So tell me about it, she said. Sit down here, she patted the chair beside her, and tell me all about it. Maybe we should stay up late tonight.

There were things I could not say, things which were too intimate, details which were too explicit. She wanted to know if there was anything she could have done, if there was anything we could do now. I said no, it was always there and it would not go away. And when did it start, she asked.

I looked at her in the glass as I spoke, I told her what I could, and sometimes she asked a question. What I said became distant from us, as though I were reading from a book, or reciting a story I had been told. We were actors that night in the old hallway of the apartment, me talking and my mother listening to the lurid tales of a wayward son, my mother infinitely patient, butnot reacting, making clear that she wished to know everything before she could pass judgment.

*

End of Sample Content back to main page

[<   <   12.