In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson
she’d returned sweetly, getting into her car, driving off, and leaving Tim to another monotonous day.
“Coming, Mom!” he called. What the fuck was he doing? Tim wondered why he’d agreed to come back to Michigan almost a year ago to take care of his parents, but he knew it was guilt. Jenny had learned the skill well from Mom. They had such a sneaky way of making you feel guilty, saying something that on the surface seemed nice or maybe even inconsequential, but underneath . . . If a stranger were standing there listening to the conversation he’d never understand the dastardliness of what was going on. Jenny could tell him he was a great brother, but what she really meant was, you would be a great brother except for you left me here to take care of Mom and Dad while you licked your wounds in Indiana and now I don’t have a relationship or any friends or an education or a life. But that’s okay, bro. No problem, man.
“Where you going?” his dad called from the living room as Tim walked by. “Mom rang the bell, Dad.” Tim said.
“Huh?”
“The bell!” Tim said loudly. “Mom is ringing!” The bell went off again, insistently. Tim’s dad never heard the bell. He refused to wear his hearing aid. Tim wondered, not for the first time, if his dad wasn’t the smartest person in the whole damn household.
“Coming, Mom!” he called out loudly. She wouldn’t wear her hearing aid, either. Too much of a bother, she always said.
“Hey, Mom,” Tim said. His mother’s room was a pigsty, full of old magazines, knickknacks, books, junk mail and photographs. The volume on the television boomed in the small room. She sat up in her bed, wearing a ruffled bed jacket, her glasses perched on her nose, squinting at Judge Judy.
“That Judge Judy knows how to flip the flapjacks,” his mom hollered. “She doesn’t let those bums get away with anything.”
“What did you need, Mom?” Tim asked.
“What?”
Tim sighed and reached for the remote. He muted the set. “What do you need?” he asked again.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Oh.” Tim sighed. She’d forgotten again. “What are you doing out there?” she asked.
“Working on a computer,” Tim said.
“Whose computer?”
“Mom,” Tim took a breath to calm himself. “Can I get you something?”
“You need to get a job,” his mother said. Tim sat down on the chair beside her bed. It was full of papers, and they crunched under his ass.
“Don’t mess those up!” She said. “That’s my Publisher’s Clearing House! I already won! I just have to send in the papers!”
Tim picked up the stack of junk mail. He was going to have to start sorting this kind of thing out of the mail before bringing it in to her. “Mom, that’s all fake. We’ve talked about it before.”
“You’ve talked about it,” she said, her eyes going beady and mean. “You’ll see. All of you will.”
“Okay, Mom,” Tim shook his head. He was never going to get his repair work done on time, though he had to admit, his customers were really understanding. Most thought it was “sweet” that he cared for his parents. His mom snatched the remote and punched the mute button. The raspy voice of Judge Judy filled the room once again. “So, you don’t need anything?” Tim said loudly.
“You don’t need to yell at me.” She scrunched her eyes up at him. “Why are you wearing that shirt?”
Tim looked down at the T-shirt that covered his paunchy frame. A wild-haired Albert Einstein photo was emblazoned on the front.
“It’s not very professional.” She turned her attention back to the television.
Tim sighed. “Mom. I’m not yelling. You rang your bell. I . . .” Tim shook his head. “Look, Mom, sorry. Do you want a glass of milk and some graham crackers or something?”
Tim’s mother smiled sweetly at him. “That would be nice.” She reached out and patted him on the arm. “You’re such a good son, Tim, taking a break from your work to come in and check on me.”
“Thanks, Mom. Any time.”
He trudged down the hall to the kitchen. “Fuck you, Jenny,” he said aloud.
Costa left for Omer to pick up some more beer, and while he was gone, Marshall persuaded Hubcap to take a shower and change his clothes. Sitting in Hubcap’s living room, Marshall was privy to something most Omerites—except for Hubcap’s mom and perhaps his sisters—didn’t know. Not only was the outside of the house swathed in wheel covers; now Hubcap was working on the inside of the house.
There seemed to be a method to his madness, though. He was kind of an artist, really, when you took a good look at his handiwork. The living room, for example, was done in a bulls-eye pattern of alternating Honda Civic and Toyota Corolla wheel covers. Prior to hanging the hubcaps, the walls had been painted a deep blue. It was kind of cool, in a creepy, weird sort of way. Maybe Marshall would let Hubcap do a wall in his living room, now that he was the sole decorator. His soon-to-be-ex would love that, wouldn’t she? Fuck you, Violet, he thought to himself.
For all the weirdness with the hubcaps and the less-than-perfect personal hygiene, the inside of Hubcap’s house was clean and organized. The carpeting appeared to be recently vacuumed, clean dishes were stacked in the drainer in a sink, and the rooms were orderly, if a bit run down. It seemed the guy cared more about the house than he did about himself.
Brian emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He had on a pair of clean jeans, and his feet were bare and pink. He’d shaved, and his face looked youngish and bloated. It was apparent he’d been drinking too much. He was thin, except for a little soft potbelly that hung dejectedly over the waistband of his pants. He was rubbing his wet hair with a holey towel.
“Where’s your friend?” Brian asked.
“Went to pick up some more beer,” Marshall said, draining his bottle. “And he’s not exactly my friend.”
Marshall outlined what had happened over the past few days, about Violet leaving him, his thinking she had someone on the side—why else would she give him such a piss-poor excuse for getting a divorce? She was no good for him? She was making him unhappy? He’d had no idea he was that unhappy until she told him he was. About how he’d heard that she’d gone to Costa months back, supposedly looking for a job. Now, why would she do something like that? Work for her ex-husband? According to Costa, she wouldn’t lift a finger in the restaurant when they were married.
Marshall told Brian how he’d been sure she and Costa were seeing each other. That she had these therapy appointments and that she’d started coming home later and later. She said it was the group. The therapy. That she was supporting her group mates. That they’d meet for coffee. To Marshall she seemed secretive. It gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
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