Beaming Sonny Home (4 page)

“I'm going to bed,” Mattie said. In the hallway, she was overcome with a feeling of claustrophobia, the house having turned small again, the house having shrunk down to its original shoe size, what with all her daughters back under its rafters.
She
had
so
many
daughters
she
didn't know what to do.
Mattie put a hand to her forehead and felt cool sweat there. She could hear the sounds of her daughters turning down blankets, fluffing pillows, undoing jars of cold cream, slippers scuffing across the hardwood floors. The tiny bathroom would look like a trash bin by morning.

“He just wanted some attention from his big sisters,” Mattie whispered. “Just like Cinderella did.” She went on down the hallway, past the tiny kitchen where the luminous numbers of the stove's timer were casting blue streaks upon the teakettle, past the bathroom with its hummingbird night-light, the glowing red throat lighting up the basin and tub, to her own bedroom. At the door she paused and looked back to the living room, where the big television crouched in the shadowy beam of the porch light. Mattie could see its black, open face, and she felt as though she were looking into the mouth of a deep, dangerous cave. She listened a bit, pointing her ear toward the set, as though Sonny might say something to her, as though Sonny might throw his voice again across all those wires running between Mattagash and Bangor.
I'm just looking for the Big Dipper, Mama, that's all I'm doing in this house trailer.
But all Mattie could hear were bedsprings squeaking beneath the weight of her big, grown daughters, their bleeps of conversation rising and falling like the lament of some faraway truck as it climbs the hill, and a full steady rain bearing down on the roof of her house.

“Good night, Sonny,” Mattie whispered down the hallway. Then she went into her own bedroom and closed the door.

Mattie woke to the sound of her phone ringing and discovered that it was Henry, wanting to know why Rita wasn't at home to fix him and the boys their breakfast. Mattie looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She had learned to sleep until eight once the kids were grown and out on their own. It had never mattered to Lester whether she rose at dawn to fix breakfast. For years, Lester's morning meal had been a cup of coffee and three aspirins, which he took whenever Mattie nudged him awake. You didn't need to be Julia Child to pull
that
off.

“Why can't you fix your own breakfast?” Mattie asked her son-in-law, remembering something Gracie had told her once, about men
pretending
they can't do certain things so that women will do them instead.

“Do I strike you as the Galloping Gourmet?” Henry asked. His voice was still gravelly with sleep. He had been laid off from the paper mill in St. Leonard the month before and had yet to find another job. “Besides, it ain't my fault Sonny's robbed a bank.”

“Sonny ain't robbed no bank,” said Mattie. “Is that what they're saying around Mattagash? Well, you can just tell the next big mouth who says that to go take a flying leap.” She was sitting up in bed now, having been reminded that Sonny was holed up inside a house trailer in Bangor, like a sardine in a tin can. Unless there had been some new developments during the night. That's the term Gracie had used. “We'll just have to wait until there's some
new
developments
,” Gracie had said, before going into her old bedroom to unroll the sofa bed. Mattie wondered if Wolf Blitzer had ever slept on a sofa bed, maybe when he was over there in the heart of Desert Storm.

“I should've known Sonny was too lazy to rob a bank,” Henry said. “And he never did learn how to use a gun.” Mattie heard the sharp metallic click of a cigarette lighter snapping down on itself, and then Henry inhaling. Smoking first thing in the morning. Even when Mattie did smoke, she never lit up her first until after a couple cups of coffee and
Good
Morning
America
. “I got two kids sitting out there at the kitchen table about to starve to death,” Henry added. “Would you please give my wife her car keys and send her home?”

“Can't them two big boys put bread into a toaster?” Mattie asked. “I know they take after
you
, Henry, but ain't they smart enough to open a can of cling peaches without spraining their wrists? Besides, them kids'll keel over from secondhand smoke before they starve to death. Your whole family is gonna have lungs that look like a pan of burnt biscuits if you people don't give up the cancer sticks.” She had had a dream of Sonny, she just remembered, as bits and pieces of film ran again in her mind. He had turned up on the front porch, a pretty girl Mattie had never seen before hanging on to one of his arms. “How'd you like to meet Princess Di?” he'd asked. Mattie smiled in memory. That's what Sonny had said the night he took Dr. Pingrey's daughter to the dance in Watertown, when all three of his sisters had sworn she'd never go out with him. So Sonny had brought her home, just to show her off and to cause his sisters' mouths to drop open.
Ms. Pac-Men
is what Sonny called them. “Because when they're gossiping, their mouths look just like that little yellow Pac monster,” he liked to tell Mattie, causing her to laugh. No, wait, Sonny had brought home
two
women in the dream, and neither of them was Dr. Pingrey's daughter. “Lookit what I found, Mama,” he'd said, his crooked smile taking up one side of his handsome face. Only now, with Henry waiting on the other end of the line, did Mattie realize that she'd dreamed of his two hostages.

“One of them girls has long brown hair,” Mattie whispered. She put a hand to her chest and felt her heart knocking away beneath her ribs. Her nightgown was like a soft, damp skin. She'd perspired heavily. So it hadn't been a good dream, after all. “Take them girls back to where you found them, son!” That's what Mattie had been shouting until Henry dialed her number and woke her up. Now she was almost thankful to her son-in-law. Of the three men who had wed her daughters, Henry had always been her favorite, it was true, and that was probably because he was the one who married Rita and took her out of the house before she drove Mattie crazy.

“Since Rita got that microwave,” Henry was saying, “all I hear around this house is
beep, beep, beep.
You'd swear this was a Volkswagen dealership.” He inhaled more smoke.

“Well, that's better than hearing nothing at all,” said Mattie. “Grow up, Henry. Life's short enough as it is. Learn to fry your own bacon, sweetie. Make yourself a pancake now and then. It'll swell you with pride.” She flopped the phone back onto its cradle and slid her legs over the side of her bed.
Sonny.
It was all back now, the reason that she should feel terrible and not good, not glad that the rain was over and sunshine was now blasting its way into her house, tearing up the curtains, splattering all the rugs. Not good that the smell of coffee and bacon would soon be filling the tiny kitchen, like sweet puffs of angel breath. Those smells would also rouse her daughters and they would rise like the zombies Mattie remembered from their high school days, rubbing their crusty eyes and reaching blindly for cups on the bottom shelf of the cupboard.
Sonny.
Had there been any new developments? Would they be
good
developments?

“Go home and fix your husband his breakfast, Rita,” Mattie said loudly. “He's talking about finding himself a new woman.” She banged on the door to Sonny's room. She had been tempted to tell her daughters that the old yellow bus was coming and they'd be late again for school. How many mornings had she played out that script in her life, waiting for that yellow squash of a bus to slide into the yard and toot its horn? More mornings than she cared to count.

“Tell him to put a couple slices of bread in the toaster, for crying out loud,” was Rita's sleepy answer. “And to microwave some rolled oats. They're in that little package all ready to go.” Mattie stared down at the doorknob, that silver fist that was supposed to be guarding Sonny's room, keeping out intruders. Why hadn't she just locked the damn door before the girls could hole up inside, the way Sonny had holed up in that trailer?

“Maybe Henry don't have the energy to work the microwave,” Mattie said through the door. “Maybe he needs to eat first.”

“Oh, Mama, listen at you,” said Rita's drowsy voice. “What does Henry need energy for? He ain't got nowhere to go. And he sure as hell ain't looking for another woman. Henry's had it with women. He's said so a million times.”

“Will you two shut up?” Mattie heard Marlene say. “Show a little respect for the dead.” Bedsprings squeaked loudly and Mattie knew that Marlene was turning over on her side, hoping for a bit more sleep. Mattie had seen that trick, too, many times in her career as their mother. Well, let them sleep. At least they wouldn't be under her feet while she had her morning coffee.

In the tiny kitchen Mattie put her plate on the table first, then placed her favorite coffee mug beside it.
World's Greatest Grandma
, the mug declared. Mattie doubted this sincerely, but the mug had a deep, round body, able to hold a cup and a half of coffee. Two mugfuls always got her through the
Today
show. She put her frying pan on the stove, turned the burner on high, then went to the refrigerator for her pound of bacon. Four strips, side by side, no more, no less, and then it was time for the strawberry jam. When the bacon was half-cooked, she plopped two slices of bread into her toaster and lowered them. She could turn on the radio and tune in to the country station in Watertown. She did that many mornings when she was waiting for the
Today
show to come on. But what if the radio had some new developments about Sonny? She had ignored the television on her way to the kitchen, but now she found herself wanting desperately to turn it on. What if the news about Sonny was awful? She'd wait for her daughters to get up. She'd let
them
carry the burden, since they could do it so lightly.

“Da da da,” Mattie hummed. “Da da da da dee dee dee.” There was no melody that she recognized to her humming. Sonny and Lester had been the only musical units in the family. But she liked the full sound of her voice in the small kitchen. “Da da da dee dee dee ka-boom ka-boom ka-boom.” And singing was one way to ward off bad luck. She flipped the bacon with her fork and watched as it bubbled and curled in the pan. When she heard the toast pop, she removed the bacon strip by strip, waiting for the grease to drain back into the pan as she laid each one out on her plate. Then she put one slice of toast on each side of the bacon, a little ritual of hers for years. “Call me superstitious,” Mattie liked to say to her friends, “but at least call me.” The truth was that her best friend, Ruthie Hart, had died of cancer just a year earlier and, therefore, never called anyone anymore. And her second best friend, Martha Monihan, had gone a little crazy when her husband's skidder rolled on him while he was cutting logs for the P. J. Irvine Company. Martha had taken to using a Ouija board to ask Thomas questions about car insurance and how to fix the leaky water pump, and what to tell that crazy young daughter of theirs who had come home Easter morning, three months after Thomas died, and announced that she was pregnant. The Ouija board was giving Martha all the answers she really wanted to hear, Mattie knew, but she didn't tell Martha this. It was only when Martha took to asking Lester Gifford questions that Mattie couldn't suffer her friend any longer. Trouble was, all the answers sounded just like things Lester would say. About Roberta's Christmas wedding, the Ouija board, speaking for Lester Gifford, had spelled out: LET HER FREEZE HER DAMN ASS OFF. Mattie could almost hear Lester's little intake of breath at the end of that sentence. “All right,” Mattie had then said to Martha. “I'll play this silly game with you.” Her fingers touching the pointer ever so lightly, she leaned in close, thought a bit, and then asked, WHY DID YOU CHEAT ON ME. That little pointer took off like a three-wheeler, spinning on its heels, darting from letter to letter, dragging Martha's and Mattie's fingers with it. That little pointer put the pedal to the metal, as they say. It was all Martha could do to keep track of the letters it was pointing out, but she did, writing them down with one hand. Martha wasn't one to miss a soap opera, much less a personal answer from beyond. NONE OF YOUR FUCKIN BUSINESS, said the Ouija board. That was enough for Mattie. She had stood up, pushed the little pointer off the board and onto the table, as though it were Lester's big fat tongue. “I listened to that enough in my marriage,” Mattie said to Martha. “I don't need to listen to it from the grave.” Martha had started to cry when she realized she'd spelled the word
fuckin
. “Never in my whole life have I used such foul language,” Martha insisted, which Mattie knew was a crock. Lester Gifford had slept with Martha Monihan off and on for over thirty years. Mattie had no doubt that he'd told Martha what his usual response was when his wife asked where he'd been, why he'd been there. She had reached for the paper Martha was using to write messages on, messages from the spirit world. Mattie had a little spiritual message herself that she wanted to share with the living. DON'T CALL ME AGAIN, MARTHA MONIHAN was what Mattie wrote and shoved under Martha's beady eyes. This was a far cry from the “Call me superstitious, but at least call me” slogan Mattie had carried around Mattagash for a good number of years. So be it. Changes came about from the weirdest of circumstances. Now she almost wished she had a Ouija board. She could place her fingers lightly as butterflies upon that little pointer. “Any new developments?” she could ask it. “Any word on that sweet-talking, heartbreaking, good-looking, crazy son of mine?”

Mattie didn't even have a newspaper to read. The
Bangor
Daily
News
wouldn't arrive until the mailman came, just after lunchtime. So she rinsed her breakfast dishes and then sat staring at the television set for a full minute until she finally got up and turned it on. She dreaded the very action of bringing what might be disastrous news into her living room, bad news about her child. But nothing was being talked about that had to do with her son. Willard Scott was as jolly and annoying as ever. He wished someone in Idaho a very happy hundredth birthday. Mattie wondered if Sonny would live to be a hundred years old. After all, he had just turned thirty-six.

It was then that she slid the
Easter
Rising
puzzle out from under the sofa and scanned the bluish pieces for that eyeball. Jesus looked as though he, too, had had a restless night. Some real bad dreams, about crosses, maybe, and friends who betray you. Mattie had managed to fit three or four blue pieces, what turned out to be parts of flower petals, and was back to looking for the missing eyeball when she heard one of her daughters lumbering down the hallway. The bathroom door slammed and Mattie could hear tap water running. She quickly slid
Easter
Rising
back under the sofa, making sure the cardboard sheet wasn't protruding. Her daughters, especially Rita, had eyes like houseflies.

With Jesus tucked safely away, Mattie went into her little kitchen. If she let the girls make their own breakfasts, there would be grease splatters all over her stove, dirty dishes in the wrong basin of the sink, utensils stuck in places where she'd never find them, pancake batter all over her pot holders. Although Mattie doubted that today's woman knew what
batter
was, not unless you could whip it up in a microwave. That was one gift she'd made the girls take back to Service Merchandise, the microwave they'd chipped in and bought her for Mother's Day. “The electric burners on my stove are still pretty remarkable to me,” Mattie had told them. “I don't have to cut and tote firewood to make them work. I don't have to tear the house down looking for a match. I ain't worried about a good strong wind coming along and putting them out. No, I'm still pretty amazed with my old stove, and if you don't mind, I'll keep it until the wonder of it wears off.” They hadn't liked that response one bit. Marlene had gone so far as to call her mother old-fashioned, which was fine with Mattie. When it came to her
new-fashioned
daughters, she had no qualms whatsoever at being on the opposite side of the fence from them. She had tried at one period in her life, when her girls were still in high school, to determine what had gone wrong in the mother-daughter plan. Most of the women she had known had at least
one
good daughter out of the litter, one girl she could shop peacefully with, confide in truthfully, sit down and watch an old black-and-white movie with. But not
her
girls. And there didn't seem to be anything Mattie could do to turn the spinning ball of their relationship around. There weren't enough dresses she could iron, enough petticoats she could wash and then spread out like big white flowers to dry, not enough doughnuts she could bake to get a little appreciation from her daughters. And then one morning, she got up and looked at the three of them and it seemed as if surely some other woman had borne them, had nursed them, had wiped the snot from their noses, had braided all that snarly hair. How many ponytails had Mattie created in all those years of their growing up? How many bottles of baby aspirins had she pried open in the dark of night, how many little tangerine pills had she tapped into the palm of her hand? How many times had she leaned over in the shadows, her chest hurting, her breasts aching physically from the pain of Lester not being there, and how many times had she whispered, “There now, sweetie, Mama's here”? For a long time she blamed herself for taking a wrong turn somewhere on the parental path. There was probably a day, back in the history of her relationship with Rita, that Rita had back-talked, and it was
that
day that Mattie probably should've said, “Listen here, little girl. This is your mother standing before you. Shuffle me out a little respect or spend the rest of the weekend in that hatbox of a bedroom with both your door and your mouth shut tight.” But she hadn't, and the snowball of misbehavior, that big cold avalanche of rudeness, had started its run downhill. Nowadays, it always surprised Mattie to find those three women in her house. Sometimes, in the middle of a holiday dinner, her mind wandering back to her own childhood of Thanksgivings and Santa Clauses, she would look up, startled to see three strangers breaking bread at her table. Only Sonny, only her boy, had been worth the pain of childbirth, worth the trouble of boyhood bandages and bloody noses and slingshots that sometimes broke a window. For every bandage there had been a bouquet of those blue flags from the swamp, for every broken window there had been a crayon picture, for every bloody nose, a soft hug about one of her legs while she stirred a pot on the stove. Even as a grown man, he still did this, still crept up behind her and encircled her with his strong arms, a son showing his mother some affection. She should've had all boys.