I'll Take You There: A Novel by Wally Lamb

Author:Wally Lamb [Wally Lamb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062656285
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2016-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

NINE

The camera follows me into the house. There’s our old sofa and the cabinet-model TV we used to have—the one that exploded and scorched the wall behind it. Speaking of that wall, my sisters’ and my framed high school graduation photos are missing, which makes sense; it’s 1965 so none of us has graduated yet. There’s Winky curled up on the couch, probably dreaming up new ways to torture my father. God, this is as weird as the last time: seeing our home the way it was back then. For some reason, it makes me feel . . . claustrophobic.

Ma’s in the kitchen—young again, and healthy. No strokes yet, no dementia. Her hair hasn’t even gone gray. Why did I think back then that she was old?

“How was school today, Felix?”

“Good.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? That must have been pretty boring. Would Sister agree with that summary of your day?”

I shrug. Simone enters the room. “Ma, can I talk to you about something?” she says. “It’s kind of important.”

I go over to the stove to see what’s cooking on the front burner. When I lift the pot lid, the camera goes in for a close-up of Ma’s meatballs simmering in sauce. After my parents died, the job of emptying out the house and getting it ready to sell fell to me. I brought most of the kitchen stuff over to Goodwill, but for sentimental reasons, I kept Ma’s saucepot—the one shown here. I make a decent ragú, but it doesn’t come close to Marie Funicello’s.

I turn to my ghostly companion. “Too bad this movie doesn’t have Smell-O-Vision,” I tell her. “The aroma would put your salivary glands into overdrive.”

“If I had them anymore,” Lois sighs. No salivary glands? That must mean no sex glands either. Mystery solved.

On the screen, I head over to the breadbox. “Hey, Ma, can I make myself a sandwich?”

“No. Those meatballs are for supper. And don’t interrupt.”

I put my hands together like I’m praying to her. “Please, Ma. I’m starving.”

She shakes her head. No means no. “You can rip off the heel of that loaf of Italian bread and dunk it in the sauce, but no meatballs.”

“Can I have one of those ice cream sandwiches in the freezer then?”

“They’re for dessert. Have an apple.”

“I don’t want an apple.”

“Then you must not be very hungry after all.”

“Felix, do you mind?” Simone says. “We’re trying to have a conversation.”

I grab an apple, polish it against my pant leg, take a bite, and shift into eavesdropping mode. This was mostly how I gathered information when I was a kid. It wasn’t like anyone was going to confide in me. So I listened, as unobtrusively as possible.

Simone tells Ma that her assistant manager at the grocery store where she’s a checkout girl has been bumping up against her accidentally-on-purpose and staring at her chest when he speaks to her. “Some of the things he says make me feel uncomfortable and . . . I don’t know. Dirty or something.”

I stop eating my apple.

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