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Show THE BRUISE-8 "What sort of movie, do you think?" "And sometimes the roaches get bad. I'd move, but it's too hard to find a place." "Your father wants you to come live at home, not just visit sometimes. He worries about you." my mother says, "But I think you're doing fine." "I am. I am. I bought you some apples.. I hope you like Macintosh. They have these yellow streaks, but they taste the best, believe me." My mother used to tell me, "Be a listener," but I always forget. "How was the train ride?" I ask, remembering. "Terrible," she said. "But I just told you." "Isn't it funny," I say when we are finally seated on the couch next to the coffee table, "the way sometimes things that are the least pretty are really the best, like Macintosh apples." She picks one up, holds it high, turns it, squinting against the glare of the naked overhead light. "This one's bruised, dear." she says and puts it back in the bowl, reaches for her cigarettes. I am keeping it down to a few beers and some of the wine I bought for our dinner. I do not know what I can say to her. It seems so silly now. I could have imagined it; things can be so hard to remember right. "Why does Daddy want me to come home?" I say finally. "He thinks New York is no place for a nice girl alone." I laugh. "He said that?" "He's innocent, my dear. He doesn't know things." She does not look at me when she speaks, but focuses just past me and always has a little smile on her lips, willing to be cheerful, always, about everything. "At a party once he had |
