered rise,
set back off the street, and generously shaded by ancient oak trees, the
house-a dignified old lady of a house-is still charming, if a bit frayed
at the edges. The shutters need painting, and heavy overhanging branches
have mildewed the roof. However, George M. feels no nostalgia about the
home he grew up in; he couldn't wait to get his own place. He is all for
progress, upward mobility and the single life. When someone described
George as a 'confirmed bachelor,' his mother had responded with asperity,
"I didn't know there was a religious ceremony. What wasn't I invited?"
George heard about this exchange, but he didn't get it. George was not
your Witty Attorney type, much to his mother's sorrow.
He has furnished
his bachelor apartment with chrome and leather. The aspect is modern and
utilitarian. George likes it that way. In fact, he almost dreads seeing
the inside of the old place. It was always too--too--? George can't think
of the word. Sentimental, maybe. And dated. No point in renovating,
however. He'll take any reasonable offer for it, when-and if-he can convince
his mother to move into something more suitable for an elderly lady.
Her aging Honda
is parked in the driveway. She's at home, thank God, not out in noon-day
traffic causing ulcers. Another problem to be dealt with, after he gets
her to sell the house. Attorney Taylor has never shrunk from the job of
persuasion. He marches up the path, shoulders back, arguments at the ready.
She comes to the door wearing plaid shorts he remembers from years ago
when she was still young enough to look good in them. Her T-shirt has
a damp reddish spot on the front, probably having been daubed with a wet
cloth.
"Hi, sweetheart,"
she says from behind the screen. "Have you eaten?" She gestures for him
to enter. "Come on through quick. The flies are bad this year. Not to
mention West Lime virus in the mosquitoes."
"Nile. West Nile
virus. Lyme disease is carried by ticks. You should keep this screen latched,
Mom; you never know who'll come to the door."
"Be a nice change
to see somebody other than you and the mailman. I made a pie; you want
a piece?" She heads for the kitchen, trailing a whiff of insect repellent.
George follows her, then stands stock still, taking in with dismay the
state of the once-spotless kitchen. The counters are stacked high with
unopened mail, catalogues, and plastic sacks bulging with God knows what.
On the table, nested in papers and books, sits an apple pie, and in a
cleared area, a platter with the remains of her lunch: discarded artichoke
petals, bits of boiled beet and some crumbles of pie crust. Flung over
one of the chairs is a yellow beach towel, instantly reminding George
of Holly's phone call.
"Sister tells me
you're still going into the pool, and it worries her. She feels-we both
feel-that you're too old to be getting into that water alone. Besides,
you could catch your death. I hope today was your last dip for the summer."
"Did you come to
preach, or have a nice chat? Because, as you pointed out, I am a mature
adult, old was the word you used, I believe. Therefore I am presumably
capable of governing my own behavior. Why not try to cheer your mature
mama up, instead of fussing at her about nothing? Tell me something funny.
How's the law business? Any more goofy clients with goofier problems?
It really amazes me what people will go to an attorney for these days."
Her son is not
here to exchange anecdotes.
"Business is fine.
Most of my clients, as you certainly know by now, have problems only an
attorney can deal with, 'goofy' though they may be."
"Problems like
'who gets the heirloom coffee spoons,' or 'who stole whose manuscript
about the night they slept with Elvis?' You are really patient to listen
to such blatherskite, son. Good thing they pay you."
"Mother, we need
to talk about the house."
"This house? What
about it?"
"Sister and I think
it's time for you to consider moving into something easier to take care
of, a nice little apartment."
"Oh, so Holly is
offering her expert advice behind my back again, all the way from Arizona.
I should never blab to her about my doings. All I wanted to know when
I called her was the words to the second stanza of America the Beautiful.
Heaven forbid I should risk my life doing dangerous things like changing
light bulbs and exercising in the pool. Well, tell her not to worry; I
have written my will as she suggested. And I remembered to leave her the
silver."
"Come on, Mom,
you know Holly doesn't give a damn about the silver. She loves you; we
both do. We worry about you, living here alone like this. You don't use
your alarm system, do you? Bet you don't even remember your security code."
"Seven six seven.
I have a harder time remembering your middle name. And I do use it-when
I need to. If a crazed rapist survives the noise that thing makes, he'll
be out of the mood before he reaches another old lady's bedroom. Rapists
usually operate in silence, I imagine."
George doesn't
know where the smart-mouth sarcasm is coming from. Writing Sister off
like that, as if all Holly wanted from her mother was some paltry possessions!
Sometimes he wishes he had been the one to move to Arizona, allergies
or no allergies. He loves his mother, but he is mystified by her stubborn
resistance to the smallest suggestion. It is so unlike her. And yet, since
their father's death five years ago, she seems determined to act like
a naughty child.
His father had
always taken over, and his mother had permitted it, routinely accepting
his little tyrannies without protest. They were what others called a devoted
couple. George remembers feeling almost jealous of their relationship,
a bond so fond and intimate that at times he had wondered if they remembered
they were parents. All that joshing and bursts of childish behavior. You
could get up in the night to get a drink of water and hear them laughing;
peek down the foyer and catch them dancing to some silly old song. Like
teenagers.
Only once in George's
memory had Mom defied their father. He was still living at home when her
old Chevy gave up the ghost. Dad refused to replace it, on the grounds
that since he was now retired they no longer needed a second car. Mom
had stared at Dad in stony silence. Next day she took a taxi to the nearest
Honda agency; wrote a check on their joint account and drove herself home
in a brand new four-door. George still remembers the baffled look on his
father's face. After the prolonged dinner table silence of that evening,
things went back to normal.
Now she lives alone,
without Dad's guidance. And anyone can see that she is flourishing, positively
flourishing, well into the eighth decade of a life George knows to have
had problems as absurd as any of his clients'. Never once had she asked
his advice.
***
Next
door, Jason Harley has wheeled his chair into his bedroom. He rolls over
to the clothes closet, moves in front of it, opens the door, backs away
and positions the chair to where he can see inside. It's still there.
He leans sideways to grasp the handle of the instrument case; hauls it
up onto his lap; gets it unlatched. When he takes out the mouthpiece,
the case bangs onto the floor, eliciting a call from the front room.
"Jason? You all
right?"
"Just practicing
the samba, Mom. Not to worry, I'm fine."
"Now honey, you
need to rest before your ride comes." Irony is lost on his mother. She
is referring to the van that arrives daily at four to take him to the
therapy center. Jason figures that he is ahead of rest by several twenty-four
hour days. He needs a rest from resting, that's for sure.
"Okay, Mom. Say
hi to the ladies for me." He assembles the clarinet, hoping there is still
a decent reed in the case; finds one; dampens it for a few seconds with
his tongue. Tentatively holding the instrument to his lips, he lightly
presses keys in a remembered sequence. Come to Me My Melan-cho-ly Ba-a-a-by.
One of the oldies the nursing home ladies loved. He rests and elbow on
the chair arm and steadies the instrument, flexes his fingers. Some fairly
decent riffs issue from the clarinet.
Right on! Keep
on praying, ladies; pray for the smashed up legs; don't worry about the
rest of me. These trusty digits are still limber enough to help me follow
that act next door with some licks of my own. Hotzone specials-lots better
than tube watching. Something new to fill the back-room hours. The old
Harley spirits are lifting, folks-well, maybe an inch or two off
bottom…
***
George Taylor, bull-dog determined to make his point, changes his approach.
He moves to the back door, gazes out, adopts a kindly tone.
"Should I send
Raymond over to mow the lawn? All this grass is hard to keep up with,
now that Dad's gone."
"Don't send that
grouch over here again. I found my own lawn man, a lot nicer than cranky
old Raymond. Albert does a fine job, and he's sweet. Brought me that nice
big towel."
George frowns,
stares intently into the yard. "Who has been digging around the pool?
What's all that loose dirt out there? You surely can't be planting stuff
this time of year?"
"Albert found a
big nest of snakes out back, and he worries they'd get into the pool,
so he dug up around it and put in snake poison."
"Wha-at?" For a
second, George M. is speechless. He sits down heavily at the kitchen table.
"Mother, there is no way snakes could get up into the pool. If there were
any out there, I'd get rid of them for you. Your Albert is flimflamming
you, damn it. What'd he charge you for that nonsense?"
v His mother is biting the inside of her cheek, causing a hollow to appear
that in childhood years had predicted a scolding. At fifty-five, Attorney
Taylor does not appreciate being scolded by anyone, least of all, his
mother. They face each other for long second, mute and glaring. Finally
his mother answers in a controlled tone, spacing her words.
"Eighty… measly…
dollars. Of my own money."
Another silence.
George clears his throat.
"Must have gotten
rid of the elephants, too, at that price. I don't see any wild bulls wandering
around."
"Har de har har.
You must wow them in the courtroom."
George sighs deeply;
stands up and moves to put his arm around his mother's thin shoulders.
A wave of self-reproach floods his heart. She's such a good scout. Maybe
not always gentle and patient-but unfailingly entertaining. People love
her company. George has to admit she is not your garden variety Sweet
Old Thing. It has been ages since they had fun together. He chokes back
a comment about the neglected house and resolves to take her to dinner
soon, to that dreadful home-cooking restaurant that features vegetable
plates. (Haute cuisine is not his mother's idea of fine food.) He givers
her shoulders a little squeeze.
"I'm sorry. I hate
arguing with you, Mom. It's just that Holly and I care about you. We want
the best for you."
"Then stop treating
me like a mental case." She shrugs off his arm, moves away. Is this the
mother he has always known?
"I didn't mean
it that way, Mom. It's just-you never let me do for you; help you with
things. What say I get someone to come in once or twice a week to clean
up this m---do a little housework?"
"I don't like strangers
poking around in my personal stuff. -You don't happen to know the second
verse of America the Beautiful, do you?"
"Not offhand. What's
all this about patriotic anthems? You never used to take an interest in
such things. Holly thought you were kidding her."
"I've been singing
my way around the pool; makes laps less boring. America the Beautiful
has lovely words but it is too short for a full lap, so I'd like to--"
"Laps? Mom, are
you trying to work up to a heart attack? Isn't it enough to go through
that little aerobic routine Holly taught you last summer? The neighbors
must thing you're off your trolley, yodeling away, paddling around like--like--"
"Esther Williams,
maybe? For you information, my one visible neighbor is a young man in
a wheelchair. He watches me every day. I think he enjoys the concert,
and I don't mind an audience. I figure he'd call nine-one-one if I started
going under. And I am not moving out of this house, sweetie, so don't
start on that. I have good memories here; your dad and I always-never
mind." She pats his cheek, gazing up at him with a tolerant smile. "Anything
else on your complaint list? If not, I'd like to take my nap. Don't forget
to set the alarm when you leave. Seven six seven."
George has been
gone for only a few minutes when the stillness of the summer afternoon
is deliciously broken by the mellow notes of a woodwind instrument. Weaving
through leaves and branches, the stream of sound is muted into something
like whispered words. …when the deep purple falls …over sleepy garden
wall……
Mrs. Taylor, carrying
the yellow towel into the laundry room, suddenly stands still, listening.
She drops the towel; sways to a slow-dance rhythm, lifting her arm as
if to embrace a partner. "Through the mist… of a memory… you wander
back to me," she sings, moving with the liquid notes that drift through
her back door. Unexpectedly, her eyes fill with tears.
