The oversized kitchen glove was slightly torn on the bottom. She had to maneuver around the stringy gap as she firmly grasped a tray of piping hot cookies. Bringing it closer to her face, she inhaled deeply, savoring the sugary, warm aroma of the product of her craftsmanship. The last batch of chocolate-chip cookies was up. Just in time, too. Her son had already gobbled up all the other cookies. She balanced the tray, walking out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
Her son was sitting at the table, a half-eaten chocolaty snack hanging in his hand. He was babbling about work as usually, small crumbs flying out of his mouth. He only stopped talking when he needed to take another bit.
"So then-," he swallowed as he saw his mother walking into the room; "So then I take this wrench, right? And, uh, there's this guy I toldja 'bout, the German guy? Yeah. So anyway, he says that I shouldn't take the guy's wrench, he's fond of it or somethin'! And I say that he ain't the boss of me. So, uhm…"
He stopped for a moment, his eyes opened wide and ogling the steaming cookies placed in front of him. His mother sat across him, fixing the strands of her jet-black hair back into her voluminous bob and dusting off the flour off her floral-printed apron, covering her pale-blue dress almost entirely. She almost regretted wearing it today. Nice outfits and hot batter do not mix. Her son reached for one of the cookies.
"So," he continued; "I twist the thing in the air, just to show the guy how it ain't fair of him to keep his stuff away from me, right? And then BAM!"
He twitched his hand forward, almost dropping the cookie. Ms. Morrison narrowed her eyes. If he dropped it, he would be the one cleaning the crumbs, she decided.
"Long story short," he spoke with a full mouth; "the thing fell on my foot, three broken toes, I will neva' hear the end of it from that guy. Seriously. I mean, it's been four months, let it go already, jeez!" He said through a smile. His mother looked at him with wistful eyes, masked by the soft, mothering expression she set as her visage. She released a chuckle, her voice weak as her body slowly began to succumb to fatigue.
"You always were a clumsy child…" she noted.
"Was not!" He said defensively before his face was overtaken by a pained appearance. He hissed, moving back his body and darting his hand back to his chest. The palm was becoming red and sore, searing pain rushed through his nerves. He furrowed his eyebrows at the black cookie tray, as if it were its fault for being hot.
"Ow," he said, this time in a softer tone, blowing on his hand. At that moment, his mother regained some of her energy; just enough to run into the kitchen, grab a small, polka-dotted kitchen cloth and douse it with some icy-cold tap water. A long string of criticisms flew over her mouth.
"For God's sake, Bill! You're twenty-two years old, do I still hafta tell you that the tray is hot? Figure it out yourself, it's been in the oven for God's sake…"
She huffed when she pressed the rag on her youngest son's palm, her icy-blue eyes narrowed at the sensitive skin. At that point, the boy was considering keeping his hands bandaged even outside of battle, even at his own home.
"Well," his mother said, inspecting the area briefly before she returned to her seat across him; "It doesn't look too bad. I don't think it'll blister. Just be careful next time."
"Got it," he responded.
"But just to make sure, rub some of that balm on it. You know the kind, the new one I bought… Marigold ointment?"
"I thought we used aloe vera for this…" he said, putting the cloth on the side.
"No, I only have a smidge of it left, don't wanna waste it," she concluded, sitting back with a grunt. Her son lifted his eyebrow.
"Gee, thanks, Ma." The amount of sarcasm in that one statement was astounding. Realizing that the redness was gradually leaving the pale surface of his skin, he reached for another cookie, lifting up his hand as soon as he grabbed one, not wanting to risk getting singed another time. He already had experience with being singed, from sitting on the hot stove when he was nine to getting set on fire on a bi-daily basis. Though getting burnt by a cookie tray was not as painful, it wasn't at all comfortable, either. His mother watched his cautious movements, smiling to herself.
He ate the snack in exactly five bites. Or would have, provided that he hadn't stopped mid-way to look at his mother, who seemed to be silently judging every bite he took. Now, this young man did not mind being looked at while he ate. He was uncomfortable when he was looked at with such interest.
He chewed the crispy goodness slowly, resisting the urge to stuff the whole damn thing into his mouth. He maintained eye contact with his mother, neither one of them blinked. The young man because of his instinct that something bad would happen if he did, the mother because she was content with watching her son.
"It's amazing how much you can eat," she noticed.
"I'm building' up my strength, Ma. I'm an athlete!"
Through his full mouth, the word sounded like "aphleet".
"Please don't talk with your mouth full," she said sternly. "And come on, tell me about your life. I haven't seen you in ages!"
The boy gulped the foodstuff down, smiling at her sheepishly. His next words came out in a nervous chuckle. "It's, uh… it's been a month, Ma. Nothing much has changed."
"What?" She ticked her eyebrow up in surprise. "You didn't do anythin' in a week? No new promotions? No new acquaintances? No new lady friends?"
"Nuh-uh!" He said defensively. "There is this one broad-,"
"Woman, Bill."
"…woman. She's kinda like my boss."
"Bit of advice, hun," his mother said, leaning across the table and bringing herself just a little bit closer to him; "Don't get involved with your boss. It ain't gonna end well."
"Well she's like… ya see, my boss is her boss too, right? But uh… she does everything around there. Like, supply management, PR, marketing…" He ticked off the woman's obligations on his fingers. His mother nodded in understandable approval.
"She sounds like a hard workin' gal. What's she like?"
Her son stretched his mouth to the side, avoiding eye contact and making a noise that sounded like the wail of a dying cat.
"Eyyyyyyyyaaaaa… I don't think anything's gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Well, uh… I ain't exactly, uh… I mean, I'm pretty sure she's interested and stuff, but she ain't showin' it. Hell if she's playin' hard to get," he raised his hands up to demonstrate him giving up; "That's her problem, not mine. I ain't stickin' 'round for nobody. Plenty more fish in the sea, know what I mean?"
"She's not showing interest? How the hell can that be, I bet all the other girls are just linin' up to see ya!"
Her son shifted his gaze to the side, shrugging with a self-righteous grin cemented on his face.
"Yeah, well…"
"Don't act all modest. Sure, you got the Morrison last name, but you got the Montagino good looks!" She said, pointing to herself.
The man always understood where he got his cockiness. And, admittedly, most of his facial features which he considered to be perfect beyond recognition. He chuckled at her little remark, but stopped when she became silent, standing up and taking his wrist in her hand. He blinked once at her, slowly standing up. He stood next to his mother, looking at the top of her head.
"I think I know what the problem might be," she said, rubbing her chin as she inspected her son's posture. "You slouch."
"I do not!" He defended himself.
"Really? So why did you stand up straighter as soon as I told you?"
He made another one of those noises of his, a strange coughing sound coming from the back of his throat, as if it were trying to express the boy's right to do so. His mother gently pushed his shoulders back.
"Look, it's no big deal, you just need a few uhm… corrections!" She lifted her finger up in the air as she found the word. "Just a few things."
"Like what?" He asked, never liking these little corrections. They would usually lead them nowhere, and would make him lose a lot of his patience. Ms. Morrison crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
"Oh, nothing drastic. Just… shoulders back, neck straight, feet together, chin out, gut in, chest out, hands to the side, keep them from flailing around your body-what did I say about the feet?- eyes straight and front, knees straight and maintain eye-contact with the person you're talkin' to."
He looked like a statue, obeying his mother's commands one by one until he was in the perfect position and in perfect discomfort. His mother noticed his unease and placed her hand under his chin, a smug grin stretching over her face.
"Now breathe."
Instantly, the boy's body plummeted downwards until he looked like a human question mark. He was slumping over himself for a brief period of time, trying to breathe between short bursts of gasps and skeptical laughter.
"Come on, Ma, nobody stands like that!"
Without a word, she gestured to her perfect posture, which she most definitely didn't have a second ago. Still, something had to prove the boy wrong.
"Look, you get my point. I'm just saying that you need to hold yourself with pride. You're a charming, wonderful young man!"
She gently touched his face and ran her thumb over his cheek, a strange glisten appearing in her eye. She smiled, though weakly.
"There's nothing wrong with being a little bit proud of yourself. You don't always have to be so quiet."
"Yeah." He shrugged. "Thanks Ma."
A loud yawn escaped him, and he covered his mouth only a second too late, which gave his mother just enough time to reevaluate her parenting skills. She looked at the cookie crumbs scattered over the smooth surface of the table, the small tidbits running over the pages of an old Flash comic her son was reading. Ms. Morrison could probably pinpoint the very day he bought it. The fact that she knew so much about her son only made her smile with glee as she thought about the surprise that she had prepared for him.
"You're a little sleepy…" she noted, taking him by the forearm and leading him through the dining room. "Why don't you take a nap in your room? Just until dinner?"
"What, what I've had wasn't dinner?" He asked, his stomach already feeling like a balloon filled with sand. She gave him the usual statement about how she never let him eat sweets instead of a square meal when he was a child, and today would be no exception.
"And don't give me that 'no appetite' crap," she said, wagging her finger at him as they moved through the dark hallway. "That'll open up soon enough."
The two stopped in front of a medium-sized white door. The surface of it was covered with various shiny baseball stickers that had lost their original gleam with age. The man's name was spelled in broad, red letters. He almost seemed embarrassed by it. His mother was barely holding her excitement, wanting to rush him inside.
"I've been doing a little project in there since you left…" she said, curling close to his lanky arm. He scoffed.
"Really? I 'member takin' most of my stuff with me. Last time I saw this room it was basically a mattress and a couple of straps of tape. Whadja do, scrape the tape off the floor?"
Before he could say another word, she opened the door wide, and in came a dash of golden, gleaming sunlight. His jaw dropped and his body relaxed, losing all feeling in his limbs as he walked into his old room, unable to speak.
The smell that circulated around the room reminded him of the tang that would fill his nostrils whenever he opened a closet inside the storage room. It was the smell of age, but there was no dust, not even a speck of it. His eyes fell on his bed, covered with a linen sheet streaked with indigo lines, the rays of light crossing them diagonally in long, parallel lines that stretched as they reached the floor. Bill walked over the beige carpet, over the lines and stared at this room, reminding him a lot of his childhood abode. Large posters of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth were taped over the walls painted an odd yet soothing vanilla-yellow. But the man only gasped when he saw the biggest one, the poster set across his bed. It was of Cy Young, throwing a pitch. He grabbed his head, the look on his face depicting bewilderment and joy.
"Holy shi-!" He started before he sharply turned to the side, noticing something on his pillow. It was a brown stuffed animal, complete with the Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
"No." He slouched over it, his mouth stretching into a wide smile and more mindless chortles coming out of him. He ran his hand over the bear's soft felt, his attention detached as his eyes moved, basking in the golden glow of what seemed to be a step back into past.
There were a lot of comics filed neatly on his bookshelves, along with a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle and many trophies that he had won over the ages. His face morphed and twisted into the wide spheres and gilded stands as he moved, admiring their perfection, and his own reflection. He bit down his fist, remembering every detail about his childhood at once.
And of course mom just stood there, beaming.
"Holy crap!" He concluded, grabbing a tuft of his hair forcefully, trying hard to convince himself that this was not just a wonderful dream. "How long did this take ya?"
"Well… since you left this empty room's just been sittin' there… I figured, if you came over one day and didn't want to spend time in a nasty old hotel room…" she stretched out her arms nonchalantly.
"But… you must've worked on this like… forever. I mean, it's freakin' awesome!" His eyes switched from his blushing mother to the small wooden box, covered with a sheet of glass. He grinned at the familiar, grainy faces looking back at him.
"Aw, hell, my card collection! It's mint, just like I left it! Oh, wow… I-I-I even forgot I had this thing!"
"Well, near mint. You did take most of your stuff with you. Those I found in the basement. I just dusted them off and organized them the way you usually did; by batting record."
Believe it or not, the boy's bottom lip quivered as he heard his mother say those words. And as he looked at the surface of the cards, only making out small, unavoidable abrasions and no fingerprints, he was speechless for the first time in a long time.
"Ma…" he turned to her, unable to say another word.
And then, she sighed. Her left foot went over her right as she looked down, trying to gather much needed courage for her next proposal.
"Bill…" she said, the words slow and heavy, and suddenly the room seemed darker as the sun fell behind a dense cloud. The room turned gray, like a pond during rain.
"I want you back."
Her son turned to her, visibly confused.
"Back? Wha-whaddya mean?"
"I mean… I want you to come live here again. You-you already proved that you could make it on your own. You proved that you could do fine without me… and I think it's time you came back. I finally fixed up the room and everything. And by what I understand, your contract expires in a short while."
She looked at him, her eyes filled with glistening hope. Her boy said nothing. Even worse, he shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. Avoiding her quizzical gaze, he turned on his heel and sauntered towards the bed. The next words that came out of his mouth were spoken in a hollow, almost sardonic tone.
"Typical."
"Excuse me?"
Wringing his hands tautly, her son looked at her in disapproval.
"You… you always do this."
"Do what?"
"This!" He gestured to the room, that now looked more like a dark, flawlessly designed trap. "You manipulate me into getting what you want all the time! I shoulda known. The cookies, the doting, the room… you alphabetized the batters, for fuck's sake!"
Ms. Morrison convulsed at the vulgarity but decided against saying anything. Her son continued;
"Ya remember when I actually lived here? You were on my case the whole damn time! Every day, you told me to get a job, to move out, to make something of myself. And guess what, Ma!" He slammed his hand over his chest. "I did! I got a job, I moved out. You wished me good luck, I told you about my work, I visited you constantly."
He stressed the word, showing her his buck teeth. She did not speak, but her eyes turned watery and small red blotches appeared on her cheeks.
"And I finally get to be happy. I finally get to be my own man. And what do you do? You decide to drag me back down, just so you can get at me again! Well guess what Ma?! It ain't gonna work! I'm prolonging my contract, I'm making a life for myself, and I'm not gonna let you baby me anymore, Ma! I won't-!"
"I'm sorry."
The boy's eyes narrowed at his mother. He asked her what she meant, not expecting her to give in so soon. For a second, he looked at her in silence. The sound of her first sob made his heart shatter.
"I'm… I'm sorry if you think I'm trying to hold you down or something…" she said, wiping her nose with her index finger. She sniffed, two salty streams rolling over her hot cheeks. "I was just suggesting that you could come back after you're done. I see what a man you've become now… trust me, this was not some sort-a trap to keep you here!" She said, gesturing towards the walls and bookshelves. The boy followed her hand.
"But then, I… I saw you looking at those things… and I saw my baby again. And then it just came to me, that I miss you. I miss having you around here!" She sniffed, her lip trembling. She had to lower her head to her chest. "It's too soon. You left so suddenly, and I… I feel like I've lost my baby. I never even get to see you anymore. Your brothers never call, I don't see my friends that often, I… I'm lonely, Bill."
Her son gulped, half wanting to jump out of the window. It was a better option than sitting and watching her cry.
"Ma…"
"But I'm sorry!" She said, wiping her eyes and flicking away her tears. "I'm sorry I'm such a horrible, manipulative mother. You… you don't have to spend a second here, if you don't want to."
Just as she turned to walk away, her son called out to her. His voice was abrupt, almost panicking. He instructed her to sit beside him, on the springy bed. She looked at him over her shoulder and sat on the area he patted.
Her shoulders were dropped and her eyes set into the distance. It wasn't normal seeing her like this, Bill knew that. Gingerly, he grabbed the one-eyed bear by the name of Ace, tweaking his right ear. He spoke slowly, actually thinking about what he was saying.
"Look, Ma… you ain't a bad mom, ya know that? I'm just… I'm just tired, that's all. It's a shock, ya know. I mean… I'd love to stay in this place, but in two weeks… hell two days, we'd be all in each other's faces!"
His mother looked down, her icy-blue eyes giving no emotion. She didn't even look when her child lifted up the bear, covering his head as he spoke in a high-pitched tone.
"Awww, don't listen to Bill. He's a freakin' knucklehead," he said, rocking the bear from side to side. "He doesn't know what he's talking about! You're a great mom! He's sorry you're lonely! And he promises to visit within means of his stupid-ass employment. Please don't stay mad at him… pweety pwease? Pwety pwease, pweety wady?"
She tried not to say anything, but it was hard to keep a straight face with a teddy-bear patting her cheek while whining come oooooon repeatedly. She snorted, chuckling at the bear and her relieved son. She batted her matted eyelashes dry.
"Alright Bill. I know what you were trying to say. I need to let you make your own decisions. It's just… been so hard lately."
"I know, Ma. I know it has. But you can make it through this, you can make it through anything! You made it through our financial crisis, you made it through the divorce… for God's sake, you made it through me!"
She laughed humorlessly.
"Yeah, I guess… but you were a help. A big help. You used to cheer me up a lot. Remember those tap shoes your grandma gave ya?"
"Sure I do!" He said, putting his arm around her. "She wanted me to take lessons, but I just took the shoes and didn't go a step further than that. I'd just dance around for ya… 'member, I even slept in them in case you needed cheering up in the middle of the night."
His mother smiled. At that very moment the sun escaped the clouds and the room took its original glow. Her son looked into the distance.
"You know what, Ma? I'm sorry I was a jerk to ya. I get that you're lonely. But… wouldn't it be easier to get a cat instead of asking your sons to move back in?"
"A cat?" She asked, lifting up her eyebrow. "I'm not that far gone."
"Fair enough. Just so ya know, I'm always here for ya, Ma. Tap shoes and everything… just a few dozen states over. Speaking of shoes, I wonder where ya put those old things…"
"Oh, they're in the blue shoebox in the hall. Never took them out since you last left them."
Her son pondered something for a minute, which was the longest he had thought about anything, before he stood up and made his way towards the door.
When he was out, the woman took a deep breath, wiping her eyes one last time.
She looked around the room, the memorabilia placed on the shelves, the posters taped to the walls, his entire childhood in a couple of square feet. Her hands crossed on her knees, she watched the sun scatter its beams on the floor. She was at ease. Her son cared for her, no matter how hard he tried not to admit it.
And in just a couple of short moments, she would see exactly how much he cared for her.
The sound coming from the hall was muffled, but became louder and brought a smile on her pale face.
"Holy shit!
…
They still fit!"