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mysterious fusion of lotion, cream and paint, the ancient alchemy of
pulchritude. The new hairdo balanced precariously atop her head, a
plumage of swirls and frizzy ringlets, every strand tinted and teased.
Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .
My brother appeared shortly, two pals in tow. Burt was 16. The
tattoo of a cobra snaked up his bony arm and under a Harley-
Davidson T-shirt. The fuzz germinating on his chin had the lax bristle
of pubic hair.
– Home, Ma!
The walls trembled as the trio stampeded down the basement stairs.
– Where the heck have you been? my mother asked sleepily. The
pills the doctor said would help control her mood swings had kicked
in. So had the delayed reactions.
Burt emerged from the basement moments later, a bulky paper
bag tucked under an arm.
– Later, Ma!
– TV dinners are in the freezer, she said. Or you can warm up the
meat loaf.
Myfather had promised to be home by six; I heard him. Quarter past
seven finds my mother positioned at the living room window waiting
for the Plymouth to slide down Mons Drive, the slamming shut
of its rusty door, his workboots on the porch. She sucks on a Pilsner,
shredding its label with swipes of her sharp crimson nails.
– Better be home soon, she mutters, throttling the bottle’s neck.
Bloody well better.
By 9 p.m. a half-dozen empties collide at her feet. Images from the
black-and-white TV cavort across the walls. Whenever she darts to
the bathroom I hear the tinkling of pee, a rattling of pills.
I have a morning paper route and must retire early. From my bedroom
directly below I hear her heels pacing the floor; they sound like a
pair of spikes being driven through lumber. Then she moves to the telephone
where she begins ordering the Legion bartenders to page Dad.
– You think I don’t know he’s there? she accuses. Think I don’t
know what he’s up to?
The last sound I hear before drifting off is a bottle cap skimming
across the floor, a stone skipping the surface of a pond.
Hellenic Canadian Literature 