Do Unto Others

Might as well try. “Mama, do you remember Beta Harcher? She was a lady at the Baptist church. And she did work for the library.” Worked against the library, but that was too many details for Mama. Mama didn’t like questions; they frustrated her. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” “It’s okay. I just thought you might remember her.” “Ask your father,” she said sleepily. That advice wasn’t particularly helpful. I counted my blessings anyway; many Alzheimer’s patients spend their nights keeping their caretakers awake. Mama embraced sleep tonight. I kissed her cheek, turned out the lights, and went down to retrieve the cup of decaf I’d left when Mama asked me to take her upstairs. The television fell silent as I came down the stairs. Mark crouched on the couch, staring at his beloved high-top sneakers instead of me. I ignored him and picked up my cooling mug of coffee. “Sorry about before,” he muttered. I’m sure it’s the same kind of apology his daddy never bothered to give my sister. “Apology accepted.” I sat down next to him and lifted his chin so his eyes met mine. God, he was growing up quick. It’d only seemed like yesterday he’d been a baby that gurgled and cooed happily at his uncle Jordy. “Look, Mark. I’m not mad at you. It’s just that you have to understand the situation we’re all in. As you pointed out to me yesterday, your Mamaw is not getting better. She is never going to get better. I shouldn’t have kidded you that she’s ever going to improve. And we all have to do what we can to hold together as a family. We’re all making sacrifices. Your mother’s working ungodly hours. I gave up a good job and moved back here, where I have practically no career opportunities. So you have to help do your share, too. And sitting with your Mamaw when we need you to is not too much to ask.” “And how long till you get tired of it, Uncle Jordy?” Mark asked acidly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you before. But this noble act isn’t flying with me. Everyone’s saying how great you are for coming back here and helping with Mamaw. Well, big fucking deal.” He waited to see if the language shocked me. I stayed as still as stone. He continued, his words spilling out: “You’ll get tired of it sooner or later and you’ll haul butt back to Boston or wherever you damn well please. You’re not going to find any job in Mirabeau to make you happy. Living here’s going to wear thin and you’ll take your nobleness, say thanks to me and Mom, and you’ll be gone.” His thin face paled and those young, dark eyes dampened with angry tears. “Is that what you think, Mark?” “That’s what happens. It always happens.”

He got up and started up the stairs. “I’m not your daddy, you know.

I’m not going anywhere.” I would’ve called louder but I didn’t want to wake Mama. Mark’s steps paused for one brief moment on the stairs, then resumed their pounding. I heard his door shut. Maybe that explained the anger and the snotty comments. He was thirteen, starting that terribly awkward age, and he’d never known a man who stuck around. His father cut out when he realized Mark and Sister meant responsibility. My and Sister’s dad had inconsiderately died. Sister’s subsequent few boyfriends didn’t seem much taken with the idea of an ill mother-in-law and another man’s child. Why should this faraway uncle suddenly appear as the silvered knight of trust? I leaned back on the couch. I understood his worry. God knows I’d been tempted to leave. Sister still tended to treat me like a pesky little brother who foiled her plans. Mama could drive you crazy with her repetitive behavior, her restless nights, her lack of being the woman who raised me. Mark’s mouth outdid mine at his age. And Mirabeau didn’t offer much in the way of employment in my field. I’d gotten calls from friends at Brooks-Jellicoe, the publisher I’d worked for in Boston.

Seeing if I’d changed my mind. Seeing how Mama was doing and inquiring if I was considering coming back. They wouldn’t keep calling forever.