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Show THE BRUISE-10 because no one ever comes to visit without calling first, so I never answer, knowing it is a trick, a fake meter man, a bogus request to use the telephone, a phoney plea to preach the world of God. But with Mother here, I peek through the peephole. It is Peter, the first I have seen of him since the night of the bruise. He is carrying a bottle of brandy, and I let him in. "Mom, this is Peter. Peter, my mother." He bows a little to her and says, "How splendid. You'll have some brandy?" He is handsome and blonde and has a trace of his British accent, and my mother is charmed, sits up a little straighter, puts the apple back in the pewter bowl. I have never known my mother to drink brandy, but she does now. A flush comes into her cheeks and she looks as if she's been running, touseled, a little breathless. Her smile,is no longer a wry upturn at the corners, but spreads across her whole face, carving deep curves into her cheeks, showing the beautiful bones in her cheeks. "Why didn't you call?" I say to Peter. "Impulse. Sorry to intrude on a family visit, but I've never had the pleasure." He smiles at my mother as he speaks. She lights up a cigarette and smooths back her hair. I have never seen her this way. I pour myself another brandy. Peter is talking to my mother about something. Movies, I think. There is another loud knock on the door. This time I don't startle, because the brandy has quieted me, as it always does. I peep out. A policeman. I invite him in. I'm used to this. The police are good about coming after a robbery or a mugging. Or have I done something I don't remember? The bruise is turning yellow now, but there could be something, someone, perhaps since. It doesn't seem to matter much just now. The policeman says, "I am sorry |