The Lost Language of Cranes (36 page)

Then there was a small commotion at the door, and Rose walked in, carrying the groceries the delivery boy had left with the doorman.

"Hello, Mom," Philip said.

"Philip," she said. "This is a surprise." She kicked the door closed and, staggering under the weight of the groceries, moved toward the kitchen. "Let me help you with that," Philip said. He took a bag from her arms and followed her through.

"You're earlier than I expected."

"Well," Philip said, "I didn't have much to do today, and I thought I might as well come early."

"That's nice," Rose said. She was putting vegetables in the refrigerator.

"Can I help you put things away?"

"Sure."

Dutifully he began to unpack the groceries—canned tomatoes, pasta, ground beef and veal. Seeing a cereal box, he was tempted to root through with his fist for the dusty paper envelope that contained the prize. He still longed for prizes. But the cereal was Familia—healthy stuff, no toys. Gone were the days of Cap'n Crunch and Count Chocula.

"You're making spaghetti?"

"Owen's bringing home someone from work, a teacher he says needs a good home-cooked meal," Rose said. "And there's nothing more home-cooked in this house than spaghetti."

"True," Philip said. "I'm glad. I've missed your spaghetti."

She was silent for a moment, as if distracted. "Well, I'm certainly happy to make it," she said, getting down on her knees before the refrigerator to put away the meat.

"Mom," Philip said, "do you know this teacher Dad's bringing home?"

She shook her head. "I haven't met him, but your father's talked about him a lot. He's from the South—Georgia, I think. He coaches lacrosse. This is his first year."

"So Dad told me."

Rose stopped where she knelt. "He told you?"

"Yes. When we had dinner together earlier in the week."

"You had dinner together this week?”

"Yes," Philip said. "Didn't Dad mention it to you?"

"No. I guess he forgot. What night was it?"

"Tuesday."

From where she sat, hunched, she hoisted herself up and walked back to the kitchen counter. The grocery bags were nearly empty.

"You work fast," she said.

Philip shrugged. "I know where things go in this kitchen."

"Yes," Rose said, "but how do you know things haven't changed since you moved out? How do you know your father and I haven't completely reorganized the kitchen?"

"I don't," Philip said. "I just assumed—why are you asking me that?"

Rose smiled tensely. "Just teasing," she said. "Thanks for your help."

She began to arrange pots and pans and cutting boards for cooking, and Philip returned to the living room. Wilma Flintstone was giving a speech about how a woman's proper place was really in the home. He watched for a few seconds, then switched off the set. Back in the kitchen, his mother was chopping garlic with a small paring knife.

"It hurts me when you're so cold to me," he said.

Rose paused in the midst of chopping, then resumed. "Cold to you?" she repeated.

"I come home, I haven't seen you for a while, you treat me like you'd rather I just jump out the window," Philip said. "Come on, Mom. There's no point in kidding around, or pretending what's happening isn't happening."

She stopped chopping. She put down the knife, moved across the kitchen, leaned her head into her hand. "Is that how I make you feel?"

Philip didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry, Philip," she said. "I'm having a hard time right now. You can't expect me to be all sweetness and light and maternal warmth all the time. Sometimes your own life preoccupies you. Warmth can be more of an effort than you're capable of." She rubbed her fingers together, went to the sink and washed her hands. "You're a grown-up now," she said. "You can't expect me to treat you like a child all the time or to pretend I'm feeling good when I'm not."

Philip ran his hand through his hair. "Mom," he said, "it seems to me something isn't being said here. What isn't being said is that you're mad as hell at me since I came home and told you I was gay. You can't get over it and you're furious. And I think you should just say it outright instead of pretending—"

"Don't put words in my mouth, young man," Rose shot back.

"I'm not putting words in your mouth. I'm telling you what I've observed."

"Then don't just assume you're the center of everything," Rose said. "I have a lot of other things in my life besides you." She returned to the garlic, chopped at it as if it were something she wanted to kill.

Philip was quiet. "Look, Mom," he said, "all I know is, whatever's bothering you, I seem to be bearing the brunt of your rage. It's not just today. For weeks now I've called you, I've tried to talk to you. When I see you, you act like you'd rather be anywhere else than with me."

"If you'd stop to think about it," she said, "you'd realize I haven't done anything to you, Philip. It seems to me you're not complaining about what I've done, you're complaining about what I haven't done. It seems to me you're mad because I haven't been your textbook liberal mother, going off and joining some organization, or wanting to talk to you all the time about your sex life, or spending all my mental energy trying to understand you. I'm not warm to you, I'm not kind, you say—well, right now I'm not feeling very kind, I'm not feeling very warm. And I have enough problems in my own life that I'm just not prepared to put out all the energy it takes to ease your guilt."

Wearily she scooped the garlic into a frying pan.
"My
guilt?" Philip said.

"Yes," Rose said. "You call me up, and all you want to hear is, 'It's all right, it's all right, all is forgiven, I love you.' Well it's not that simple. It's never that simple."

Philip sat down at the table. "You don't have to be cruel," he said.

"If you don't like it, don't badger me."

She switched on a burner. The garlic let off a hiss, a sharp bloom of aroma as it started to fry.

"Mom, I'm sorry you're having problems," Philip said. "And you're right. It's selfish of me to assume I'm the cause of them. But—well, maybe if you told me what was going on, what was upsetting you so much—"

"You seem to believe," Rose said, "that talking about it necessarily makes something all better. You seem to believe that confessing and opening up is always the answer. But I'm not so sure." She returned to the counter, where some onions waited to be chopped.

"I was hoping I could help you," Philip said softly.

Rose laughed.

"Is it Dad?" he said.

Rose stopped chopping. She stood silently over the onions.

"Mom," Philip said. "If there are problems between you and Dad, maybe if you told me, I could—do something."

She put the knife down and looked him in the eye. "I told you," she said, "I don't want to talk about this right now. Would you please just leave it alone?" She turned, fetched a larger knife from a drawer, and went back to her chopping. The odor of the onions filled the small kitchen, bringing a welt of pain to his eyes. He did not say anything, did not move. Finally Rose sighed loudly and said, "Look, if you want to help me, why don't you go set the table. That would help me a lot, okay?"

Philip nodded. "Okay," he said. He collected plates, silverware, and napkins and headed back into the living room. From the kitchen he could hear nothing but the blunt sound of chopping, an occasional tiny explosion as things were thrown into the pan to fry. The dishes set out (he still could not remember which side the fork went on), he returned to the kitchen. Rose poured the canned tomatoes into the frying pan. The sauce calmed.

Thick red bubbles burst its surface as it simmered, and Rose went to the sink to wash some lettuce.

"Did Dad tell you why he was inviting this Winston Penn?" Philip asked.

Rose shrugged. "To be nice, I guess," she said. "To give him a home-cooked meal."

"More than that," Philip said. "He told me that he—he was thinking of trying to fix me up with him."

Rose dropped the lettuce in the sink. "What?" she said.

"Just what I said," Philip said. "He thinks that Winston Penn may be gay, and since he knew how unhappy I'd been since Eliot left, he thought it would be a nice thing to introduce us."

Rose stood over the sink, closed her eyes.

"Didn't he tell you?"

She scooped the lettuce out of the sink and threw it into the salad bowl. "No," she said. "He didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry, Mom," Philip said. "I just assumed—"

"I want no part in this," Rose said, and stopped where she stood. "I want no part in any of this."

"Mom," Philip said, "please—I'm sorry I said anything. I shouldn't have said anything."

Rose tore at the lettuce in the bowl. "Fine," she said. "Fine."

Suddenly, fiercely, she closed her eyes, as if against tears, which surprised Philip. Awkwardly he stayed put. He hadn't seen her cry for years, hardly knew what to do. "Mom, please," he said, "don't be so upset. It's not such a big deal. Please—"

Then it was over. "It's all right," she said, and her lips heaved once. "It's all right. I've just got to finish this meal. I've got to get it cooked." She blew her nose and returned to the salad.

"Mom," Philip said, "we'll call Dad. We'll tell him not to bring Winston Penn."

"Too late for that now," Rose said. "They're on their way." She tore a piece of paper towel off a roll, wiped at her eyes. "Anyway, it's all right. I'll be fine. Now please, Philip, what I really need is to be alone just a little bit. Why don't you go out into the living room, put on some music or something?"

He hesitated. "All right," he said. "If you're sure you're okay."

She nodded. He walked into the living room and got down on his knees before the stereo cabinet. All the records from his childhood that he was too embarrassed to admit owning were there—albums by the Carpenters and the Partridge Family he had bought when he was eight or nine. He looked one over nervously—the Partridge Family in their black outfits, on their bus, with their saintly, beautiful mother, Shirley Partridge—then opted for the
Chipmunks' Christmas Record.

"Philip," Rose called from the kitchen, "I really don't think that's appropriate!"

"All right!" he shouted. He took the record off. He was not used to Rose exhibiting strong emotion in his presence, had hardly ever in his life seen her move outside the middle ranges of ordinary worry and annoyance. Why did he put such value on revelation? she had asked. Why indeed?

There was the sound of keys in the door, a rustling of conversation. "—we can beat Dalton any day," Owen was saying, and blustered in, carrying with him a smell of outdoors—wet wool and exhaust.

"Hello, son," Owen said, and his smile was broad, too broad.

"Hi, Dad."

Behind him a tall young man in a trenchcoat grinned in greeting.

"Philip," Owen said, "this is Winston Penn. Winston, my son, Philip."

Winston Penn flashed at Philip a smile full of large white teeth. "Philip," he said, "good to meet you," and took his hand in a tight grip. His eyes were small and intensely blue.

"My father talks about you all the time, Winston," Philip said.

"I'm not sure I want to know what he says," Winston answered, laughing.

"Oh no," Owen said. "Only the highest praise for you, Winston. And you should hear what I say about the rest of the faculty! Ha!" He hit Philip on the shoulder, making him cough. His smile was terrible, undercut by the scent of liquor; he looked slightly unshaven; his tie was loosened, and he held his jacket over his shoulder. Winston laughed too—that same, unfamiliar locker room laughter, the laughter of men with men, slapping shoulders, validating affection with violence. Winston was perfectly shaved, not a nick on him. He wore a bow tie and a blue striped shirt just tight enough to suggest the tone and definition of his body, the build men in lower Manhattan gyms work years to attain, but in this case, a little slack, a little soft, making it clear it was naturally acquired in hard, hot adolescence, not purchased along with expensive weight-lifting equipment.

"Would you like something to drink?" Philip asked.

"Just a Coke would be good for me," Winston said. He sat down on the sofa. "I'll get it," Philip said before his father had a chance.

In the kitchen, his mother was violently shaking a vial of salad dressing.

"They're here," Philip said.

Rose smiled tensely. "Good, good," she said. He took a glass and a Coke from the refrigerator and followed her out into the living room.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Rose Benjamin."

Winston stood up to shake her hand.

"Rose," Owen said from where he sat, near Winston, on the sofa. "Rose—"

She looked away from him, wiped again at her eyes. "Onions," she said. "Just onions."

Owen was winning Winston. From Frank, his lover of one night, he had learned to affect the poses of macho camaraderie, and to his surprise had found that Winston, approached with such an attitude, responded with great enthusiasm. After the parents' day activities this afternoon, they had gone for a drink at a crowded Irish pub that Winston liked, "a real working-class place," he said, where the television blared sports shows, and everyone knew everyone, including the old Irish bartender, who waved a generous greeting to Winston and immediately handed him a beer. "Isn't this place awesome?" Winston had said. It was his favorite adjective of praise. He reveled in the pub, he told Owen, in the idea of pubs, in the idea of the intellectual as a true working man, the voice of the people. Tall steins of beer bubbled richly between them, and they talked about Bruce Springsteen, about the voice of the people. It was all very sexy to Owen. He kept imagining they might go work out on the lacrosse field and afterwards take a shower together.

Now they sat at the dinner table. Rose had made an unnatural amount of spaghetti, so much that it had to be served in the lobster pot, and all through the dinner the pot was passed back and forth between Philip and Winston, who took huge portions each time, as if he was afraid it would empty. "This is great spaghetti," Winston said the third time, and told a story about how, when challenged, he had once eaten three pizzas rolled up lengthwise at S.M.U. "That's good," Rose said. "A good appetite is something I like." She smiled and watched Winston eat. They all watched him eat.