Habit

by Susan Morse

  As for me, I’ve really been in trouble, because I’ve had not just one huge boulder, but two. I’ve had the mother, and I’ve had the children—I’ve been running back and forth, trying to keep them all rolling at once. No wonder I’m such a wreck.

  They call us the Sandwich Generation: people with school-age children and aging parents, stuck in the middle, everyone depending on us. Seems normal, right? Families are families, what’s the big deal? Ever since cavemen there have been parents and grandparents and children. But what’s getting people’s attention these days is that my generation decided to wait a little to have our babies. So we’re older than we used to be with children still in the home. And, with advances in medicine, our parents are living longer than cavemen’s parents did.

  I know what a sandwich cavewoman like Mrs. Ugh, say, would do if she was busy with baby Wugh Ugh when her elderly, toothless father needed someone to mash up his mastodon burger for him (with the shortened life span, Grandpa Ugh would be elderly and toothless by maybe age thirty). Mrs. Ugh could simply shout across the campfire if she needed help with Grandpa Ugh. Then her sister, Mrs. Mugh, would hop to it right away. Mrs. Mugh could let her teenage son, Lugh Mugh, handle the firewood chopping for a few minutes, so she could lumber over and chew up Grandpa Ugh’s burger for him. (Oh, that lucky, carefree Mrs. Mugh—no worries about Lugh’s Latin grades for her!)

  And Mrs. Ugh’s husband wouldn’t have to travel all over the continent looking for mastodon meat, either. He’d just go out with his friends for the day every once in a while, and they’d all bring it back together, no problem. That way, Mrs. Ugh wouldn’t be thinking about how maybe it might not be such a good idea to have Grandpa Ugh stay in their cave with them. She wouldn’t be worried about who’d be around to help chew Grandpa Ugh’s burgers when Wugh and all the other little Ughs went clambering out of the cave to start their own families.

  In fact, Mrs. Ugh wouldn’t be feeling the urge to explore some new interests once the little Ughs were grown, and maybe even travel around keeping Mr. Ugh company on all his long-distance mastodon hunts, and looking out, say, for all those filthy foreign cave sluts that have been flinging themselves at him all these years.

  Mrs. Ugh’s marriage must have been a smashing success.

  Start saving now for your own CCRC like the Abbey. The numbers of Sandwich people are supposed to quadruple by the time our generation’s little Ughs are all grown up. Either that or you could join the clergy.

  Ma’s actually right; I am overprotective, I know it. Maybe I should just let her get a ride down from Carlisle if she wants more time with the priests so badly, but the thought of her falling again and being stuck up there is unacceptable. I won’t chance it.

  —Wretched girl, woe on you! What life remains for you? Who will now approach you? To whom will you seem beautiful? Whom will you now love? Whose will you be?

  —That’s not quite right, Sam. It’s whose will you be said to be.

  —God.

  —Sam. Start over.

  —Wretchedgirlwoeonyou. Whatliferemainsforyou. Whowillnowapproachyou. Towhomwillyouseembeauiful. Whomwillyounowlove. Whose. Will. You. Be. Said. To be.

  —Perfect.

  —Whom will you kiss? To whom will you bite the lips?

  —Good lord. Bite the lips?

  —Mama. Stop.

  —Tell me again, why are we doing this?

  —Because you are making me, Mama. Because you are obsessed and insane.

  —Hush. I know that, but why this stupid thing? Why not just memorize verbs?

  —Because. This is the only part of the exam I have any chance of getting right. If I can’t memorize this, I’ll flunk Latin.

  —Is he going to give you the Latin version of this bite the lips poem printed in the exam tomorrow?

  —Yes, but—

  —So you’re only supposed to translate it? Why don’t you just sit here with the Latin version and practice translating it?

  —It won’t work that way.

  —What do you mean? Why won’t translating it work?

  —I can’t.

  —Why not? This is stupid, Sam; it’s a Latin exam.

  —I don’t know any Latin.

  —Of course, you do. You’ve been studying it for four years.

  —I don’t.

  —You mean the only way for you to pass this Latin class is to ignore the Latin completely and simply cram a bunch of pointless English gibberish into your brain and vomit it out onto the page tomorrow?

  —Yeah, pretty much.

  —Man, Sam . . .

  Sam’s not a fool. He gets along great with the English department; I think they share his anarchic inclinations. I keep telling him he could be a lawyer if that garbage collector idea of his falls through. You’d think Latin would be a good idea for someone whose mother thinks he should go to law school. But if Sam doesn’t understand something, he doesn’t like to bother.

  Ben’s managing, but even he and the other boys can’t keep up with the smarty-pants girls in their class. He and Sam sit in the back, trying to crack each other up without getting caught. The year has been one long, miserable hate-fest with students acting out nonstop, and Mr. Goodfellow, the Latin teacher, at the end of his rope.

  Sam hates Latin. He has tried all year to get the hang of it. I stayed out of this as much as I could; a friend in the math department told David I’ve got a bit of a reputation. (Who me?) So when Sam told me he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to do translations, I offered outside tutoring and suggested he talk to his teacher. Sam did try, but he hasn’t had much success getting through to Mr. Goodfellow, and at this point he’s exasperated.

  And here we are on the night before the final. Sam’s average is D minus. This is the last year of the high school language requirement. After the exam tomorrow, Sam can forget all the Latin he knows (this should not take long). Mr. Goodfellow has sent a courtesy email warning about Sam’s shaky average. Okay: Sam has convinced me that everything hinges on his being able to perfectly spout this word-for-word English translation of Catullus, a first-century Roman poet, whining pathetically to his heartless ex-mistress Lesbia.

  Memorizing the English and not even looking at the Latin is obviously ridiculous. This can’t possibly be what Mr. Goodfellow has in mind, but it’s clearly too late now for Sam to learn any Latin. Ben’s not studying this way, but I’ve somehow ended up sitting here enabling Sam in a truly pointless exercise. How do I talk myself into things like this? What kind of parent would encourage such a blatant rejection of learning?

  I guess our predicament could be worse. What if I were helping Sam write the verses out on his wrist or something, letting him practice sneak peeks? At least, he won’t be breaking the honor code.

  I think I hate Latin, too. I’ve never studied it, but I definitely, definitely hate it.

  Mr. Goodfellow insists he doesn’t hate Sam, but I’m skeptical. Sam says he doesn’t hate Mr. Goodfellow, but I wouldn’t blame either of them for having their moments. I have moments like this where I’m not overly fond of Sam or Mr. Goodfellow. What’s the point of teaching if your students make you despair every day? It’s not like he gave birth to them or anything.

  Actually, I wouldn’t blame Mr. Goodfellow if he decided to hate me, too. Poor Mr. Goodfellow, he’s simply trying to manage like the rest of us. I could despair just thinking about it.

  I had to beg Sam to let me help. Usually, he refuses. He let me give him some tips for his Macbeth paper recently, because I got him to laugh by pointing out the running theme of Macbeth’s sexual complexity:

  —Listen, Sam, here’s Lady Macbeth: “When you durst do it, then you were a man, and to be more than what you were you would be so much more the man”—she’s saying he can’t get it up!

  —All right, all right. Okay, I get it.

  —And here’s Macbeth himself: “. . . and put a barren scepter in my gripe, thence to be wrenched by an unlineal hand, no son of mine succeeding”—t
hink about it, Sam. It’s masturbation!

  —Mama. I get it. Shut up.

  Maybe Sam’s letting me work with him tonight because he’s hoping for more entertainment.

  —What is this guy Catullus’ problem, Sam?

  —He’s a loser. He’s all hung up on Lesbia, and she’s DTF for the entire city of Rome.

  —DTF? What’s that?

  —Down to F—. You know, she’s a skank. The town whore.

  —That’s interesting. Lesbia’s not the first name you’d think of for a town whore. What does her name mean in English?

  —Mama. I told you. I don’t know. They were together basically one time and then she dumped him and he couldn’t get over her. And she was a whore anyway, sleeping with everyone she could get her hands on while he wrote all these stupid love poems about their tragically doomed romance. Catullus was a tool, but now everybody thinks he’s this genius poet. All the other people’s decent poems got blown up by volcanoes or burnt by barbarians, and we’re stuck memorizing Catullus.

  —Try the next one, Sam.

  —Unhappy Catullus may you cease being a fool.

  —To BE a fool. Does this have to be exactly perfect?

  —I think so. Unhappy Catullus may you cease being a fool.

  —No, Sam. Cease TO BE a fool. Unhappy Catullus may you cease to be a fool.

  —Dammit.

  When I got the email from Mr. Goodfellow, I took it as an opening. I called him to sympathize over how awful the class must have been for him this year. We tried to sort out what to do for Sam. It was a reasonable conversation. He suggested Sam take the exam later in the week, on makeup day, so he’d have a little extra time to study. But Sam wants to get the final over with on-schedule so he can then focus on chemistry. Sam is convinced his brain will be more receptive to this memorization now than it will be the day after chemistry. I’m not so sure.

  —I’m going to call him.

  —No, Mama, don’t. You said you’d stop calling teachers.

  —We have to call, Sam. Let’s just warn him that you’re studying really hard and you may not be ready in the morning, so you may want to take him up on the extension, but you don’t know yet, all right?

  So I leave Mr. Goodfellow a message.

  —There when those many playful things happened, which you were wanting and the girl was not wanting—

  —Hold it, Sam. Not not wanting.

  —What is it then?

  —That’s what it is, Sam: not not wanting.

  Mutual sigh.

  Ring. Ring.

  It’s Mr. Goodfellow. Turns out you need to give twenty-four hours’ notice if you want an extension for an exam.

  —Oh, Mr. Goodfellow . . . gosh.

  Mr. Goodfellow says he doesn’t have the authority to waive the twenty-four-hour rule for Sam, but the head of the upper school, Mr. Hollins, does. If Mr. Hollins says it’s okay, it will be okay with Mr. Goodfellow.

  —Do you think he’ll say it’s okay? Is that typical?

  Mr. Goodfellow doesn’t know. It’s nine-thirty at night. I’m sure the head of the upper school understands how much more important Sam’s Latin grade is than anything he himself might be doing, like sleeping. I get Hollins’s machine, of course. I leave a message.

  —Sam, you’ll have to keep cramming till we get him on the phone. Where were we?

  —Now nevertheless meanwhile these things which have been handed over . . .

  Sheesh.

  We never hear from Mr. Hollins, so I call his office at the crack of dawn on the morning of Ma’s furniture delivery and Sam’s exam. He says he’ll call Mr. Goodfellow and get right back to us with his answer.

  Time passes. Wait. Wait. Wait.

  I feel old this morning. There’s a huge, growing knot down around my coccyx that’s sort of throbbing. Not a good feeling on a moving day.

  Mr. Hollins never calls. Maybe this means the answer is no? It’s time for Sam to leave for the exam.

  —Sam, you’ll just have to find out when you get there.

  —This is stupid. I’m going to take the stupid thing. I’ll be fine.

  —No, you need more time. You have a D minus. I’ll be at Granny’s meeting the movers, so call Papa if they give you the extension and he’ll come pick you up. Good luck.

  —Please don’t call anyone else at school, Mama. Sometimes you’re completely delusional about reality. You’re just trying to fix your own delusion.

  —Sam. I do what I do. I can’t help it.

  I drive over to the Abbey and sit in Ma’s apartment waiting for the movers. Just as I see the truck pulling up outside:

  Ring. Ring.

  It’s my cell phone: Mr. Goodfellow with another courtesy call. There has been no word from Mr. Hollins either way. He’s waited as long as he can. It’s time to hand out the exams. I’m standing on Ma’s balcony flagging down the movers and pointing them toward the elevator.

  Beep. Beep.

  —Okay, that’s that then. Someone’s beeping in now—thanks, Mr. Goodfellow, for trying.

  Beep.

  —Hello?

  It’s David, to say that Mr. Hollins has just called the house and said it’s fine with him if Sam wants an extension.

  And rrrrip, just like that, right out from between the two hip pockets of my jeans busts my long hairy tail. How is it that I never noticed that before? And, my free hand, the one not holding the phone, is hanging down so low I can reach my ankles without even bending my knees. Was it always like this? Well, if that’s how things are, why bother to control this urge I’ve been feeling all morning?

  I grab the railing of the balcony and swing myself up the post on the side to hang from the awning pipe and from there I take a flying, jabbering leap—I’m running amok, zigzagging all over Mother Brigid’s spanking new studio, tearing out fistfuls of my own fur and scattering it around on her brand-new wall-to-wall carpet. Almost on all fours (one hand still clutching the phone), I streak through Ma’s kitchenette into the bathroom, and fling myself around in there using her handicap grab bars. I stamp around in a circle on the little bench in her shower.

  —WHY DIDN’T HE TELL MR. GOODFELLOW?!!!!!

  —Ouch. Too loud, Susan.

  —Oh my GOSH, David. Is he going to tell him? It’s too late!

  —Susan, calm down.

  —Okay, that’s it. I’m calling the headmaster. I can’t sit back and watch Sam flunk Latin on a technicality.

  I dial the main number at the school and ask the operator to put me through to Mr. Zane. While the phone is ringing, what seems like fifty moving men with about five hundred thousand boxes arrive at the door of Ma’s tiny studio. Peeping over the boxes is Olivia in her tennis clothes, big welcoming smile on her face, stopping by to see how things are going. I climb up on top of a big pile of boxes and vigorously pound my chest, wave at Olivia, scratch my armpits, and point at the phone clamped to my ear. She takes one look at me and ducks out of sight.

  —Hello?

  I roar out my story to Mr. Zane, who gets it right away. Mr. Zane is reliably calm, cool, collected, and decisive. The perfect guy to have to deal with nut-job parents like me. He says he’ll head over to Mr. Goodfellow’s classroom at the girls’ school and take care of everything.

  Okay, deep breath. Stuff the tail back in the pants.

  Why does this keep happening? I thought this happy ending we’re having meant I was saved from the fate of being a piece of salami terminally squished between two pieces of Wonder Bread. Maybe Sam’s right: Do I run around trying to fix my own delusions all the time? Some kind of need to be needed? You figure it out, and when you do, I don’t want to know. I’m busy.

  Wretched girl, woe on you!

  At dinner that night, Sam describes his morning:

  Sam was sitting at his desk in the Latin room taking his exam with all the other students. The grammar section was a wash, as expected. But the Catullus and Lesbia section—that he could do. He was rolling along writing out verbatim a
ll the gibberish about biting the lips etc., and the door to the classroom opened. Everyone in the room looked up. The headmaster of his school walked in, along with the headmistress of the girls’ school. They conferred quietly with Mr. Goodfellow, then all three approached Sam’s desk and ordered him sternly to step outside.

  Was Sam Morse in trouble? Everyone watched in fascination and horror as Sam, appalled, got up in the middle of his tenth-grade Latin exam and made the long walk out to the hall with the heads of the two schools.

  —How are you doing, Sam? asked Mr. Zane.

  —Fine, said Sam.

  —How’s the exam going?

  —Uh . . . fine.

  —We want you to know that you can take it on another day if you like.

  —Oh.

  —Would you like to go home and take it on another day?

  —Uh, no thanks. I’m, uh. I’m fine.

  Every once in a while, Colette and I speculate on how Ma’s death will affect us when the time comes. At the height of my exasperation, I was sure I’d feel nothing but relief when this job is over. Colette has always thought otherwise, and these days I’m beginning to grasp that she’s right. I don’t like to think about Ma’s death too much, but the image I have is from the Coyote/Road Runner cartoons—they’ve been on one of their classic chases along dusty desert trails, and the Road Runner veers off just before they get to a cliff. The Coyote doesn’t react fast enough, and he keeps running several yards off the edge of the precipice.

  When he loses momentum, there’s a pause, suspended midair, still in running position. He turns his head, looks blankly at the camera. He blinks once or twice. Then gravity takes over and he plummets (leaving his blinking eyes behind for a second or something), splats face down, limbs akimbo, stamping a permanent Coyote-shaped snow angel on the floor of the canyon thousands of feet below. Whatever the emotional equivalent is of his suspended blinking moment followed by that surprise free-fall, there’s no way around it: That’s what I’ll be going through when Ma meets her maker.