today, at least, we both understood that she was still on probation, and that if I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have to say a word.
But before she left, she reached up to cup my cheek. Her hand—it was the one that had been on the doorknob—was cold to the touch. I leaned away, wiping my gloved hands against each other over the open bag of empty cups by the door. I could hear the tiny clinking of glass shards as they fell. When the clinking stopped, I took off the gloves and handed them to her. “Thanks,” I said. I kept my eyes away from hers. “You should put them on. It’s cold.”
She returned a half hour later with a bag of cleaning supplies, two chicken salads in plastic containers, and Bowzer. He appeared to have lost weight since the last time I saw him. A year ago, I would have had trouble carrying him in two arms, and now my mother held him easily in one. He peered up at me from under a mass of tangled graying fur.
I blocked the entrance. “Mom. No. I’m sorry, but no. Why did you bring him?”
He heard my voice and wagged his spindly tail. She handed me the bag of salads and tried to wave me aside. “Don’t be a jerk, Veronica. It’s too cold to leave him in the car.”
“Then you should have left him at home. I can’t have him in here. What if he pees? Or what if they’re allergic or something? I’ve got enough mess to clean.” I covered my nose, my mouth. “Mom. He smells.”
She looked at me. She looked at Bowzer. The bag of cleaning supplies hung from her wrist, swinging back and forth.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I’m not leaving him outside. It’s too cold, and he’s having a hard time.”
Bowzer gazed up at me with patient, cloudy eyes. He did not appear especially distressed. My mother, on the other hand, was breathing heavily, her nostrils flared. She was chewing gum. She never did that.
“I’ll put plastic bags underneath him. But if you want my help, he’s coming in.”
I took a small step to the side. She rolled her eyes and carried him into the town house. “Here you go, sweetie,” she said, setting him down in the entryway. He sniffed the air around him and took a hesitant step forward, claws tapping on the hardwood floor.
“He’s going to pee,” I said.
“No, he isn’t.”
“He’s going to shed. And they don’t have a vacuum.”
“What? How can they not have a vacuum?”
“They don’t. I looked all over.” I shrugged. “They have a maid.”
Her gaze moved up to a painting on the wall, one of Jimmy’s. The lines were vague, the colors blurred together, but I had decided that if you looked at it long enough, you could make out a decomposing head.
“Who are these people, honey?” She’d stopped chewing the gum. All at once, she appeared very familiar, her old self, her eyes full of worry for me. “Who are they, and how do you know them?”
I leaned down to scratch Bowzer on his sweet spot, the little indentation between his ears. He turned, sniffing the air between us, and wagged his tail again. “Hey, Bowz,” I whispered. “Remember me?” His collar hung loose from his neck.
“Of course he does,” my mother said. “He always loved you best. I just do all the work.” She took off her coat. It was her nice coat, the long black one that she only wore when she was dressed up, over skirts or dresses with boots. But today, underneath it, she was wearing her flannel nightgown tucked into khaki pants, no belt, and her gray cable cardigan hanging open. I didn’t read too much into it. She had come to help clean on her day off, a Sunday morning, and so it made sense she’d not bothered with her clothes. But then she went to hug me, suddenly, no warning at all, and there was a musty, almost salty smell about her. Her hair was unwashed, shiny at the roots, and pulled back in a tight ponytail. She caught me looking at her, and she seemed embarrassed.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I’ve got my vacuum in the van.” She pulled her coat back on. On her way out, she glanced back over her shoulder with a smile. “Don’t just stand there, honey. I’m going to help. But I’m not going to do it all for you.”