1. Matt ruminates on his relationship with Annie and his beliefs about the paternity of Ruthie and the twins.
"Mama's boy." It's such an innocuous seeming phrase; it conjures up images of the 40 year-old man who still lives at home, or the senior in high school whose mother picks out his outfit everyday. I've been called a 'mama's boy' before. If only they knew how right they were. My mom buys me pants, I lived at home until I was 22, and I love my mother, but it's so much more than that.
I remember a time in junior high when mom and dad used to fight a lot. I was probably 11 or so. I wasn't all that close with dad, never really have been, but around this time I was really close with mom. She would help me with my homework, we'd do the grocery shopping together, she'd make me special breakfasts on Saturday mornings – typical mama's boy sort of things. One night when I was sleeping she came into my room. Memory is a funny thing; while most of that night is a blur, I remember so vividly the strangest details: the thin strip of light coming under the door from the hall, the squeak of mattress springs shifting under added weight, the smell of sweet, floral shampoo, the soft scratch of flannel pyjama bottoms being pulled down shaking legs. I remember those things.
It happened again after that. It may have gone on for weeks, months, a year, I really don't know. All I knew was that mom loved me, that I was her good boy. She told me that every time. It stopped abruptly, I think right around the time that Ruthie arrived. Ruthie with her dark skin and darker hair – hair like mine. I've wondered about that often. I don't really recall mom being pregnant, but there's a lot from that time that I don't really recall. The twins I know for sure; mom and dad weren't sleeping together when those two happened, (The walls are mighty thin in our house and you can find out a lot without trying. Even more if you do try.) but she did pay me one last visit before I moved out. It felt different, being old enough to know it was wrong changed a lot I suppose. One thing was the same, though. The soft, soothing litany spilling forth from her lips hadn't changed at all: Matt, my darling, my sweetie, my precious – my good boy.