“Well, in like a lamb,” his mother said. “That’s nice. We could use an early spring.”

“Thank the groundhog,” Joe said, unpacking the groceries.

“Oh, don’t. People think he’s responsible, they’ll cut the poor fellow open to see what makes him tick.”

“Imagine if they found golden eggs.”

“You can put those in the cupboard by the cereal,” she said, pointing to the box of Shredded Bran in Joe’s hand. “I don’t go through a lot of that but sometimes you have a hankering, or you just plain need to move the mail - Oh my.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She was holding a matchbook Joe had picked up at the store and tossed in the bag. She shrugged and put it on the table. Joe looked at it.

“Nice design. Bad cut, though. Looks off center. I don’t like the sideways layout, but sometimes it works. What? Hey Mom, where’d you go?”

“Just – thinking.” She smiled. “Cupples. I used to go with a Cupples boy when I was at teacher’s college. I think he was one of these Cupples. At least he said he was.”

“Before you knew Dad?”

“Well, around the same time, yes.”

“Around? Like, after?”

“Honestly, Joe, stop it.”

“Mom. You’re turning red.”

“Well, it’s none of your business, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They put the groceries away in silence for a while. Joe wanted to turn on the radio, but that somehow would have said they were having an uncomfortable moment. Which they were, of course, but it would be more uncomfortable to admit it.

Ah, to hell with it. He turned on the radio. A bouncy happy instrumental came on, the sort of music TV ads always used to show women in pearls doing the laundry. It softened the mood in the room a little.

“So what was his name?”

“Frank,” she said. She paused. “I mean I think it was Frank it’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, could have been Fronk.”

“Why are you so curious?”

“Because every kid wants to know what their parents were like when they were young, Mom. You did.”

“No, I didn’t, and you’re not a kid; you’re a grown man. And this was about me, not your parents.”

“I’ll drop it.”

“Thank you.”

“Where do you want the Pecan Sandies?”

“In the cuppleboard by the toaster.”

“The wh – right.” He put the cookies away.

“Want to stay for dinner?” she said, but she wasn’t looking at him.

“That’s okay. I have to go, uh, back downtown.”

“Maybe this weekend.” She straightened and smiled. “Thanks for the help.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and left. As he drove away he thought about his mom at school, dating someone before she met dad. Or maybe dating two guys, three, dad in there somewhere, Mom letting them sort themselves out. They wouldn’t always sort out the way the heart wanted, of course. It was unnerving to think she’d married Dad after the other guy didn’t work out. It was sad to think of her thinking of him some days when she stood at the sink, looking at the tiny backyard with the swingset covered with snow, wondering how her life might have turned out. Moms didn’t do that. Women in novels did that but moms did not.

Then again, maybe she was sitting at the table lighting the matches one by one, laughing: this is for the time you stood me up. This is for the Valentine’s Day you gave me a dandelion. This is for the time you yelled at the waiter and told me you couldn’t stand bad help. This is for talking about summer in Europe. This is for the time you looked at yourself in the mirror and said don’t I make a lovely Cupple.

Or she was sitting in the breakfast nook feeling old and done.

I’ll never know, he thought. I only know I won’t ask. The light turned green, and he headed home. He checked the fridge to see what he might have for supper, wondering why he hadn’t picked up some groceries for himself. (Because you thought you’d be eating at Mom’s.) All he had was a pack of wieners.

CUDAHY FRANKS.

He had a Swanson’s in front of the TV. Fried Chicken.

Dad loved fried chicken.
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home