Motherish

by Laura Rock

  “Keep going, Manny.” He lowered the mic. “Yeah, Hillmer, it’s a race. They’ll run, trip each other, pull hair and scratch, all live. It’s going to make great TV.”

  “What if they can’t run? What about the slower ones?”

  He turned up his palms, letting the mic dangle between two fingers.

  “Too bad for them? Is that it?” She saw by his irritated glance that he thought she was being shrill. She took a deep breath. “It doesn’t seem fair is all, changing the rules halfway through.”

  “Sue me. They’ll do what it takes to get on national television.”

  She refused to look at him. Her chin quivered.

  “Okay, Hillmer, last lesson from the grizzled veteran.” He gently touched her cheek. “Yes, I realize you’ll be gone next week—I get that, see? You think you have to tell me everything.” She ducked her head.

  “So I thought, what if something interesting happens before the show starts? Not a whole series’ worth, but an episode, maybe a couple weeks. It’s a meta thing, frame around the frame, get it? Take the raw footage of audition day, ramp up the drama, add obstacles and whoa! A show about creating a show. Everything happens on the street, and they don’t even know they’re on the show yet.”

  She sat very still.

  “Now you say, ‘Brilliant.’”

  Why offer ideas? She was getting a credit on this show, albeit a lowly intern credit, but had no idea what they were making.

  “Speak.”

  She summoned images of Trevor in a nursing home of the future, dribbling coffee on his bib, sending her derivative pitches for stupid shows.

  “I think it’s been done.”

  “Truce?” He patted her thigh. “Friends.”

  She tried for a feisty response, but bleakness filled her. They weren’t friends. She was a prop, easily replaced. After next week, she’d never touch him again. She couldn’t say when that had become a mainstay for her. She guessed it had happened through repetition, the daily person-to-person contact becoming part of the package.

  Onscreen, Manuel pulled a woman out of the crowd. She was tiny, wearing red sunglasses that gave her the aspect of an insect. Maroon curls escaped from a chiffon head-wrap. “Where’s the camera?” she said and upon hearing that raspy, elated voice, Elaine bolted to standing.

  “Jesus,” Trevor said.

  “So,” Manuel said, putting his arm around the woman, “what kind of a mother are you?”

  “Fuck!” Trevor brought the mic to his mouth and then lowered it.

  Rachel turned her head side to side, projecting her voice to the wings of an imaginary stage. “Trevor, are you listening? It’s Mommy.”

  Elaine thought her vertebrae might tumble like a child’s tower of blocks. She knelt on the tabletop.

  Trevor launched himself off the couch. “This isn’t happening.”

  Rachel’s onscreen face presented a female version of Trevor’s angularity. A softer, more appealing version. Elaine wished she could glide across the glass and stroke Rachel’s skin, so close and real, but not touchable.

  “First of all, I forgive you for not calling on Mother’s Day.” Rachel paused, courting the masses. “What’s Mother’s Day, after all? Just a day like any other day. I know, I know. You’re busy.” Laughter rose around her.

  Elaine studied the image of the person who went with the unignorable telephone voice. Girlish circles of blush couldn’t hide her pallor. A close-up of her Gucci clutch revealed the bag as a knock-off, her fingernails jammed with dirt.

  Trevor moved toward her. “You knew about this.”

  She half-shook her head, more a wish for denial than denial itself. He pulled her by the arm off the table. She dropped awkwardly onto carpeting as he stood over her.

  “You arranged it.”

  “You’re live.”

  Manuel looked confused; he held Rachel’s shoulder as if he thought his interview subject might flee.

  Trevor raised the mic to his lips. “Never mind. Finish up with this one as fast as you can—ditch her, hear me?”

  “Isn’t she your—”

  “I said move on. She’s nobody.”

  Rachel addressed Manuel. “Life!” She faced forward again. “Honey, I’m sorry to the moon. How much sorrier can I be?”

  “Gee, I think I’ve heard this,” Trevor said.

  “Yeah, there’s a time and place for our private info. But I have news for you: heart trouble. I take all these pills just to keep a steady beat.”

  “Since when does she have a heart?”

  Elaine felt Trevor’s weariness beneath his son schtick. He went to the window and reached out as if to move the blinds aside, and then reversed course, heading back to the couch, and the screen.

  When Manuel tried to leave, Rachel wrapped herself around him. She let herself be a dead weight as he walked.

  “Tentacle Mom,” Elaine said, still kneeling on the floor.

  “Yeah. Life-sucking, never-ending.” Trevor loosened his tie. “Mother of all leeches.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her?”

  “Now you’ve really lost your mind.”

  “She’s going to run to the finish line? What about her bad heart?”

  “Did I invite her? I won’t be manipulated.”

  Rachel continued talking over Manuel’s shoulder. “Hey, Trevor,” she yelled. Manuel stopped walking, and she slid off. “Maybe your goons—no offense, Manuel—don’t believe I’m your mother. Here’s a little story to prove it.”

  “Cut her off!” Trevor said. The crowd was rapt. Elaine crept to the couch and sat a body’s width from Trevor.

  Manuel took off his headset, pointing at Rachel.

  “When Trevor was born he had a tooth, a tiny pearl in his precious mouth. And on your right foot, Trevor, an extra toe—you had six! Two were fused together. Webbed like a duck. Right from the start, you were special.”

  Elaine couldn’t help glancing at Trevor’s hand-stitched brogues, just as he straightened his legs, thrusting them under the coffee table.

  “Did I blame you for being different? An innocent babe nursing at my breast? Such a strong sucker, that one. Never let go.”

  Trevor flinched.

  “Great footage,” Elaine said.

  “We’ll edit this out.”

  “Of course I didn’t blame him, who would? But!” Rachel raised a finger. “Let a mother screw up, say she’s not the model of perfection, and then shit flies. Am I right?” She waved her arms. “Lemme hear you.” Whoops came back, and stagey Mmm hmmms. “Show me a mother who makes mistakes and I’ll show you the naming, shaming, blame game. Everyone blames mothers. Don’t they?!” Cheers erupted. “The kid turns out bad, it’s the mother’s fault. He makes something of himself, becomes a big producer, say, with lots of money and everything money can buy …” She lowered her voice. “Well, then, he’s a self-made man. Did it all himself, in spite of his crazy mother.”

  Trevor looked bemused. “We might be able to use some of this.”

  “Trevor?” Rachel’s audience fell into a respectful silence. “Trevor!”

  She swayed, insubstantial beneath the chiffon crown. Manuel led her to the curb, where other women supported her on her way to the sidewalk. They fanned her as she pawed the air. “Do I get to be on the show?”

  Manuel stared at his headset as if seeing it for the first time. Finally, he put it on.

  Trevor spoke quietly. “Hey, thanks, pal. That was great. I owe you one.”

  Rachel’s wails faded as Manuel retreated. He wiped his temple. “Just tell me what’s next. Let’s get this over with.”

  “We have to help your mother,” Elaine said.

  “Next the turn, and then the message: the ladies have to beat each other to the studio.”

  The women surged around Manuel. �
�Okay, okay,” he said, circling. He began walking, and they fell in behind him.

  “Good,” Trevor said. “Almost there—turn right.”

  Manuel strutted, waving his followers behind him. He swivelled and marched backwards like a drum major, swinging the bullhorn in loops around his body. “Are you sure this is the place? It’s an alley.”

  “Just do it.”

  “Okay, chief. Here we go—turning.” Manuel spread his arms, making like an airplane. “Come on, ladies,” he yelled, then remembered the bullhorn and brought it to his lips. “This way to the audition.”

  “Where does the alley lead?” Elaine scratched red streaks into her wrists.

  Manuel found the bodybuilder and whispered into her ear. She nodded, pulling her daughter into a jog.

  The girl dragged her feet, screaming, “No, Mom. No more running.”

  “Do you want to be a fat nobody for the rest of your life? Come on.”

  Manuel whispered to another woman, who told another. A few started running, then more.

  Trevor rested his head on Elaine’s shoulder. “So why didn’t you invite your mother to audition, huh?”

  “My mother? We don’t have any issues.”

  “Live a few more years. You will.”

  The truth was she couldn’t reconstruct a precise motivation in this Rachel business. There was the tug she felt when Rachel pleaded, Give me a shot, hon, I just need a chance—yet the same tired line from a would-be starlet wouldn’t have moved her. There was the prospect of effecting change, as if she were a documentary filmmaker exposing a wound and letting the audience participate in its healing. Or maybe it was simpler, and closer to the heart: her last chance to do something Trevor would remember.

  She said, “I just thought it would be good dramatic TV—the mother–son reconciliation.” Elaine waited for him to explode.

  “B+,” he said. “I accept your apology.”

  “Are they going to a set? A studio, what?”

  “It’s a dead end.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Now, Manny, run as fast as you can; catch up to the front-runners. You can do it, big guy—they’re wearing heels. About a quarter mile, you’ll come to a yellow door on the left. Go through the door—just you—and you’re done.”

  Manuel planted his boots, hands on hips. “I have to run? Seriously? That wasn’t in the contract. And what about your mother? Don’t you want me to bring her with?”

  “New York fucking Marathon, you moron. Run!”

  Manuel glowered and pushed off, pumping his arms, leading the way.

  Elaine watched Trevor watching the women running and felt as cold as the November day she’d spent at the actual New York Marathon, cheering for a friend lost in the mass of runners. A slope in Central Park provided a decent view, but soon it made her nauseous to follow the conveyer belt spilling people downhill. The same now: too many to track.

  And these people weren’t marathoners. They ran without pacing themselves, sprinting for an unknown finish line. Some held hands, bags bouncing between them. Elbows and knees and spike heels became weapons. There was no longer friendly noise, just grunts and pounding feet.

  Elaine had never seen Trevor like this: he had a sweat going, a glow. He licked his lips; she pressed hers together. She hoped that Rachel was still on that curb, safely abandoned.

  The women began to yell, some encouraging, others angry. The alleyway narrowed, and the shouting became more urgent, beyond words. She remembered a nature film on the great migration of the Serengeti, and the thought of marauding wildebeests made her yelp hysterically.

  Trevor frowned, as good as a slap to her face.

  “You have to pull the plug,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “How?” he said, without interest. He sounded distracted, but only if you were giving him the benefit of the doubt. And why should she? Why was her default position that he was benevolent, despite any supporting evidence? Accusation rose within her.

  “Look how worked up they are. It’s Black Friday at Wal—”

  “Who knows why people do what they do? I’m not responsible for their choices. They want to be stars.”

  Some women cried out as they were pushed; others fell silently. The leaders reached the end of the alley, turned around, and met the force of the oncoming wave. There was no group identity anymore, just individuals scrambling, water molecules set to boiling.

  “My God,” she said. “What’s going to happen to that one with the baby?”

  She wanted to shake Trevor, make him listen, but she couldn’t stop watching the screen long enough. She tried to find people: the bodybuilder’s daughter, the dancer, the drinker. They seemed like missing friends. And Manuel, Rachel—nowhere.

  The women kept coming, but there was no space. They fell and were fallen upon. The camera panned debris on the pavement—spilled handbags; a tiara; a platform shoe resting against a ballet flat.

  Trevor’s face was lit from within or maybe from the TV. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and whispered, “I didn’t think this would—”

  “You didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Elaine prompted, reverting to the benevolence script. “That wasn’t the plan.” And immediately she interrogated herself: Was this gullibility? Self-protection because she had admired him and worked for his approval? She wanted to think of herself as generous, but willfully blind was a contender too.

  “No, but that,” he said, gesturing at the monitor as though acknowledging a performance worthy of applause.

  Motion slowly died. Bodies filled the screen: dazed, moaning, crying, but people couldn’t be linked with their sounds anymore. Elaine and Trevor watched from the protection of the couch’s big curve, their feet, knees, hips, and shoulders fused. She was chilled, shattered, but pressed against him as if she still had valuable ideas to contribute, as if he weren’t repulsive.

  Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that people could be physically close and psychologically alone. In her half-year with Trevor she’d concocted an intimate storyline for two creatives cut off from the world in their shuttered cave, but it could never happen that way. Here they were, practically a single panting organism, yet isolated from one another, alien and unknowable.

  Sirens shrieked and multiplied, drowning out other sounds. The assault cycled on and off, starting up again just when it seemed as though silence would hold.

  “Hillmer, get me Trish Coleman-Cohen on the phone.”

  “Okay,” she said but didn’t move. “Who’s she?”

  “My lawyer.”

  Mentally, she whipped across the room, the picture of auto-obedience, but in the physical realm, she couldn’t force herself to leave the deceptive warmth of his body.

  “And my sister.”

  A sister, of course. What more would be revealed? Were they done, already? Could she leave him now, have a life?

  “She needs to know about this,” Trevor said.

  They sat tight, thinking unshared thoughts. Elaine followed the images on the screen as visual filler flooding her senses, nothing more, and certainly not a storyline she had any professional or personal investment in. She was too numb to worry about the fate of anyone inside or outside their hushed sanctum. Instead, she rehearsed the ways an aspiring filmmaker might choose to represent her concept of close isolation/isolated closeness. Film is good, film is great, but it conveys only so much. She considered using a fish-eye to simulate claustrophobia, zooming in to capture pensive expressions, pulling back for perspective, trying a two-shot, even a cheesy voiceover, but no sequence or combination would capture the meanings available in the scene they were living. Nothing she could imagine would expose the separate narratives of characters like Trevor and his intern, at cross-purposes with each other and possibly with themselves, their dialogue and actions, feelings and intentions always out of syn
c.

  A Flock of Chickens

  1. Cooped Up

  Although there’s a door of normal height, Rae-Ann enters the coop through a small square door cut into the back wall. She doesn’t want to trigger the motion detector light, which her father installed so he could watch it flash on and off from the house and wait for predators lurking in the night, a situation that might require his shotgun. She enters the coop through the cavernous old shed where she once played hide-and-seek with her older sisters, diving behind dusty feed bins and garden equipment, trying not to give away her position with a giggle or a sneeze.

  This was their fun as young girls, out in the country with no other kids around. Not for them the summer camps and organized sports that train children to elbow their way through life. Six years after leaving home for university, Rae-Ann still feels like a shocky transplant, set in the cold soil of Toronto without a hardening-off period. Daily, she braves the jammed streetcar that takes her to work; the boardwalk where speeding cyclists and rollerbladers force walkers to jump to the side; the beggars and buskers whose question-mark faces line her route home; and a bewildering array of decrees governing the disposal of her garbage. But none of it seems real. Real is memory: barefoot running on grass, ducking into the culvert as her sisters pound on the metal with stones, making it ring and ring. And now she’s back, unexpectedly. How quickly she’s escaped the troubling city.

  From her old hiding place in the shed, Rae-Ann squeezes through the rough-framed opening and drags her body downward into the coop, scraping her sides. Her elbows take the brunt of her graceless landing on the plywood floor, which is covered with straw and droppings. She disturbs, is the disturbance raising fear. The shifting of creatures within stirs the air, an expectant fluttering. She senses cold eyes fixed on her, but nothing can be seen in the crowded darkness.

  Rae-Ann’s father pushes food and water through the little hatch-door in the winter, when snow blocks the outside access. Snow a natural insulator. He doesn’t shovel if he doesn’t have to. With a gloved hand he slides the feed tray and swings the water can expertly, tending his flock without wasting any time looking at them. What if one were to die, threatening the rest with disease? It never happens. Every spring they rush the open door, standing for a moment at the green threshold of life before hopping down to begin a fresh season of scratching.