by Mary Morris
After he finished singing, he stepped back into the crowd and disappeared. But Mrs. Hoffman continued to stare at the place where he’d been. “Your father,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, “he used to sing to me like that when he was that boy’s age.”
Rita motioned for the waiter to get them their check. Mrs. Hoffman continued to scan the restaurant, searching for the boy who’d sung “Loch Lomond.” When she was convinced that the boy had left, she shook her head as if waking up. Then she caught Rita by the hand. “Listen,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something. I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I’m going to tell you. I loved your father more than I’ve ever loved anything. More than I loved you and your brothers.”
Rita didn’t think she wanted to hear more. She was eager to leave. “You don’t have to tell me any of this, Mom.” She knew her mother was drunk, and she wanted to get out of the restaurant before they embarrassed themselves.
But her mother went on. “If there’s a kind of love that kills, I’ve had it. It eats away. It wants too much. That’s not good love.” Rita started to get up, but her mother pulled her down. “When he died, I buried myself. I dug a deep hole and I went in. And now this is what’s left and I’m going to make the most of it.” And she clasped her daughter by the wrist.
Rita paid the bill and helped her mother up. She lifted her mother and took her by the arm. Rita’s mother leaned on Rita as she led her slowly along the beach, back to their room. In their room Rita undressed her mother. She took off her blouse and her skirt. She helped her mother into a nightgown. Her mother pulled her knees to her chest, the way she always slept, and curled into a fetal position. Then Rita kissed her mother as Mrs. Hoffman drifted to sleep.
Rita lay in her bed by the window with the view of the sea and the full moon. Mrs. Hoffman began to snore. Often Rita had to poke or kick her mother in the middle of the night to keep her from snoring so loud. Rita had shared rooms with her mother before. When her mother was married to Ben, and Rita would come to visit, Ben always went to sleep on the sofa bed and Rita slept with her mother.
Rita never liked Ben. He was a cardboard box entrepreneur. When he was courting Rita’s mother, he came over one afternoon with a sample of each of his cardboard boxes. He made Rita, who was already in her late teens, crawl under one of the boxes and he’d crawl under another. He wanted to surprise Mrs. Hoffman when she came home from work. Rita never knew what her mother saw in anyone but her father.
When her father was dying, Rita’s mother often got in bed with her. Rita remembered how her mother would wrap her arms tightly around Rita’s shoulders and curl herself up against Rita’s back and how Rita would want to push her away, not feel her breasts pointed against her back, not smell her stale, cigarette breath. And sometimes as her father lay dying in the next room, Rita could hear him calling her mother, and her mother in her sleep would clasp Rita tighter, not wanting to hear or let go of Rita. Rita felt like the log a drowning person clings to.
Rita knew now that her mother had probably heard her father calling in the night and that her mother had clung to Rita while she pretended not to hear. Rita knew now that her mother had come into Rita’s bed not because she felt alone and wanted Rita’s company. She had come because she was weaning Rita’s father of this world.
In the morning they got on their mopeds and went to Ginger Bay. Rita asked her mother if she wanted to go snorkeling and her mother said no. She said, “I’ve lived all these years without putting my face in water except to wash it, so why should I put it in now.”
“I thought you’d try anything once, Mom.”
Her mother nodded. “Except get more wrinkles,” she said as she rubbed Coppertone #4 all over her face and put on a sun visor. Then Mrs. Hoffman stretched out on their blankets. “Besides, what’s to see at the bottom of the sea?” She laughed and pointed in the direction of some West Indian men on the beach. “I’ve got plenty to look at right here.”
Rita got into the water and put on her fins, her snorkel, her mask. She saw her mother, propped up on her elbows, scanning the beach. Rita swam. She followed the signs put up by the Department of the Interior. This is coral. This is fire coral; do not touch. This is healthy coral. This is unhealthy coral. Dying coral. Dead coral. This Is Destruction: Coral being destroyed by boring organisms.
As Rita swam, she thought about Russ and what it would be like when she talked to him. What she would say. She wondered if it would be possible to go back again, and she thought it probably would not. When Rita finished her swim, she walked, stumbling in her flippers, back to where her mother lay. She plopped down beside her. “You should go in. It’s beautiful.”
“I like the land,” her mother said.
“There’re these funny signs in the water,” Rita said, thinking about the little signs put there by the Department of the Interior. “One says, ‘Coral being destroyed by boring organisms.’”
Mrs. Hoffman laughed. “Just like my second marriage.” She flipped over. “Honey, put some cream on my back, will you?”
“You think you’ll ever marry again, Mom?” Rita asked, wiping her hands and face with the towel.
“Naw.” Her mother sighed. “Who’d have me now?”
Rita took the Coppertone and squirted it on her hand. She hesitated at her mother’s back. She didn’t want to feel the texture of sand and cream and her mother’s skin, but she took a deep breath and rubbed.
In the evening they went to a fish fry in the town, and later Mrs. Hoffman wanted to go dancing. She wanted Rita to take her to the reggae bar near the harbor, and Rita said, Why not? In the bar the moon hung over the yachts in the harbor, and white women drank rum. The band set up and slowly began to play their drums. Mrs. Hoffman kept the beat with her hand on the bar. Then she began to tap her feet, and her body started to sway.
Her mother looked old to Rita. Her blond hair was bleached and her wrinkles more pronounced because of the afternoon at Ginger Bay. Her nail polish was chipping. Mrs. Hoffman looked like a secretary who doesn’t bother with her appearance any longer.
Her mother wanted to dance. She turned to Rita and said, “I’m going to dance.” Rita told her mother she should do whatever made her happy.
Black men were clustered in the corners. Since the native women didn’t go to the reggae bars, several men danced by themselves. Rita’s mother swayed and twisted at the bar almost, but not quite, in time to the music. It wasn’t long before someone asked her to dance. Her mother winked at Rita, and Rita winked back. The man put his hand on Mrs. Hoffman’s hip, and Mrs. Hoffman started to move. The man put his hand more firmly on Mrs. Hoffman’s hip and began guiding her along the dance floor.
Rita watched her mother. Her mother didn’t have the beat yet, but she tossed her head back and laughed, and so did the West Indian man. Then another man cut in and the first man disappeared. The second man who danced with Rita’s mother was taller and more assured. The first man came to the bar and asked Rita to dance, but Rita said no.
Mrs. Hoffman motioned for Rita to join her, but Rita shook her head and smiled. The first man who danced with Rita’s mother was insistent, and finally Rita agreed to dance with him. He pulled Rita close and sang into her ear, “I am the conqueror. I am the master of my race.” He sang very loud. It was the song the band was singing, but the words had a harshness inside Rita’s ear.
Rita looked at her mother. She waved her hands and rocked. The woman who’d slept for three days was suddenly a bundle of energy. Rita saw her mother’s flesh shining through her slacks. She saw the line of her mother’s underpants, visible through Mrs. Hoffman’s white slacks. She watched the flab of her mother’s thighs, her breasts, as her mother danced. She watched the fat that hung from her arms as her mother moved. “Your sister is a good dancer,” said the man who danced with Rita.
Rita was shocked. “That’s my mother,” she said.
But the man opened his mouth wide and laughed, his white teeth shimmering. “That’s no mo
ther,” he replied.
Suddenly Mrs. Hoffman was surrounded by men who wanted to dance with her. Sweat poured from her brow; her polo shirt clung to her breasts. Her slacks were damp with wet spots that clung to her flesh. Her smile grew coy and girlish. Her laughter was carefree. What if she goes home with one of them, Rita thought.
The music picked up, and Rita wanted to leave, but she couldn’t. She tried to follow the man dancing with her, but her eyes were now suddenly fixed on her mother. She couldn’t stop staring. Rita watched her mother, sweating, hair stuck to her skull, nipples erect under her polo shirt, white slacks clinging to her thighs, dancing for her life.
The next morning Rita wouldn’t get out of bed. Her mother tried to wake her three or four times, but Rita just told her mother to leave her alone. Then Mrs. Hoffman went down to the beach bar without her. She ordered bacon and eggs, grits and coffee, juice, and she brought a tray back to Rita. “You had too much rum,” her mother said.
Rita wanted to be left alone, but her mother made her sit up and eat. “Darling,” Mrs. Hoffman said, running her hand over her daughter’s brow. Rita pulled away. “Don’t be angry about last night. I just wanted to dance.”
“Leave me alone. Why won’t you let me sleep?” Rita groaned. This vacation had been a terrible idea. She didn’t know what had made her think of it in the first place. But in a few days they’d be home, and she’d never again plan another trip like this.
“Come on,” her mother said, handing her two Bufferins. “Let’s get out. I want to go to Ginger Bay.”
They decided to take the long way, past the sugar cane plantation. They followed the coast road, overlooking the turquoise sea, little islands dotting it. Watermelon Island, Fat Virgin Island, Smuggler’s Island, Pirate’s Cove. They rode fast, Mrs. Hoffman ahead most of the time, and then they came to the manchineel trees again. And as she’d done the time before, Mrs. Hoffman stopped. She stared at the trees, their branches laden with death apples.
Then she reached her hand into the sky and plucked one from the tree. She plucked it and held it up as if she’d just caught it out of the sky. Then she pretended to take a bite. Rita waited for her mother’s hand to burn. Mrs. Hoffman held the death apple in her hand and pretended to take another bite. “Honey,” her mother said, “you’ve got no idea. I’ve had the time of my life.”
Rita kicked the kick stand on her bike and walked over to her mother. Age lines were deep on her face. The sun made her skin look dry, her hair frizzy. Mrs. Hoffman stared at her own reflection in Rita’s glasses. “You are my daughter,” Mrs. Hoffman said, offering her the apple. Rita took the apple from her mother’s hand and wrapped her arm around her mother. “You are my beautiful, beautiful daughter,” Mrs. Hoffman said, “and I never taught you how to live.”
When they reached Ginger Bay, Mrs. Hoffman’s hand was turning red and so was Rita’s, only less so. “I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “Columbus was right.” Rita looked at her mother’s hand and told her it was a dumb thing to do, but that she thought a little salt water would do them both good.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hoffman said, “I thought I’d try snorkeling today. Why don’t you show me what to do, dear?” So Rita put on her own gear and showed her mother how to put on her snorkel, her mask, her flippers. Rita showed her mother how to breathe through the tube. Rita watched as her mother’s eyes darted inside her mask, looking to Rita for guidance. The distortion of the mask hid the harshness of Rita’s mother’s face. The lines around the eyes softened. The face assumed the gentleness of the water around them. Her eyes blended in with the green sea. Years seemed to drift away or mean nothing.
Rita stuffed the snorkel into her mother’s mouth. “Now breathe, Mom. Like this. Through your mouth.” Rita breathed and her mother watched. Then her mother breathed and Rita watched. At first her breath sputtered forth. Rita laughed and so did her mother. Then her mother breathed a deeper breath.
They thrust their faces into the water, and Mrs. Hoffman looked to Rita for directions, her eyes wide, expectant. They pushed off into the warm, resilient water. Her mother followed in Rita’s wake. Rita felt her mother at the back of her flippers as she moved toward the reefs. Mrs. Hoffman had been a housewife all her life and had never seen the bottom of the sea.
They followed the trail the Department of the Interior had marked with little blue signs. They saw angelfish and black fish with iridescent blue spots and bright yellow tails. They swam along the reef where parrot fish and small barracuda fed.
When they completed the trail, her mother said she wanted to find another reef, but this time she wanted to go where there were no signs. Rita had found one across the bay while her mother slept, so she knew which way to go. They moved in unison. They moved like twins on their way, preparing to greet the light of the new world.
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AT MY GRANDMOTHER’S FUNERAL, an old boyfriend of mine showed up. He saw the obituary in the paper and was certain I’d be in town. The year before she died, my grandmother had me meet her in Miami, and we had a wonderful time in a rented car, cruising up and down the main drag. Whenever I met her in Miami, we always went to the pet shop, owned by a reclusive cousin who hated company, and my grandmother always made the cousin open all the cages so that she could play with the animals. Many years earlier she’d taken me to see the great ape Bushman in a Chicago zoo. Before I was born, Bushman, in a fit of loneliness, embraced his keeper, crushing him in his arms. No one ever entered his cage again; my grandmother said that was no way to live. Her funeral was held on an Indian summer afternoon, one of those hot, inexplicable days that sometimes come after the first frost, just before winter sets in. The sugar maples dropped leaves like gold nuggets on the family plot. The plot has room for all my great-aunts and uncles and for my parents but not for me. I am expected to marry and be buried somewhere else with my husband’s family.
I don’t remember a thing about the funeral, except the transplanted rabbi, with his Brooklynese, who kept saying “bee-u-tea-ful,” referring to my grandmother. She died in her nineties, the matriarch, and family squabbles never reached her ears; she died without knowing that my mother and one of her brothers hadn’t spoken, except in her presence, in ten years. When the first shovelfuls of dirt were dropped, I turned away. That was when I saw George. He was standing in the outer circle with friends, not family, and he was dressed in black, which I wasn’t, and his eyes seemed to have a real sadness about them. In the middle of that blazing Indian summer afternoon, he took my hand and helped me to the car. He is a pediatrician and good in such matters. George and I come from the same place, a suburb that borders on farmland on the northern shores of Lake Michigan. One night when we were still really children, he borrowed his father’s car and drove me down to the lake. We took off our shoes and socks and jumped the picket fence, which wasn’t very tall. We walked, holding hands, along the beach, and the lake lapped at our feet. This was before the fish started dying and the water was still clean, though the thaw had just come and it was ice cold.
We sat on a dune and started burying ourselves in the sand. I never saw such a black night. There wasn’t a star, no moon. I could hear the lake and knew it was there, but what I saw ahead of me seemed empty, and the waves as they broke seemed to come from nowhere. George tried to kiss me but I got up and ran. Racing back to the car, I tripped over two pairs of feet. I mumbled an apology, but the boy and girl who lay in the sand scrambled away like frightened crabs. George tackled me and I said I wanted to go to the car.
In the car I put my feet in his lap. We were slumped down with the radio blaring and George started counting my toes. That’s what he was doing when the police arrived, but they never believed us. We knew it was the police because they broke the unspoken code. The code is, when you drive down to the lake at night, you cut your lights if other cars are parked, but they kept their brights coming all the way. They shone searchlights in our faces and made George stand spread-eagled against the car while they searched
him, for what I’ll never know. “No-good kids,” one of them said. “I know troublemakers when I see them.”
It was fate, George said, that made him remember my grandmother’s unreal last name, with its j’s and z’s, like some winning Scrabble word. When I said I wouldn’t go out for dinner with him the next night, he said we could order in. For the time I was home, I persuaded my family to let me stay in my grandmother’s apartment, where she’d lived alone for the forty-odd years of her widowhood. I knew I was the one to put her things in order, because I’d traveled with her to Florida and was always with her when she visited the animals. I was also the last one to see her alive. I was bound to her, perhaps more than any other member of the clan, whose extended numbers reached into the hundreds. My grandmother was keeper of the family archive; she had the classificatory abilities of a Linnaeus and knew where everyone was and with whom. She came to America with a dozen brothers and sisters. There had been four sets of twins, and some of the twins never married but lived until they died with their twin. My grandmother’s twin died of pneumonia when she was three weeks old. She was the only child who died young on that side of the family, and I am named for her. I’ve always felt myself bound to my grandmother as twins are bound.
The next night George watched patiently as I started sorting my grandmother’s things. He’d come straight from the office and arrived in a bad mood. I told him to relax and he took off his jacket, tie, and cuff links. He hung up his jacket and tie and left the cuff links on the dresser. He took off his shoes and flopped on the bed, listening to the news. I laid out the boas, an old lace-up corset, high-button shoes. I started putting on her things. The lace-up corset, which George helped me tighten over my clothes, felt like a straitjacket. A call came in for Dr. Ringer. George spoke in a muffled voice, and I could tell from his eyes that he was making a terrible diagnosis. Then my parents called. “You shouldn’t stay there alone,” my mother said. I told her I wasn’t alone. “It’s not right. There are people who want to see you.” She held the receiver in the air so that I could hear the rumblings of relatives in the background. My father snatched the phone from her hands. “What are you doing there by yourself?” I told him I had company. “What kind of company?” he grumbled. It was my mother’s mother who had died, but my father was as irritable as he was when anything threatened to touch him personally. I couldn’t tell him I was with George; he still held it against George that he’d gotten me booked on a vagrancy charge fifteen years ago and that because of him I held a police record. I evoked instead old girlfriends, wives living now in the suburbs, who’d left husbands and children to share my grief.