The Mother Garden by Robin Romm

Author:Robin Romm
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2007-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

A few months ago, Mrs. Capp placed an ad in the local paper looking for “a quiet and respectful female roommate with a low tolerance for untidiness and a high regard for manners.” We didn’t hit it off so well the day I met with her about the room, but since she didn’t get many responses, I ended up moving in.

In the time that I’ve lived here, I’ve gone on one date, a blind date engineered by my sister, Kate. Phil was very nice, in a helpless kind of way. Kate knew him from college. He had thin blond hair and watery eyes that sat too far apart. After speaking each sentence, he’d pause, as if his words needed time to percolate through a fine sieve. But most of the things he said to me were easy to digest, like “I was born in Seattle.” This sort of phrase wouldn’t be in response to a question (such as “where were you born?”), but would serve as an awkward opener. I felt like I was supposed to do something special with Phil’s silences; they seemed coded and livelier than his speech. Though I was curious about his manner, I didn’t want to date him.

Mrs. Capp, however, has been out numerous times with numerous men, some of them quite young. One I recognized from my graduate program, a squinty young man, Kirk Williams. In class it seemed he was trying to see the projected lecture notes with his front teeth. I can’t figure out where she meets these men because she doesn’t go out much and when she does she wears unflattering pleated skirts and necklaces that hang down, accentuating a tired-looking bosom. I suspect she’s one of those librarian types that men fantasize about. They seem prim, but get them in a dark room and va-voom, the buttons are flying.

Mrs. Capp was married once to a man named Sal. She’s in her mid-forties now, a little overweight. Sal, I gather, was considerably older. He was a professor at the small school where she earned her master’s degree. Two years ago he died of a stroke. Mrs. Capp speaks highly of him. She sighs at good meals and comments on how he would have loved the lamb, the potatoes, the flavor of the dry wine.

I get the sense, though, that she didn’t really know him that well. The stories she tells don’t seem specific. When I tell her about Kevin, my ex-boyfriend, I never say, “Oh, Kevin loved comedy films.” Instead, I say that when he was a baby he was born with two thumbs on each hand. The doctors immediately cut off the extras and Kevin still felt sore that no one consulted him about it.

You might think that living with Mrs. Capp has damaged my ego. After all, I am young, slim, in my prime. I should be the one waltzing off in tight pants on Friday nights. The messages on the phone pad should be for me. But in truth, I didn’t move here to meet people.

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