PARTISAN REV I EW
221
I pick the phone back up. "Mother, I have to get off. I smell
gas."
"Gas!"
"Yes. I'll call you tomorrow." I say good night and hang up.
We both go to sleep. In the middle of the night she wakes me up.
"There's something else I want to tell you about yourself,
Noel. After we fuck, you always kind of slink off into the bath–
room and wash your gen-i-ta-ls." She pronounces it like it
IS
a
seven-syllable word. "That really makes a woman feel good."
(WHO--WHO-- WHO)
I have three children: Susan, twelve; Peter, ten; and Loie,
four.
J,
their mother, died of lung cancer a few months ago. She
smoked an awful lot.
It is early fall. We have decided to go to the cemetery for the
first time since J's funeral. The girls are cutting roses. It was
Susan's idea. There is much discussion between the two of them
about which to cut and which to leave. Pete is sitting on the front
steps fooling around with some baseball cards. I sit down next to
him. Some time passes. Loie sticks herself on a rose stem and
starts to cry. The two of them sit down on a rock and Susan sucks
on her finger until she stops crying. I ask Pete if he would like to
bring something up to the cemetery also. It is an awkward ques–
tion and I stumble over it. Some red licorice, he asks? Sure, why
not. The girls collect their flowers and we all get into the car.
Ahh--how delightful the roses smell.
Driving to the cemetery we talk some but mostly sing songs. I
sing from my childhood some lefty songs that I remember: "Tell
me, comrade, do you read - -The Daily Worker, yes, indeed." We
all sing with Loie "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and "Three Blind
Mice," and then Susan and Pete do a whole thing with camp songs
about Vietnam and black people and loves that never were. They
skip over some dirty words with knowing glances at each other.
J
is buried halfway up a long hill with a lone tree at the head
of her grave. It isn't a particularly strong tree and we all hope it
lives through the winter. It's not bad up there. It is a clear day and
