Date night on Vernon Hill

First there was dinner, always Spaghettios with marble-sized meatballs which Ma divided evenly: three and a half each. Ma would sip tea, nibble shortbread, because she’d eaten her big meal at midday, long before our parents dropped us off. Next came the dishwashing.  We’d help clear the metal table, but in early years Ma washed, while my sister and I played 

sidewalk games, like hopscotch, on the yellow and red-checked floor. 

 Our favorite meal. Until Stouffer's French Bread pizza came along.  

When Ma started shrinking, stopped sweeping, saying eh rather than what was that, I took over the dishes.  Ma read the newspaper or stared into space. T read Bobbsey Twins books, or traced fingers over the Dutch girl border above the tired pine wainscoting.

  

Then my sister and I would slip into our nighties and settle on the prickly couch in the good room, swathed in itchy afghans, handmade gifts from some long-gone relative. Ma, still in her housedress, stockings puddled at bruised ankles, sat in the rocking chair. 

We watched Lawrence Welk then sitcoms. We stayed still, except to stretch out legs, use the bathroom. Other than saying move over or stop tickling, we were silent. Ma too, though we’d hear murmurings, wet coughs, the clacking of rosary beads, creaking floorboards. 

 

Geritol, bubbles, and Lawrence Welk. Those were wild and crazy Saturday nights.

 

Ma switched off all the lights when she and T went to bed. The heat too, I think. Then it was just me, the flickering blue light of the Magnavox, the Carol Burnett Show laugh track. I’d move to Ma’s rocker, curl up tight, my yarn cocoon a shield against the shadows,  aware that strangers watched from metal frames: Grandpa Tim on his wedding day, center-parted hair oiled and combed flat; my aunts and mother as high school grads, porcelain skinned, red-lipped, cheeks dabbed with pink, wearing white mortar boards, pearls.

  

On one of our last nights, it was the usual: just me and canned laughter. Then there she was, a hovering specter, eyes wide, unbuttoned top revealing ivory flesh and things grandkids shouldn’t see. Her iron hair, always braided, floated loose, like shredded satin.

“Your nightgown is open, Ma.” 

“Eh?”

“Your shirt.”

“Eh?”

Embarrassed, I pointed.

She looked down then back at me. She smiled. She had no teeth.  

She kissed my head, patted my hair, shuffled to her room, top still undone. 

After Carol, I watched the news,  then stayed up until the national anthem played and the screen went snowy, and only then took my cramped legs off to bed. Even still, I couldn’t sleep. 

I'm so glad we had that time together.