I reached my mother's doorstep with an important message, written in advance and practiced in front of a mirror. She answered in a purple kimono, her lips and cheeks rouged. She stretched across the doorframe, steel-eyed and implacable.
“I balanced my checkbook,” I told her. “I wanted to tell you. I've been recording all my purchases in my register. I'm adding and subtracting.”
She arched her brow.
“But I suspect even this will not be enough for you. You will expect more, you will expect me to categorize these expenses, assign colors and make pie charts. You set unreachable expectations because you want me to fail you, because then you remain necessary. Well I'm here to tell you — you are not necessary. I love you, but you are not necessary.”
“Come in,” my mother said, extending the storm door. “Your sister will want to see you.”
“My sister?”
In the foyer, a tiny blond tornado whirled by.
“Say hello to your brother,” my mother said.
“Hello,” she said. Her skin was pale, her cheeks patched with red. She looked maybe eight years old.
“She must be a great deal taller than the last time you saw her?”
I said, “I do not have a sister.”
“Of course,” my mother said. “I'd forgotten. Your sister must not have been around much when you were growing up. The demands of one child are overwhelming enough, and you were an especially demanding child. Still, it's rather cruel to deny her existence, wouldn't you say?”
“I do not have a sister,” I repeated.
“I will make us some hot chocolate,” my mother said.
I sat on the couch and watched the small blond girl yank plush squirrels from a columnar tree trunk sewn from fabric scraps. The squirrels were stuffed with tiny horns that squeaked. These were my Woodsy family. The small blond girl was playing with my Woodsies.
She lined up the Woodsies in a row. She said, “they're going to the opera. They're going to see Das Rheingold.”
They're squirrels, I thought. They can't go to the opera. There's no opera in the forest.
“A new flavor,” my mother said, wielding a tray of steaming mugs. “Dulce de leche. White chocolate with caramel.”
“I have to poop,” said the small blond girl, and disappeared into the hallway.
I sipped.
“Did you take an eight-year-old girl to see Wagner?” I said.
The small blond girl came back and reached for a mug.
“Did you wash your hands?” said my mother, holding back the tray.
The small blond girl shook her head, shame-faced, and turned in the other direction.
“Make sure you count to fifty,” my mother called behind her.
“They say twenty seconds,” she said, addressing me. “But young children count quickly.”
Later, on my way out the door, my mother placed her hand on my upper back.
“I'm glad you're finally taking care of yourself, darling,” she said. “But I will always be necessary.”
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This story appears in Publishing Genius Press's web publication Everyday Genius:
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Mommy's Medusa portrait, etched in acid, and with a foundling. This is strong stuff, man, and sort of crazily comic too. Like it.
this is great.
"tiny blond tornado"
the Woodsy family, the opera, the conversation "I do not have a sister"/"you were an especially demanding child"
and "They say twenty seconds," she said, addressing me. "But young children count quickly."
Thanks James and Morgan!
...I just found a picture of the Woodsies online.
http://www.toyzdollz.com/images/woodse7.jpg
the tornado line--I immediately thought about neko case, "this Tornado Loves You" which is good.
this tornado does love you! great album.
I like this, very tactile. I really admire the squirrel sentence.
Neatly absurd and well wrapped in tragedy. I enjoyed the comedy, and the slightly over-the-top edge to the writing, a kind of hysteria beneath the surface. The last line is darkly double-edged.
ha, thank you for the link to the woodsies. the selfishness of the narrator (or that's how i see it), so well-done. and the beginning, with the account of the checkbook, man, that's a conversation out of my life. v good.
Thanks Brentley, Frank & Alan!
very nice, tim! wonderfully descriptive -- wagner, dulce de leche ice cream, the woodsies. i love how the mother sucks up all the air in the story, despite the narrator's having practiced for the occasion. i'm quite certain the little girl's gonna need a referral to a good therapist in a few years ...
You've packed so much into so little. Such great dialogue, too. I'm really jealous. Well done.
love this one, tim, and everyday genius is awesome. adam is doing big/great things. good on you for being part of it. plus annalemma. dude!
Thanks Christina and David!
This is delicious. I like the Woodsy animals, the new flavor of hot chocolate, the mother's arched brow.
That mother is some character. Nice going.
Thank you Claudia and Bob... and Lauren, I think I somehow forgot to thank you.
talk about creative.
b/w your story and Laura Ellen Scott's piece (as hyped on Html G)...Everyday Genius is blowing up.
thanks, david. I need to read that Laura Ellen Scott piece already. it sounds great. it's the same one that's dedicated to michelle, right?
you got it, man, one and the same. it's fantastic.
The surreal images weave themselves so intently here creating a hyperreality that really works. Found the piece through Claudia Smith. Really enjoyed reading it.
thanks for giving me an excuse to read this again.
Interesting! Wish it had been pushed a little further (I think this would have been a particularly interesting longer piece), but I love the character details that exist already. She's extremely well-rendered. I bet she really did take an eight year old to see Wagner, too.