final death throes of Phoenixville Steel, the streets nearby had become increasingly desolate. Properties often sat vacant, and from the spare bedroom where my grandfather's guns had once been kept, I had watched the demolition of a beautiful Victorian two streets away. Once the conical roof fell in, there was nothing to see but ancient dust floating up and out above the house's less prosperous neighbors.
I had tried to get my mother to move into a retirement home, but she would not budge, and part of me admired her for it.
There was an ever-diminishing network of the originals now: Mrs. Leverton behind her, Mr. Forrest five houses down, and the long-suffering widow of Mr. Tolliver.
The one my mother had once considered her friend was Mr.
Forrest. He lived at the end of the circle and didn't have any family at all. He had a house the same size as my parents', and his rooms were filled with books. When I drove by his house,
[ 2 6 ]
The Almost Moon
I often thought of the afternoons he and my mother had spent together, starting cocktails at five in anticipation of my father's joining them by six. I would answer the door, and Mr. Forrest would hand me a paper bag. Inside would be cured olives or fresh cheeses or French bread, and within thirty minutes of his arrival, I would tuck myself into a corner at the top of the stairs and listen to her laughter fill the house.
I leaned my body over my mother's, took the towel I had used to suffocate her, and covered her face with it. Then I made the sign of the cross. "You are so not Catholic!" Natalie said to me growing up, as I tried to imitate her. My cross remained a sort of flailing X marks the spot.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
I crawled back inside to retrieve the felt-covered brick that we had used forever to prop open the door. I thought of Manny, bringing in a month's supply of staples from the big-box store. I had been standing in the living room, and ever so briefly, when I turned to be introduced to him, his eyes had traveled to my chest.
Later, my mother admonished me for wearing such tight clothes.
"It's a turtleneck," I said.
She had burst out laughing. "I guess you're right. The boy's a perv," she said. I remember wondering where she'd learned the word, if it had been something Manny had taught her. I'd known that, sometimes, when he'd had nowhere to go, he would bring movies over to watch with her. My mother had seen The Godfather more times than I could count.
I stood and put my hands on either side of my lower back to arch backward in what Natalie called my "construction-worker stretch." I was aware that I would have to pace myself as I did while modeling. That what I had done and what I was about to do would take the kind of physical stamina that a thousand dance classes might not have prepared me for.
[ 2 7 ]
Alice Sebold
I walked back onto the stoop and towered over her. If Mrs.
Leverton was watching, back upstairs with her husband's binoculars, how would she account for what she saw? If she told her son, would he think that his mother was finally slipping? I smiled down at my mother. She would have loved that, loved that in reporting the way I handled her dead body, Mrs. Leverton might finally be knocked off her high horse and into the land of the elderly insane.
I nudged my mother's body with the edge of my jazz flats. Then there was nothing left but cursing and exertion.
"Fuck," I said repeatedly, regulating it like breathing, as I tightened my stomach to prepare for the lift. I grabbed my mother's body by the blankets, making sure to grip her up under her shoulders so she wouldn't slip. I kept cursing as I reentered the kitchen, dragging her after me. In one final tug, I got her whole body past the lip of the doorway and then lowered myself slowly down on the floor, with her between my legs. "In," I said, and kicked the brick out of the way. The door closed a little bit on its hinge, and then, with my foot, I helped it the
I had tried to get my mother to move into a retirement home, but she would not budge, and part of me admired her for it.
There was an ever-diminishing network of the originals now: Mrs. Leverton behind her, Mr. Forrest five houses down, and the long-suffering widow of Mr. Tolliver.
The one my mother had once considered her friend was Mr.
Forrest. He lived at the end of the circle and didn't have any family at all. He had a house the same size as my parents', and his rooms were filled with books. When I drove by his house,
[ 2 6 ]
The Almost Moon
I often thought of the afternoons he and my mother had spent together, starting cocktails at five in anticipation of my father's joining them by six. I would answer the door, and Mr. Forrest would hand me a paper bag. Inside would be cured olives or fresh cheeses or French bread, and within thirty minutes of his arrival, I would tuck myself into a corner at the top of the stairs and listen to her laughter fill the house.
I leaned my body over my mother's, took the towel I had used to suffocate her, and covered her face with it. Then I made the sign of the cross. "You are so not Catholic!" Natalie said to me growing up, as I tried to imitate her. My cross remained a sort of flailing X marks the spot.
"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
I crawled back inside to retrieve the felt-covered brick that we had used forever to prop open the door. I thought of Manny, bringing in a month's supply of staples from the big-box store. I had been standing in the living room, and ever so briefly, when I turned to be introduced to him, his eyes had traveled to my chest.
Later, my mother admonished me for wearing such tight clothes.
"It's a turtleneck," I said.
She had burst out laughing. "I guess you're right. The boy's a perv," she said. I remember wondering where she'd learned the word, if it had been something Manny had taught her. I'd known that, sometimes, when he'd had nowhere to go, he would bring movies over to watch with her. My mother had seen The Godfather more times than I could count.
I stood and put my hands on either side of my lower back to arch backward in what Natalie called my "construction-worker stretch." I was aware that I would have to pace myself as I did while modeling. That what I had done and what I was about to do would take the kind of physical stamina that a thousand dance classes might not have prepared me for.
[ 2 7 ]
Alice Sebold
I walked back onto the stoop and towered over her. If Mrs.
Leverton was watching, back upstairs with her husband's binoculars, how would she account for what she saw? If she told her son, would he think that his mother was finally slipping? I smiled down at my mother. She would have loved that, loved that in reporting the way I handled her dead body, Mrs. Leverton might finally be knocked off her high horse and into the land of the elderly insane.
I nudged my mother's body with the edge of my jazz flats. Then there was nothing left but cursing and exertion.
"Fuck," I said repeatedly, regulating it like breathing, as I tightened my stomach to prepare for the lift. I grabbed my mother's body by the blankets, making sure to grip her up under her shoulders so she wouldn't slip. I kept cursing as I reentered the kitchen, dragging her after me. In one final tug, I got her whole body past the lip of the doorway and then lowered myself slowly down on the floor, with her between my legs. "In," I said, and kicked the brick out of the way. The door closed a little bit on its hinge, and then, with my foot, I helped it the
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