In the first grade, Wally had to make a Mother's Day card, with a list of things his mother was good at. It had looked something like this:
Meking Brwonies
Waring Pritty Close
Teling Me Storys
Dryving Fast
Beeing My Mama
She'd liked the card so much that she'd had it framed, red-pen spelling corrections and all. It was still in her bedroom. (He'd begged her to move it there from the living room once he'd hit twelve and it started embarrassing him.)
It didn't embarrass him anymore (well, not as much, anyhow) but he was still glad he didn't have to see it. Now.
Now that she was.
Well.
Now.
"Do me a favor," she said.
"I do you lots of favors," he said. "I got you soup, didn't I?" He stirred the bowl of tortilla chicken a few times before setting it on the coffee table in front of her and flopping onto the other half of the couch with his burrito.
She nudged him with her fuzzy-sock-clad toe. "You take care of me, which is only right because I'm your mama."
"Mmmhmmmm," he said, licking guacamole off his thumb.
"This is a favor to me, that I'm asking because Joe West is your father."
He lowered his burrito. "Mama. No."
"Hear me out."
"No, I'm not turning up on his doorstep, all 'wanna cigar?' He doesn't know I exist."
"Yes, he does."
"Since when?"
"Since today. We had a long talk."
"What'd my big sister think of that?"
"She told him herself. About you."
"Generous of her," he muttered, burying his face in chicken and rice and sour cream again.
"Don't be too hard on her. She's gutsy. Protective of her daddy. Tougher than I ever was. Almost as tough as you."
"I've been fine without them this long."
"There, that. That's the tough I'm talking about. You don't always need to be. They're your family. You're going to need them."
He almost said, "I only need you, Mama," but the words knotted up in his throat and choked themselves to silence.
"Please," she said. "Consider it my dying wish."
He scowled. "Yesterday, you said a peppermint latte was your dying wish."
She widened her eyes. "And it brought me back to life! Praise Jesus."
In spite of himself, he laughed. She could always make him laugh.
"Please," she said again.
He slid down in the couch, glaring at the tv.
"Baby."
"I'll meet them," he said, biting each word off like a tough bite of steak. "That's all."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"Tomorrow. I'll go over there tomorrow, okay. Tomorrow night."
She settled back into the cushions, a smile playing around her lips. But it was calm, contented, not smug. "All right," was all she said.
He told her not to let them know he was coming. He was pretty sure she saw through his flimsy excuses and knew it was to make it easier if he suddenly chickened out.
He almost did chicken out. He seriously did. Oh, Mama, sorry, something came up. But he found himself programming the address into his phone and following its instructions as he puttered through the nice neighborhood the next evening.
"You have arrived," his phone announced.
He had to drive a couple of houses down to find a parking space. Someone was having a Christmas party. Was it them?
He sat in the car until the heat dissipated, then got out, tugging his jacket around him. He'd forgotten his hat and his ears were cold. Was that enough of an excuse to turn around again? No. Of course not.
A blonde in a red sweater bounced up the steps, knocked, was let in. So. The party was there, then.
This was a bad time.
What was a good time for this, though?
He felt lurky, standing frozen on the sidewalk a house away. Somebody would call the police on him. Help, a young black man! Well, that might force the meeting, but it wasn't the way he wanted it.
He didn't want any of this.
He forced himself to move forward.
He stopped at the base of the steps. It was a nice house. His mama pictured him moving in here and being happy with a replacement family. One that supposedly knew about him and would tolerate him being there.
Teling Me Storys, he thought. Was it the same as all the little stories she'd told him all his life? Things like "I feel fine today," or "of course I still have a job, why would you ask that?" or "I haven't been drinking" or "I believe you that it's okay we can't afford school."
(To be fair, that had been a story they'd told each other.)
And now - Of course Joe West knows about you. Of course, Iris West is all right with you turning up on her sacred doorstep, the one you and I weren't supposed to ever darken just a month ago. Of course.
Was this another story?
Only one way to find out now.
He looked at the house and he hated it for not being a third-story walkup. He climbed the steps (carefully shoveled; was that Joe?) and resisted the temptation to pull down the wreath hanging on the door and Frisbee it out into the street.
He knocked.
The door opened.
He looked at Joe West's slack, shocked face and thought, Hello, I'm your son. But what came out was "I'm Francine's son."
He wasn't ready to be Joe West's son.
Not yet.
FINIS