only the lonely

deborah batterman

It is Saturday night. She broils a piece of salmon for dinner. Wild Alaskan. With a side of organic broccoli. And a little red wine to warm her heart. Why go out? she thinks. It’s a freezing winter night. What could I possibly do outside that would be more satisfying? 

She listens to the radio while she cooks. It is easier than choosing a CD to suit her mood, and besides, she loves the surprise element, not knowing what song will come next. Oldies are her favorite, they make her feel like a teenager sunning on the beach. Nobody used sunblock back then. Sunburn let you know summer had arrived. Noxzema got you through the pain.

The dining table is strewn with newspapers and magazines that keep her company as she eats.  A headline about lonely Americans piques her interest. She shakes her head, suddenly catches herself, recognizes this as a gesture, reflexive in its expression, meant for someone else to see. Someone who would read the exasperation in her face, lighten things up with a snide comment about the wasteful expenditure of time and money on studies aimed at proving what is simply common sense. They would quote lines from the study, recap conclusions, share a laugh:  Typical adults have, on average, two people they can talk to about serious matters. If they’re married, one of those two people is probably the spouse. Nearly a quarter have no close confidants at all.  She has no spouse, cigarettes killed him, but she does have a teenage son, and he has very little to say.

She finishes dinner, goes into his room, a shrine to basketball heroes and heavy metal rock bands. She will not straighten up, it is part of their agreement, as long as he at least vacuums. She scans the room, notices something on his dresser, a small plastic bag filled with small white tablets. Her heartbeat quickens. She knows he smokes a little weed, tries to pretend it’s no big deal, she did it when she was young. But today’s pot is stronger, and he is only sixteen. She fingers the baggie—no-no-no that’s not my Timmy wasted on Ecstasy or bouncing off the walls on amphetamines, which is only one step away from becoming a crack head.  Her hand starts shaking, she sits on his bed, to steady herself. She rubs her temples, the tears begin, the questions start to roll. Should I look deeper, see what he’s hiding in his drawers, in his closet?  She remembers thinking how utterly implausible she found it that those Columbine kids could keep so much hidden from their parents. She lets out a sigh, figures this is a cry for help, he must want to be found out to leave the evidence in the open like this. The only issue remaining is how to confront him, and when.

She has another glass of wine, to take the edge off. If nothing else, it will make her drowsy, delude her into thinking she can fall asleep while he’s out, God knows where. She is just dozing off, 2 AM, when she hears the front door open. She shuffles out of the bedroom.

“Where did you go tonight?”

“No place special.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing -- just  hung out.”

He takes off his baseball cap and jacket (much too lightweight for a winter night), tosses them on the couch. She tries to determine if his eyes are glassy as she follows him into the kitchen.

“Hungry?” she asks. His shirt, checkered and creased, billows over his baggy pants. He is pure gesture, a mime using all the props at his disposal to convey what he will not say. The creaking of the pantry door, where he pulls a loaf of bread from the shelf. The noisy clanking of knives digging into jars of peanut butter and jelly. The silence of milk being poured into a glass.  Finally he throws a few words her way—“you got blueberries”—before heading into his room, sandwich in one hand and glass of milk in the other. She knows what is coming next, a special request of his. “Can I have blueberry pancakes for breakfast?”

 

By the time her no-place-special, do-nothing son wakes up, breakfast has become lunch. She whips up the pancakes, joins him at the table. For the pure joy of watching him eat. It is only when he is down to the last pancake that she broaches the subject.

“I found something . . . in your room.”

He raises his eyebrow, his face takes on a scowl. Strands of silky brown hair fall across  his forehead. “That’s my personal space—you have no business poking around.”

She wants to say, I’m your mother, I have all the business in the world poking around. Instead she just shows him the bag of white tablets. Asks what they are.

The scowl softens, almost a smile now.

He would like to torture his mother a little, maybe sue her for invasion of privacy. Instead he puts on the charm, so like his father. “Open the bag,” he says. “Take a whiff. They’re Dentyne mints.”