Evening Eyes

My mother staggered blindly from the foot of the stairs and into the living room. Her arms were nailed to her sides and drool was settling in a small pool on the collar of her nightgown. She crept towards us rigidly, my father’s leather belt wrapped around her knuckles and dangling from her right hand.

Thomas and I were sitting on our old plaid couch, our young jaws in bowls of ice cream. Weekday evening television programming was beaming from the T.V. The episode of ‘Married with Children’ where Kelly gets a nose ring. This wasn’t the first time we’d seen her like that. We was thirteen and eleven then but we’d known about her walkin’ for sometime at that point.

Too many late nights up and down the stairs for no reason not to notice. She never seemed to get anywhere though. This was the first time we’d seen her face to face in that state, though, and we could hardly believe our little eyeballs. She was all twisted up in the face and muscles we had never seen her flex were popping through her skin. I’d told her before about how we’d see her walkin’. She’d tell me to shut up, swerve the car off the road and ask what the hell I was talkin’ about.

Ma had always been erratic like that. Angry, upfront, but wholeheartedly loving and loyal at her core. She was actually a sweetheart if you caught her on a good day. You wouldn’t ever want to her cut her in line at the hardware store though. You might end up with a nail in the foot. Then I’d look into those, sleepless, bloodshot eyes. I’d say, “you really don’t know?” She’d huff back at me indignantly. I’d smell the black morning coffee. The stale cigarettes.

The deeply hidden horror at the words I’d spoken. All of her not wanting it to be true. All of her knowing that it could not be true. All of that left up to me. Her sanity in my hands. I’d look out the window. “Kids talk,” I’d say. Thomas and I stared in disbelief at the woman we now saw before us. She now cowered under the dimmed orange ceiling lights in our living room, sweating through her nightgown and leaning against the mantle. She appeared to have no strength left. She lurched there silently for a moment, panting like a sick dog. Her lungs sounded old. Her wheezes made her sound weak yet intimidating in a way.

Then, suddenly, she began to repeatedly swing Dad’s belt against the stone fireplace. Her eyes remained closed, but her teeth were fully bared. She slapped and frothed at the mouth like a wild hyena having the worst of nightmares or the most wonderful of dreams. Her nightgown fluttered wildly as she rattled her thin frame back and forth. Out of nowhere, again, she halted and clung to the mantle limply, her face buried in the crook of her arm.

A ghost’s coat, hung up to dry. Her black hair with subtle hints of silver danced around her darkened face. For a moment, there was absolutely no movement. Then, she slowly began reaching for a picture on the mantle next to her. The one of us as kids with my Dad and Santa at the mall. She then jerked her closed eyes towards the ceiling, appearing to remember something. Her lips were clenched tight. She threw the picture to the floor.

The frame smashed on the brick fireplace and glass littered out onto the hardwood around her feet. She then began to drag her arms back and forth across the mantle, knocking everything to the floor. Pictures of our grandmother, our pictures from school, even the urn. Dad spilled out and into the fireplace. “Thomas,” I whispered, clutching my little brother’s arm, “basement. Run.” Thomas looked at me. Then at Ma.

He took a deep breath and did as I told him. Rushed past Ma, out of the room and down the hall to the basement door. I heard it open and shut, then his footsteps following down the withered planks. Ma stooped down to the broken picture frame, smashing her hands into the mess and cutting her palms on the glass. I ran to her and pulled her hands up from the glass.

She seemed to catch a hint of my smell and and I think it might have calmed her for a moment. She put her head to my chest. Quick, quiet sobs came. She stayed that way in my arms for a short time. Then, as if suddenly realizing that I was a villain, she looked at me through her still closed eyes with tortured sinews pulsing in her face. “You’re not him,”she spat, tears still streaming. She threw her clenched fists against my chest, knocking me to the floor. As I struggled to catch my breath, she picked up the picture of our family and stuffed it in her mouth.

She chewed and chewed until it was gone. “You’re not Earl,” she cried to the ceiling, “You ain’t Earl!” * * * My Aunt Rita was at our house ten minutes after I called from the kitchen phone. “Just leave her be, I’ll be there yesterday,” she said over the phone. I told her I’d leave the door open, dodged Ma sobbing on the floor, ran to the door, unlocked it and quickly ran to the basement.

Thomas had found an old box of Ninja Turtles. He sat on the floor in front of the old T.V. we never used anymore and bashed action figured together. I sat on my father’s weight bench listening to the commotion upstairs. Ma was still crying, stomping around the living room, punching the floor. Then, we heard the living room door open. “Gigi,” came Rita’s soothing voice.

The sobbing suddenly stopped. We heard Rita’s soft foot steps guide Ma to the stairs and back up to her room. No words were spoken.

“It aint her fault,” Aunt Rita told me after she’d put Ma back to bed. “She’s been this way since she was little.” She stamped out her third Virginia Slim in as many minutes into the orange plastic ashtray on our breakfast table. Thomas and I sat across from her.

A fly buzzing under the fluorescent bulbs in the kitchen seemed to take our attention momentarily.

“What way is that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Thomas, “I’ve never seen Ma like that. Like a straight up Walking Dead, or a White Walker-”

“Tommy,” I said, “shut up, man. What if it’s serious?”

Rita exhaled a tail of silver smoke and a sigh.

“Did she hurt you, Felix?” Aunt Rita asked. “Naw,” I said, pinching my fingers underneath the table. I popped my knuckles and rubbed my chest. I could still feel her fists where she had punched me.

“Uh huh,” she said. A pensive look overtook her face. Her forehead crinkled. She began to examine me like some kind of wildlife. She chewed on an imaginary carrot that she would nibble on nervously between inhales of smoke.

“Even so…might be serious,” said Aunt Rita, “she used to walk all the time at night. My father and I had to go get her out of Old Ms. McClannan’s rooster pen every other night. She’d sneak in there and scare the hell outta them birds. Never would remember it the next day either. Daddy always said she had her evenin’ eyes on again.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“Oh, just somethin’ Daddy noticed. Every part of her seemed to be awake but you could always tell when she was walkin’ cause those peepers stayed shut tighter than a duck’s asshole. I think she caught on to that though, started usin’ it to her advantage,”

“How so?” asked Thomas. Aunt Rita laughed and leaned back in her chair. The vinyl cushion squealed and the aluminum frame wheezed beneath her.

“Now, don’t you dare tell her this,” she whispered, looking through the doorway towards the staircase in the hall. “But one time, our Daddy said he caught her at your Daddy’s house back when they was in high school. Two of them naked and neckin’ in his Pop’s pool. They thought his parents went to a PTA meeting but they got home early and called up our Daddy. He almost wrung your Daddy’s neck. Scared both of ‘em half to death. Then, in the car, she some how convinced him she had no idea how she’d gotten there. She sweet-talked him so good he took her out for ice cream before they got home. Mama was so mad at him. Daddy always loved Gigi the best, though. He’d a given his arm for her. Now, me, on the other hand—"

“Ma spilled Dad,” Thomas said.

“She what?” Rita asked with arched eyebrows.

“Dad’s urn,” I said. “She tipped it over with all the pictures.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, quickly stamping out her cigarette, “I had no idea. One second…” Aunt Rita left the kitchen. Thomas stared at a Peanut Butter and Jelly she had made for him.

“Too fucked up to eat?” I asked. Thomas lifted his head to speak but paused. The overhead lighting danced across his chubby cheeks, creating intricate shades of illumination.

“Nah, I’m good.” He began to eat the sandwich aggressively. From the living room, we heard the Dust Buster lurch to life. The closet door opening, the sound of the broom, then things being replaced. A few minutes later, Aunt Rita returned with a small dust bin full of the broken glass from the living room.

She went to the kitchen sink, opened the cabinet beneath and deposited the the glass into the trash can. “Now, boys,” she said, turning on the sink to wash her hands, “I don’t think this is the best time to tell your Ma about tonight. She’s been under a lot of stress. I’m not sure if you know this but today would have been your parent’s—”

“30th Anniversary,” said Thomas, “yeah, we know. Ma always takes us to a movie. She said she was too tonight though—”

“Aunt Rita, who’s Earl?” I asked.

“Who’s who?” she asked back quickly, lighting another cigarette.

“Earl. When she was walkin’, Ma told me I wasn’t Earl. She was mad about it, too,” I said.

“Earl…” Rita said, letting a small plume of smoke sail up her cheek, “Don’t believe I do remember any Earl. Wonder why she wouldn’t be askin’ for your Daddy.”

“Jimmy’s Grandpa’s named Earl,” said Thomas, finishing the last of his sandwich crust.

“Who, Jimmy across the street?” I asked. “You mean Old Mr. Friend? I guess he is an Earl, but he’s like eighty, isn’t he? Why would she think I was—”

“I’m gonna sleep on the couch, boys. You should get to bed. I’ll take your Mama to the doctor in the mornin’. Ya’ll scooch, now. Your Mama wouldn’t want you up late.”

Ma and Aunt Rita had greeted us in the kitchen the next day with eggs, bacon, painted-on smiles and that weird positive attitude adults always get when they drink coffee in the morning. Like they just put on a suit of armor. Like they aren’t going to get mad today or mess up at all. Like no one will yell at them or hate them secretly. Like no one will die anywhere. No words about the night before. Just pats on the head and they were out the door. Thomas and I went to wait for the school bus.

Later that night, Thomas and I went to talk to Ma in her room. She never seemed to leave it anymore. The door was always closed and Thomas said he could hear her crying sometimes. I didn’t doubt him but I also never stopped to listen. I didn’t know what she needed. I wanted to be more like Thomas, more caring, more observant. Something always stopped me, though. Maybe I felt like I had to fill Dad’s shoes. Take over in his absence.

Thomas needed me, after all. I’d practically raised him since Ma had to work so much to support us. We walked down the pale hallway with the familiar red shag carpeting our Dad had loved so much. All the pictures on the wall we had known growing up had been taken down in secret shortly after we got the news. Disney Land.

New York in ’97. Niagra Falls that same year when Thomas almost jumped over the rail on accident. They all just disappeared one day. All that lined the stretch of plaster between our bedrooms and Ma’s now was sixty feet of white paint and creaky floorboards under vast, wispy fields of soft burgundy fabric.

We proceeded slowly towards Ma’s bedroom door. When we got there, I knocked twice. The door was opened almost instantly. Ma greeted us with flush cheeks and a dimmer, more relaxed smile than we had seen at breakfast.

“Hi! I was just coming down. You boys want dinner? Breakfast? Order a pizza? What time is it?”

Thomas went in guns blazing, “Ma, why the hell were you a Walking Dead last night?” I sent him a death glare which he shrugged off. Ma’s smile faded. A fresh tear striped down her cheeks.

“Come in, boys.” We walked in and sat at the foot of her bed. A rerun of “Celebrity Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” was on Ma’s T.V. The sound was muted. Matthew McConaughey looked like he was about to win big, though.

“I’m a sleepwalker, Tommy,” Ma said, sitting next to us and patting his head. Tommy’s bowl of hair swayed delicately with her soft touch.

“Ma,” I said hesitantly, “we know that. Last night, though, you were a little more un-hinged…” She suddenly glared at the television. McConaughey had just won one mil for cystic fibrosis.

“I never liked that one,” Ma said, her voice suddenly dropping to a lower register, “always seemed a little faggy to me.”

I shot her a glance. “Ma,” I said, waving my hand to get her attention, “I asked you a question—”

“Ah, jesus, Felix, you’re just like your father,” she spat at me, “No fun! No fun at all.” She stormed across the room to her purse and started rifling through it. She found her pack of Dorals, pulled one out and lit it. “That fucking doc says I’m narcoleptic too. You believe that? They never diagnosed that shit? And depressive. Jesus, what the fuck aint I?” She put the Doral between her lips, pulled out her cell phone and started to text someone.

“What’s that mean, Ma?” Thomas chimed in from the back seat. “Honey, all it means is Mama can fall asleep at anytime, but because of my medication, you shouldn’t wake me, because it could be very bad for Mama.” Thomas shot me a skeptical look. I crinkled my forehead. Ma texted angrily. The phone began to ring. “Boys, get out,” she said, “Ma’s gotta take this…”

* * *

I still think about the night we found out my Dad was dead. Thomas was still just a kid, three or four, but I was seven and I could still remember it perfectly. The police called at 7:30 in the morning. Thomas and I were watching “Fragglerock” and I answered the phone.

They asked if Ma was home. I said yeah, but she was still asleep. They told me to wake her up, her husband was dead. Ma stayed in her room for weeks. All she ever told us was that we should never, ever drink. Not a drop. If she ever caught us drinking she would take Daddy’s belt and wrap it around our throats.

There was no funeral, after a couple weeks some men in black brought us the urn. Ma put him on the mantle right between the picture of our first time meeting Santa and their Wedding Day photo. That’s where I would go from the on to talk to him.

* * *
After that, things started getting really bad. Ma started walkin’ almost nightly. Something must have been up with her new medication too. Always yelling now. In fact, if she wasn’t yelling at us for watching T.V. or threatening us with Daddy’s belt, she was usually slumped over in a corner or roaming around the kitchen knocking over pots and pans.

Thomas said he was worried about her hurting herself. I went to the garage and got my bike helmet. We’d make Mom wear it whenever she was walkin’. Aunt Rita would stay with us as much as she could, but her job at the bar kept her away a lot of the evenings. Ma also got real depressed when she was awake. One morning, at breakfast before school, Thomas and I were watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” in the kitchen.

Ma stood at the stove with one hand on her hip, still wearing her nightgown with the yellow stains of drool all over it, waiting for the eggs to be ready.

“O.K., boys, T.V. time’s over…go get ready for school.”

“One more minute, Mom, I just wanna watch the new Star Wars trailer!” Thomas said, staring into the TV with a wide-open mouth. Then…the meltdown. The frying pan and eggs flew across the kitchen so quickly that I wasn’t even sure she had thrown them. The pan flew directly into Thomas’ face. He let out a high-pitched scream and fell to the tile floor as the steaming hot eggs mixed in with the blood from his nose and mouth. “Thomas!” I shouted and bent down next to him. He writhed in pain, and he was screaming. I grabbed some paper towels and ran back to him. “Put this on your mouth, I’ll call the ambulance…”I said.

I stood and started to cross the kitchen to the phone on the wall, forgetting for a second about Ma. She was walkin’ again. She stood there, head slumped to the side, and her arms jutted harshly towards the floor. She crept slowly across the kitchen towards us. I picked Thomas up in my arms and dodged out of the kitchen.

I laid him on the couch in the living room, and using the cordless, I called 9-1-1. “Hello, we need an ambulance at 718 Elmwood Drive.” There was a loud sound of breaking glass in the kitchen. I ran in and saw Ma, one arm through the window of the back door, slamming her head against the wood frame. I ran back to Thomas.

“Come on, we’re going outside,” I said. He was already out cold from the shock. I picked him up again and ran out the front door to the front lawn. I kneeled there with my little brother in my arms, watching the normal people in the neighborhood drive by in their minivans and station wagons, going to work or school.

They drove slowly and stared in disbelief through black sunglasses. Ten minutes later, the paramedics pulled into the driveway. Two of them, dressed in white, got out and rushed over to me.

“Stand back…is this the only one?”

“No,” I said, wringing my wrists, “there’s another one inside.” They took Thomas from my arms, and that’s when I saw him. Old Mr. Friend. Standing at the end of our driveway in a knee-length robe.

His graying hair fluttered in the breeze. The thick frames of his glasses masked the dark chasms of his eyes. His silhouette seemed out of place on this suburban street. Like a relic from another era who was just stopping by. I walked down the driveway towards him. As I approached, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Dorals.

“Can I get one?” I asked him. He smiled. A perfectly bleached set of teeth shone back at me. “Don’t think your Ma would want you smokin’?” he said under gravelly breath. He loosened something in his throat and swallowed it.

“Is your name Earl?” I asked him. He glanced at me, but returned his eyes to the front of the house as they pulled Ma out. She appeared unconscious and strapped to a gurney.

“Known your Ma a long time. Knew your Dad, too. Raised ‘em,” he said in a somber tone. “Good people. Sad about your Dad. Hit and run?”

“Some couple in a Lincoln is all I’ve ever heard,” I said, “Never identified. So you know my Aunt Rita, too?” I asked him.

He frowned, grunted, and turned back towards the street and started to shuffle off quietly.

“Hey, wait!” I called to him. “You seem familiar to me. Do I know you from somewhere else?” He kept walking but turned back to me. “Yeah, I’m Santa Claus,” he chuckled.