WINTER ' FOURTEEN
to leave. I didn’t know where to fit in, and had no one to tell me.
I never told Sylvia this, because on some level I think she felt the same way. In those little moments,
especially after I’d been in trouble, playing the piano or doing homework, Sylvia would hover over me.
She spoke everything with her frantic glance, the way she leaned in, overwhelming me with the scent of
her Chanel No. 5. She spoke of her guilt, the guilt that I was not a normal child, or at least her version
of a normal child, the Salvador Dali-meets-Hemingway type. She wanted to be able to speak of me with
pride amongst the other mothers, in that little war mothers engaged in, exchanging facts about their
accomplished children, like cards at a Friday night game.
The one thing we had between us Elvis. He could transform Sylvia into a different being, lighthearted,
full of nervous energy. Some nights, listening to his records, which she bought religiously, she’d imitate
the way he swiveled, pursing her lips into a sneer, using a broom for a microphone.
We played the records according to mood. Hound Dog was our way of celebrating some small victory,
a good grade on a test, a week without Sylvia drinking, being able to pay rent with a little left over. Blue
Suede Shoes was reserved for Monday mornings, to prepare us for school and work. The song we played
the most frequently, however, had to be Heartbreak Hotel, which Sylvia thought dark and masterful. It
was written for every man and woman, unlike that second-rate garbage Sinatra or Perry Como produced.
“Down at the end of lonely street,” she said. “Everyone goddamn lives there. You can be in a crowd
and still be on goddamned lonely street.”
It’s fair to say we didn’t speak of the way our lives had played out, or even the way they might, especially
where my father was concerned. I think that perhaps Sylvia thought to leave things unsaid was the best.
It seemed right, and I couldn’t blame her. We’d go to movies, and some nights, she would make herself
a Tom Collins, which she’d never drink, and sit beside me while I drifted off to sleep. We’d talk about
the most trivial things. Republicans. The latest scandals in the neighborhood, things which I have long
forgotten, although I wish I hadn’t.
On better days, we took long drives through the back alleys, past the pool hall with the scent of rotting
trash, past frame-houses with porch swings and broken bicycles, old churches with stained-glass windows
and discordant organ music, all the way to the old bridge with its skeleton girders over the river, where
we could look out on the town at night, and make up story after story. I settled for the role of spy, which
is how I used to picture my father’s organizing duties. In every story, I’d climb from fire escapes, with a
momentary thrill between every space of my body, a moment all my own. It was absurd, but we needed
absurdity. We needed to laugh.
It was a Thursday night right before Christmas when old man trouble appeared. It had started to snow, and
different incarnations of Santa smiled in every store window. Sylvia and I were on the way home in her
1956 Chevy Bel-Air. We’d been discussing colleges, something we hadn’t discussed much, what with Sylvia
dead-set against my legal plans. She was ranting about the self-important pricks at Harvard, when she
turned to me, an odd little smile lining her face.
“Mattie, I feel like going to a Christmas party,” she said. “Who gives a care about routine? Let’s go
to a goddamned party.”
“It’s not like we have many friends.”
“It’s more fun to look around,” she said. “Just to take a detour here and there. I don’t feel much like
grading tonight.”
“Sounds good.” I rolled my eyes.
The Linnet's Wings