Memories Of Another Day Part 3

"Exactly," she said, getting to her feet. "And I'm going to deal with you exactly as I did with him. I'm going to make you the biggest breakfast you ever ate."

"That's enough," I said. "I won't have to eat for a week now."

She smiled. "That was the idea." She put the empty plates in the sink and refilled the coffee cups. "Do you know where you're going?"

I shook my head. "Not really. South first, then maybe west. But it all depends which way the traffic is going."

"You wiU be careful?"

I nodded.

"There are all kinds of people on the road."

"I'll be okay."

"Will you write and let me know how you are?"

"Sure. But don't worry."

'I will/' she said. *If there's any trouble, you'll call me?"

^^CoUect."

''Collect." She smiled. 'That makes me feel better."

I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter to seven. "I'd better get going."

She looked up at me as I got up. "I'm too young. I've always been too young."

"What do you mean?"

"First I was too young to be a bride, then too young to be a mother. Now I'm too young to be a widow and alone."

"Everybody has to grow up sometime," I said. "Maybe this is your time."

"That's your father speaking. He had that same cold, clinical way of separating himself from his feelings." A strange look came over her face. "Are you really my son, Jonathan? Or are you just an extension of him that he implanted in me, as he said?"

"I'm me. I'm your son. And his. Nothing else."

"Do you love me?"

I was silent for a moment. Then I took her hand and kissed it. "Yes, Mother."

"Do you have enough money?"

I laughed. I had almost one hundred dollars. At ten dollars a week, I had no sweat. "Yes, Mother."

I slung the backpack over my shoulders and went down the driveway. When I hit the still-sleeping street, I looked back. Mother was standing in the doorway. She waved to me. I waved back and went down the street.

The morning already held the promise of the day's heat. The chippies were all over the lawn grabbing the early worms, and their chatter was mixed with the occasional trill of a robin. The air smelled green. U.S.

1 was a mile and a half away, just the other side of the bridge over Schuylkill Creek.

The Dairihome Milk truck turned the comer just as I did. Pete stopped the truck when he saw me. *'Jonathan!"

I turned and waited while he climbed down. He had a container of orange juice in one hand, a can of beer in the other. 'Traveler's choice," he said.

I took the beer. It was a good morning for it. Already the heat was reaching into me. He put the O.J. back into the truck and took another can of beer for himself. We pulled the tabs at the same time, and the sound of their popping was the only one on the street.

He took a deep draft, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry for your trouble," he said. Pete was Irish.

I nodded.

''Where you off to?"

"Don't exactly know. Just off."

He nodded. "Good thing to get away. Your mother all right?"

"Fine," I answered. "She's a tough lady."

He studied me for a moment while he thought that over. Pete had known us for a long time. Fifteen years. Finally he answered. "Yes."

I finished the beer and crumpled the can. He took it from my hand. "How long will you be gone?"

"Seven weeks."

"s.h.i.t!" He grinned. "That's eighty-four quarts. There goes my milk bonus."

I laughed. "Leave the two quarts anyway. My mother will never notice."

"She might not. But I'll bet that Mamie has a note in the bottle before I get there." He went back into the truck. He fished around for a moment, then came out with a six-pack. "Better take this with you. It's gonna be a hot day."

"Thanks."

He looked at me. '*We're gonna miss your father." He touched the union b.u.t.ton on his white coveralls. '*He made this mean a lot. I only hope your brother does half as well."

''He'll do better than that," I said.

Again he looked at me for a moment. "We'll see. But he's not your father.''

"Who is?"

"You are," he said.

I stared at him. "But I'm not old enough."

"Someday you will be," he said. "And we'll be waiting."

He put the truck into Drive, and I watched it go out of sight around the comer. Then I crossed the street.

*'Now do you believe me?**

**No, ThaVs what you wanted people to think. So you put the idea in their heads,**

''Why would I do a thing like that?**

''Because you*re a p.r.i.c.k. And because you were jealous ofD,J, You know he*II turn out better than you ever were,**

"Suddenly you love your brother.**

"No way. But I can see what he is. He cares,**

"I cared,**

"When? How many years ago? Before I was born, before you fell in love with power and money?**

"You still won*t allow yourself to understand,'*

"Iunderstand. Too well,**

"You only think you do. But you*II find out. In time.**

"Go away. You* re just as boring dead as alive,**

"Fm alive just as long as you and your children will be alive, Fm in your genes, your cells, your mind. Give yourself the time. You* II remember,**

"Remember what?**

"Me,**

"I don*t want to remember you.**

''You will. In a thousand different ways. You can't help it."

''But not just now, Father. Ifs vacation time.*'

She was sitting on the concrete abutment at the entrance to the bridge, a backpack beside her, her legs hanging over the side facing the river. She was staring down into the water, the gray pungent smoke curling like a cloud from her lips. "Good morning, Jonathan," she said, without turning around.

I stopped but did not answer.

*'I was waiting for you," she said, still without turning around. ''Don't be angry with me."

"Fm not angry," I said.

She swung her feet around to face me. She smiled. 'Then you'll take me with you?"

I knew that look in her eyes. "You're stoned."

"Just a little." She held the joint toward me. "Want a drag? This is real good s.h.i.t."

"No, thanks," I said. "U.S. Number One is no road to stand out in the middle of with your head in the clouds."

"You are angry with me." There was hurt in her voice.

"I said I wasn't."

"But you didn't mean it."

"I meant it."

"Then why can't I come with you?"

"Because I want to be alone. Don't you understand that?"

"I won't bother you. I'll keep out of your way."

"Go home," I said. "It won't work." I started up the steps to the bridge.

"Then why did you tell me to meet you here?" she called after me.

I turned halfway up the steps and looked down at her. "When did I do that?"

"Yesterday afternoon," she said, a strange intensity shining through clouds in her eyes. *'Just after you finished talking with your father.''

''My father's dead," I said.

"I know that."

'Then how could I have been talking with him? I think the s.h.i.t you're smoking has made you cuckoo."

"I saw you talking to him," she said stubbornly. "Then you got up and went to the screen door and turned to look at me. I heard you say, 'Meet me at the bridge in the morning.' I nodded to you and went inside."

I was silent.

"Your voice sounded exactly like your father's," she said.

I looked at her. The heat of the morning had already drawn fine beads of sweat across her face, making it shine in the bright sunlight. I could see the tracings of moisture gathering in the cleft of her blouse between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the damp shadows gathering under her arms. "Did I say anything else?"

"Yes. But it was fuzzy. I didn't quite get it. It was something like 'I'm not finished with you yet.' All I know is that it made me very homy. I went upstairs, took off all my clothes and lay on the bed naked and without doing anything to myself, just came and came until I was exhausted."

I held out my hand. "Give me the joint."

Anne placed it in my fingers. Her touch was hot and dry. I flipped it out into the river. "Got any more s.h.i.t?"

She dug into her pack and came out with the Bulldog pouch. I took it. "That's it?"

She nodded.