Changing the subject. Didn't want to tell me what he ate. I shifted away. "Bit by bit she's getting well, so she tells my daddy, but she's not so hot. When he's not home sometimes she gets a cane and uses that, but she doesn't want Daddy to know."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. All she wants to do now is play with Cindy, or write. That's all she does, honest Injun! Writing books is just as exciting to her as dancin . . . sometimes she gets all hot and bothered lookin."
"Oh," she murmured weakly, "I was hoping she'd give it up."
So was I. But it didn't seem likely. "Jory's grandmother is comfit' soon, real soon. Think I might run away if she decides to stay in our house."
Again she said "oh" as if surprises were stealing her tongue. "It's all right, Granny," I said, "don't like her like I like you."
Went home around lunchtime, chuck full of ice cream and cake. (Really was beginning to hate sweets.) Momma was at the barre, doing exercises before the long mirror, and I had to be careful she didn't spot me when I ducked behind a chair. I guess we had the only family room in the world with a barre at one end and a ten foot long mirror in back of it.
"Bart, is that you hiding behind the chair?" "No, ma'am, it's Henry Lee Jones . . ."
"Really? I've been looking for Henry Lee for some time. I'm glad you've finally been found around the corner, around the bush . . . always looking for Henry Lee."
Made me giggle. It was the game we used to play when I was little, real little. "Momma, can you take me fishin today?"
"I'm sorry. I've got a full day planned. Perhaps tomorrow."
Tomorrow. It was always tomorrow.
In a dark corner I hid myself, crouched down so small I felt nobody could see me. Sometimes when I was following Momma in her chair, I tiptoed with my back hunched, making myself into the way John Amos said Malcolm looked when he was old and at his peak of power. I stared and stared at her, morning, afternoons, nights, trying always to decide if she was as bad as John Amos said she was.
"Bart." Jory could always find me no matter how I hid. "Whatyah doing now?" he asked. "We used to have fun together. You used to talk to me. Now you don't talk to anyone."
Did so. Talked to my grandmother, to John Amos. I smiled crookedly, sneering my lips in the way John Amos curled his lips as I turned to watch Momma, who was walking just as clumsy as me now.
Jory went away and left me to amuse myself, when I didn't know how to anymore except by playing Malcolm. Was Momma really so sinful? How could I talk to Jory like I used to, when he wouldn't believe Momma told lies about who was my real father? Jory still thought it was Dr. Paul, and it wasn't, wasn't.
Later on at dinner, while Momma and Daddy were exchanging glances, and saying silly things that made them laugh, and Jory too, I sat and glared at the yellow tablecloth. Why did Daddy want Momma to use a yellow tablecloth at least once a week? Why did he keep saying she had to learn to forgive and forget? Then Jory spoke up.
"Mom, Jory said, Melodie and I have a date tonight. I'm taking her to a movie and then to a supperclub that doesn't serve hard liquor. Will it be all right if I kiss her good night?"
"Such a momentous question," she said with a laugh, while I sat in my corner. "Yes, kiss her good night, and tell her how much you enjoyed the evening . . . and that's all."
"Yes, Mother," he said mockingly, grinning. "I know your lesson by heart. Melodie is a sweet, nice, innocent girl who would be insulted if I took advantage of her, so I'll insult her by not taking advantage."
She made a face at him--he just smiled back. "How's the writing going?" Jory sang out before he returned to his room to moon over the picture of Melodic that he kept on his nightstand.
Stupid question. Already she'd told him writing absorbed her every wakeful moment, and new ideas woke her up at night, and Daddy was complaining she kept him awake with her light on. As for me, I couldn't wait to read what was going to happen next. Sometimes I thought she was making it all up, and it hadn't happened to her, it hadn't. She was pretending, the way I did.
"Jory," she asked, "have you been bothering my script? I can't find some of my chapters."
"Gosh, Mom, you know I wouldn't read what you write without your permission--do I have your permission?"
She laughed. "Some day when you are a man, I'm going to insist you read my book, or books. It keeps growing and growing, so it may end up two books."
"Where are you getting your ideas?"
Stooping, she picked up an old spiral-bound book. "From this book, and from my memory." She quickly flipped through the pages. "See how large I wrote when I was twelve? As I grew older my writing became more precise and much smaller."
Suddenly Jory snatched the spiral-bound book from her hands, then ran to a window where he could read a few lines before she had it back in her hands. "You misspelled a few words, Mom," he teased.
I hated their relationship; they were more like friends than mother and son. Hated the way she kept scribbling on lined paper before she typed those words up. Hated all her junk, her pencils, pens, erasers, and the new books she'd bought for her new project. Didn't have a mother anymore; didn't have a father. Never had a real father. Had nobody, not even a pet.
Summer was getting old now, like me. My bones felt old and brittle, my brain wise and cynical. And I thought, as Malcolm wrote in his journal, that nothing was as good as it used to be, and no toy gave me the pleasure I thought it would before I had it. Even my grandmother's mansion didn't look as huge as it had.