A Mother's Touch

by Edward M. Cohen

My mother's funeral was sparsely attended. She had done so much complaining in her final years that most of her friends had drifted away. She blamed it on my father, who had grown crazier as he got older.

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you this," she sighed. "But sexually he's worse than ever!"
"Ma! I don't want to hear it!"

Even my ex-wife and son did not come to my parents' apartment afterward. They had attended the service, driven to the Queens cemetery. Then Vivian said Eric had to go to school and she had to get to her job since I was so behind in child support. All of this discussed through clenched teeth at the gravesite.

I was furious with her. Also, with the absentees. When I was growing up, my parents had spent every summer at the beach with the families of my father's pals from the local Republican Club. Where were they now? I was even furious with those who attended, especially my Aunt Celia who herded guests into cars and barked instructions and whispered cues to my father.

He had told her to prepare an enormous spread since all the Old Timers were sure to show, so she had hired a neighbor and together they had whipped forth cold cuts and potato salad and a fully stocked bar. When Celia looked around at the meager crowd, she had told the neighbor to ask her son to come up too so the place wouldn't look so empty.

"And you, Artie, keep an eye on your father. I don't want trouble today."

The embarrassed guests were full of praise for the funeral and the food and how nice the apartment looked.

"Oh, one thing Dot had was taste." Celia's voice filled the pause. "She knew exactly what went and what clashed and what fabric and how much. If you were decorating, you went to Dot before you went to Bloomingdale's!"

My father, drinking in silence, nodded as if she had chanted a prayer but Celia burst into a bellow, clueing the guests that they could laugh too.

"She did my apartment over for me, dragging out the swatches and colors and, if I got exhausted and said, 'Alright, Dot, forget antique yellow. I'll take regular yellow like a normal person,' she said, 'No, Celia honey, this season antique yellow is in and normal yellow is out.' And, next week, what d'ya know, I'd see the same sentence in Better Homes and Gardens!"

The doorbell rang and everybody breathed a sigh of relief. My father perked up, expecting an Old Timer. Celia raced to the door, hoping for an army of relatives. But it was only the neighbor's teen-aged son; towering above us in jeans and a tee shirt, red hair tumbling to his shoulders, blue eyes focused on me.

*

One of the Old Timers eventually showed. Only, my father was too drunk to notice and Celia thought he was a bum who had wandered in off the streets.

"They do, you know. Grab the New York Times off the subway seats, right away turn to the obituaries, travel from house to house, a free drink here, a chicken leg there. Dot must be turning over in the grave to think such a creature is setting foot on her carpet."

The new arrival wore a huge overcoat, frayed and stained, obviously a hand-me-down, nearly scraping the tips of his shoes. He refused to remove it so Celia had to imagine the state of his suit underneath. He smiled all around but ragged hairs hung from his eyebrows, causing a constant blink. He looked like he was pleading for a handout and a couple of cousins left at once. Even my mother's neighbor, sensing trouble, said she would return to clean up later. She signaled for her son to leave also but the gorgeous redhead said he wanted to stay.

Celia strode to my father, now pale yellow on the way to antique. His eyes were open but I knew he was dozing. I had seen him sit through the night like that and, in the morning, he would claim to have slept like a baby.

"Izzy! Who is that? The man in the overcoat? A friend of yours? I think he's a bum, stole a Times off the subway, got your address from the obituaries. Sober up and take a look."

The stranger smiled at my father, blinking. The neighbor's son curled next to me on the sofa.

"What's your name, kid?" I asked.

"Howard."

"Izzy," the stranger whispered, "it's Irving Relish. Remember me?"
I remembered the name. By peering closely, I could strip him down to a bathing suit and see him at the beach, his body like a cadaver even then. He had been a shadow in the sun, always waiting for an errand to be sent down the ranks because if it reached Irving Relish and he brought a big shot coffee and danish, maybe he would be invited to take a taste. On the other hand, maybe the big shot's wife would say he was standing in the way of her tan and he would have to move.

He never had a blanket of his own. Or an adoring wife like my mother. If an unappealing chore were assigned to my father, he would wink and pass it down to Irving Relish. And, oh, how my mother would laugh.

I used to imagine how a wife would have suffered with a husband as lowly as Irving Relish. Maybe, I thought, pressing my leg against Howard's, maybe my father had looked like Irving Relish to the wives of the bigger big shots and my mother had never noticed.

"Irving Relish!" my father exclaimed, jumping up to embrace him. "The biggest of the big shots! A titan of the GOP! What did you do, Old Timer? Fly in from Florida? From your condominium?"

*

My father plied his buddy with drinks and food, insisting on serving him, bumping the table, dripping mustard on the cloth, howling stories about the beach while poor Irving Relish, huddled in a chair, still in his overcoat, ate everything handed to him hungrily.

Celia, mortified and nipping on a bottle of her own in the kitchen, entertained the few guests left. She told how my mother had made all my baby clothes, as I sat on the couch with Howard and listened.

Celia remembered one sunsuit that was absolutely darling but my mother had made the straps too long so they kept sliding off and tiny Artie, the smartest baby in the world, would wriggle out of it on the beach and run around with his tushy exposed.

"You remember that outfit, Artie?"

She bounced across the room to pinch my cheek as everyone, except me and Howard, laughed and the sound covered her whisper: "Are you keeping an eye on your father? Are you doing what I told you? He's carrying on with this Irving Relish, your mother is not cold in the grave!"

Then she pranced away to dole out more cold cuts, ranting about my mother's fancy hats and expensive jewelry.

"What on earth will you do with that jewelry, Izzy?"

*

I remembered my mother at the beach when I was older, giggling at his every joke and repeating it throughout the day, chuckling over and over each time he told it to somebody new. She would pass him sandwiches and fruit and soda and cookies, beaming with pleasure, proud of his dreams, which were dazzling like the waves.

I remembered how the Old Timers called him "Commissioner" because he was sure to make it to a top city job if ever the Republicans returned to power. And my father howled and my mother blushed and the Old Timers treated him like a son, bouncing the "Commissioner" gag from blanket to blanket.

He was the only young man in the crew; the others were has-beens who had never made it to positions of power, even before the GOP had been crushed at the polls. But still, he ass-kissed all and flattered their wives and drank so much that he could not sleep when we got back to the bungalow and I used to hear my mother soothing him in bed.

"Calm down now, Izzy. Take it easy. Mama's here now, baby."

He ranted that nobody knew how much it cost him to eat shit all day in the sun like that but he wanted so much to be a Commissioner and was it his fault that Tammany Hall had a lock on the city?

"I know, Izzy. Poor Izzy, Mama knows."

*

Howard told me that he had only agreed to come up because it was his chance to meet a real writer. My mother had told his mother about me and his mother had passed on the news to him.

"What did my mother say, God rest her soul?"

There were little threads hanging from the sleeve of his tee shirt with which I fiddled as we talked. He had a redhead's complexion, chalky white. I could picture his groin; a shocking carrot blossom in a desert of smooth skin.

"Oh, how you were a waiter now but you were working on a novel so soon everyone would know your name."

"My beautiful Ma," I sighed but Celia's voice curdled the moment: "When he first met Dot, all we heard was how she was the best stenographer in his office. Once, he made her type for us and she sat down at our kitchen table with her back rigid and her hands arched over a make-believe keyboard because who had a typewriter on our block?"

"May she rest in peace!" everyone intoned as I brushed a finger over Howard's tits; the nipples had been calling me through the cloth.

"So, that's why I came when my mother phoned," he sighed, "because I want to write songs. My last boyfriend, Lucky, played rock and roll and he taught me all about rhythm but my mother always said I should meet a real writer and here was my big chance."

"Maybe I'll be lucky, too."

"I think I'll have a piece of gum."

His jeans were so tight that he had to stretch his legs and squeeze his hand into the pocket. I could see the outline of his fingers through the denim as he shimmied on the couch.

"You will find that I have more to offer than Lucky because a performer's function is merely interpretive. Writers are the true creators. So, you are wriggling up the artistic hierarchy, if you want my opinion."

He was paralyzed in position, except for his mouth which chewed in rhythm to my words. His hand had frozen in mid air, fingers locked around the wrapping. I leaned to the paper and licked off the flavor; dizzy with desire.

"I love the way you talk," he sighed.

"Artie! Come say hello to Irving Relish!"

The two Old Timers were lighting cigars. Celia waved off the odor with a dishtowel, clinging to the final guests at the door.

"Would you believe, Irving?" my father howled. "This kid has a kid older than he was when we used to spend summers at the beach. Where's Eric, Artie? Tell him to come say hello to Irving Relish."

"With her hats and her rings! Dot was the fanciest lady in the world!"

"Pop, I want you to shut your sister up. My mother is not yet cold in the grave and she is defiling her memory!"

I glanced at Howard who nodded approval of my eloquence.

"This kid is a writer, Irving. One of these days, he'll turn out a best seller and be set for life. And we thought we had a racket, right?"

"I only hope she didn't leave the jewelry to that greedy daughter-in-law. Such a bitch. That's the reason they got divorced, you know."

"Can't you say something, Pop? She's your baby sister."

"Where's Eric, Artie? I want to show off my grandson to my best friend in the world!"

"Go get your mother, Howard," Celia commanded. "It's time to wash up."

"Stay where you are, Howard. My father still has a guest."

"That's a guest? Your mother would roll over in the grave if she saw him on her upholstery."

"Where the hell is Eric?" my father roared. "I ask a simple question, I want a simple answer!"

"He's at school, Pop. Vivian wouldn't bring him here after the cemetery. I begged her to, but she wouldn't."

"Who wears the pants in your family?"

"Pop, you'd better calm down," I said between gritted teeth. "You don't want to start calling me names!"

"He's an artist like his mother," Celia answered, "with her hats and her rings and her typing like Paderewski! Only he's a deadbeat as far as child support goes so your grandson can't come to the house! Everybody at the cemetery heard about it."

"If Mom were here, Aunt Celia, you wouldn't dare be talking like this. You hear, Pop? She's making fun and the woman is not yet cold in her grave. I want you to say something, Pop!"

"Sure, let him say something. If he had listened to me instead of her, he would have bolted from the Republicans and be a Commissioner today!"

Scotch had dribbled down his chin and Celia, as she hollered, wiped it off with her hankie. His head leaned toward her bosom as if he wanted to sleep right there. Irving Relish, stuffing corned beef into his pockets, sneaked out the door but Howard remained, absorbed in the drama, urging me on with his glance.

"Did he eat?" Celia asked. "Artie, you'll sit at the table, your father will follow."

"Aunt Celia, I'm not hungry."

"Did I ask if you were hungry? If you eat, he'll eat and that's how we'll sober him up."

She pounced to the kitchen. My father's head fell to his chest.

"I guess I'd better go," said Howard.

"Please don't. Please don't leave me!"

I kneeled before him and threw my face into his lap and his palms framed my skull like earmuffs.

"That was beautiful what you said about your mother not cold in the grave. You've got a wonderful way with words."

"She wouldn't say a thing if my mother were alive," I whispered into his crotch.

"I know, Artie. Poor Artie. I know."

"That's why I need a mother's touch today."

He lifted my chin to kiss my eyelids. His breath smelled of Dentyne. I slid a hand under his shirt to touch those beckoning nipples. The coolness. The smoothness. Once I felt, I had to taste.

"I'm here, Artie. Mama is here."

"Let's have some truth now that the wonderful Irving Relish has gone!" Celia was rattling around in the kitchen. Her diction was beginning to slur. I was winding my tongue around Howard's navel.

"You could sleep when he called me, drunk at three in the morning, to complain how if it wasn't for her he would have deserted the Republicans but it was she who convinced him to stay with the fancier party when he had a chance to dump Old Timers like that corpse Irving Relish!"

With a whimper, Howard collapsed on the couch, his thighs sliding open for me.

"DON'T SAY ANOTHER WORD! THE WOMAN WAS A GODDESS!"

Poor Howard bolted upright. Even Celia was so astonished she stopped cleaning and came to the kitchen archway. My father had suddenly awakened and was struggling to stand, twisting in the chair with effort.

"EVERYTHING I AM TODAY I OWE TO HER!"

"Sure. That's why you're a commissioner like your son is going to write a best-seller and your pal has a Florida condo," sneered Celia.

"YOU SAY ONE MORE WORD, I DON'T WANT YOU IN THIS HOUSE."

Blood rushed to his cheeks. His body wrenched with helplessness. He could not get out of the chair.

"All his life he's lived in dreamland," Celia concluded, "and she, with her fancy rings, encouraged him."

"THAT'S WHAT A WOMAN DOES!" he bellowed, "SHE SHARES HER MAN'S DREAMS, WHICH YOU NEVER DID, AND THAT'S WHY YOU NEVER GOT MARRIED!"

He was on his feet at last; legs spread wide, knees pressed against the chair for support. His torso swayed, seeking balance.

"You tell her, Pop!"

But he was pissing in his pants as he stood before us so that Celia's mouth curled and Howard giggled. I slid a hand to his crotch and it twitched in my grip like a warm baby chicken; my father too drunk and Celia too stunned to notice.

Now Celia had had enough and my father bolted to the bathroom to vomit. This was the end, she declared. She had heard this too many times. He was now my responsibility. I should sit with him and listen to him cry. I should clean his piss from the rug. He was a lousy failure who was making up stories about Irving Relish to hide from the truth, only his fairy princess was no longer here to nod along. Panting and roaring, she gathered her coat and her shopping bag full of left-overs and swearing she would never forgive him for what he had said about her never getting married, she slammed out of the apartment as my father fell back asleep and I proceeded to blow Howard on the sofa - so someone could share my dreams.


END

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