My mother draws her breath like a bad cartoon. No doctors can tell us what’s wrong with her, so we don’t let them see her. She was always busy living, proliferating. Now she’s making a career of her one death. Dad doesn’t exist. Dad never existed. She had us without him.
Our visit with the realtor is for her a waking nightmare. We’re buying her last house. What if? she says, then loses the thread forever. Her breathing is confused and shallow, noisy, ineffectual, disturbingly occasional. Her tissues are in panic, but in her eyes a generous urgent willingness to laugh off what is after all the very funny comic horror of her confusion if only I will signal her please signal her that I am laughing too. This is richer than fear. For mother now my hair is on fire and only she notices but no one will listen and maybe after all it’s just a style.
The realtor says my mother won’t earn interest on her escrow and I say Of course and my mother has to trust her son whose hair is on fire but who doesn’t seem to notice. The realtor will not look at her. He aims his casual agency at me. His days begin and end in flame. Commissions are the warmth radiating from buyers with their heads ablaze. He shows me where to have her sign and hands me a flaming pen.
Mother forgets. The world she believes to be changing so quickly is really only breathing, burn out, burn in. I show her where to sign. She’s searching my face for a clue. She’ll cry before she signs, I know, but she will sign. If I can hold my breath and take the heat, she’ll sign. Together we stand and burn.
Copyright ©1997-2006 David Hodges
Very Short Novels 
5 comments
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October 27, 2006 at 7:58 pm
meta4man
This story upon first read, makes me think I have missed something. Maybe I am not sharp but I am left with the feeling that there is much more hidden in this prose, and all of this is a good thing.
What I do get, is one electrically charged scene, and the surety that there are lifetimes of motives behind the simple gestures and tragic circumstances.
I want to come back and read it later, but also, I want to comment on it now. This is very sharp writing, Carefully chosen lines and descriptions set a hostile pace and environment, I can feel the heat myself, but am not sure completely where it comes from. And I’ll be back to maybe figure it out next time.
Thanks for sharing
That’s a very generous reading, meta4man, for which I thank you. I hope I’ve done something to earn it and your return visit.
–David
October 28, 2006 at 2:24 am
caveblogem
Nice work, David. I particularly like “aims his casual agency.” You play with liminal words like Elvis Costello or Kurt Cobain.
Now, that’s a compliment, caveblogem! I hadn’t thought about it (in so many words), but when you work as I do (in just so many words), the comparison to songwriting seems very apt. Nice word, too, liminal. It describes the place so many of my little novels operate, in between, poised on thresholds, working in secret just below perception. Can’t thank you enough.
–David
October 28, 2006 at 9:27 pm
sarah flanigan
david,
While reading this story I wondered if your mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s. I’m only aware of this because I have a very close friend whose parents (both) were struck with this disease. His mother passed about a year ago, but his father is rapidly descending into the disease. It’s truly heartbreaking because nothing can be done to even arrest the condition.
From this I feel you are a good and devoted son – your mother is blessed to have you in her life.
sarah
Your kindness is touching, sarah. But, this is not my mother, and it’s not me. Some of my narrators are a little despicable. I won’t want to be mistaken for them, either.
–David
October 31, 2006 at 7:56 am
M. Shahin
This is a sad but powerful piece, David. What an opening! You have a way of capturing attention from the get go. It is always a pleasure coming to read your stories. Original and fresh; endearing and not so endearing characters, but what interesting characters inhabit your stories.
Thanks, mshahin. I come to your site for inspiration.
–David
April 29, 2009 at 12:54 pm
freakytype
Damn – you’re so awesome. Will you stop making it so difficult for us unawesome people to become awesome? By phrasing everything so perfectly, you make us feel super … unintelligent. Gorsh- I should hate you.
Please let me have my one tiny skill, freakytype. You continue to be awesome at whatever you’re awesome at and we’ll agree not to hate you for that. Thank you very much for your comment and welcome to Very Short Novels.
–David