Love, Mom
Carol Mangis

On a May night, Karen dressed up, way up, and then she dressed us up too. She put Virginia Slim Menthols into her little pink sequined purse, along with red lipstick and a spritzer bottle of Yardley perfume. She sprayed her frosted hair till little beads glittered, and then we went down the street to Mr. and Mrs. Panageotis’s house. It was around six o’clock, and I smelled cooking lamb, and tomatoes, and some spices that I don’t know the names for. My mouth felt like it was dissolving. I hadn’t had anything to eat but Captain Crunch for two days, and not even milk this morning. I wanted meat. Karen knew that, and so did she, and she was going to get us some. She knocked shave-and- a-haircut on the wood door, then rang the bell a couple of times, dingdong, dingdong. Mrs. Panageotis opened the door a crack, saw the three of us standing outside there, me staring at the side of the door frame, Carla looking up expectantly, and Karen smiling with all her teeth showing.

"Karen honey, we’re about to sit down to dinner here. What kin I do for ya?"

"Oh, Moira, I’m sorry," Karen cooed. "We usually eat later. The girls were all excited about these new dresses of theirs, and they wanted to show ‘em off to you and Al."

The dresses weren’t all that new, but Carla twirled around anyway, like a little ballerina, acting five years old instead of eleven. I edged behind Karen; I could feel my face get hot and red, like it always did when she was lying. Carla couldn’t have cared less. She was hungry too.

Mrs. Panageotis got a wrinkle between her eyebrows. She looked like she was about to slam the door when Mr. Panageotis shoved his grizzly face under her the flap of her white arm, between the elbow and the door. He was just about on my eye level. Even though he was three feet away, I could still smell his breath when he spoke: beer, smoke and garlic, and something else, sour and sick.

"Look-a-this, Moira! What a couple little angels come to our door!" He flung the screen door open – Karen scooted out of the way just in time. "Oops – watch your bee-hind there, Karen. Whyon’chu all come on in for a minute? Karen, have a beer, we gotta few minutes till food’s onna table."

"Al!" Mrs. Panageotis’s frizzy gray curls were practically dancing on her head, and her silver rimmed teeth sparkled as she spoke. "You come inna kitchen with me a minute."

He followed her in like a puppy, bent over and limping a little; then he turned around at the door and winked at Carla. "Siddown, kiddos." We didn’t move, though, the three of us, we just stayed by the door. Karen shook a cigarette out of her pack and stood there with it hanging from one side of her mouth, unlighted. She smoothed the empty part of the pack over and over between her slim fingers. Then she took the cigarette out of her mouth and yawned. While I watched her, I tried to hear what was going on in the kitchen. All I could make out was Mrs. Panageotis’s whisper, like the hissing of a cat. After a little of that, Mr. Panageotis’s gravel sounded out more distinctly – "Momma, them kiddos ain’t got a Daddy! We ain’t gonna turn them away from the door, you hear? Gimme two beers, and get some more plate onna table … DO it!"

As Mrs. Panageotis slammed plates in the kitchen, Mr. Panageotis came back out, popped the tops on two cans of Iron City, and handed one to Karen. He took a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped his forehead with it, then stuck it back in. "Karen, youse stay and have a bite with us, if ya like. We got a big pan a moussaka out there." He bent down and looked Carla in the face. "You like Greek food, little one?"

"Yeah, Mr. Pancreas." He whooped, and Carla leaned an inch back. "What a little smartie! Ain’t you the smart one, huh. I’ll bet you do good in school."

Carla blinked and smiled. She did not do good in school, that was the thing. I knew this for a fact, and had proof, since she brought home a note last week from her home-room teacher and it was still sitting on our kitchen table where Karen threw it, because she had not been in the mood for reading notes like that. It said that Carla had a problem paying attention, and that she needed to complete her homework assignments or she was going to have to go to summer school and maybe get held back. That note made me laugh, at first, until Karen told me I was in charge of getting Carla to finish her homework, and getting Carla to do anything is no easy job. She just can’t sit still for more than a minute at a time, even when you yell at her and tell her she’s going to flunk out. She’s popped up before you know it, staring into the refrigerator, looking out the window, kneeling on the floor trying to get the little gray mouse, who she named Popeye, to come out. So I just started doing her homework for her, which is probably what she had in mind all along.

But Carla didn’t let Mr. Panageotis confuse her for more than a second or two; in fact, he probably didn’t even see her flinch. "Call me Mr. P.," he said.

"You wanna hear what song we sang in school today, Mr. P.? I sang it so good the teacher had me sing it in front of everyone."

"Ya don’t say. That’s just great, kiddo. C’mere, over by me, let’s hear your song now." He was sunk into the big, soft couch, with his head greasing up the yellow lace doily Mrs. Panageotis had stuck there. Carla went over next to the arm of the couch, and started to sing "Kookaburra", one of my favorite songs from elementary school. She only knew one verse—I knew more than one verse, and I hadn’t sung it since 6^th grade. It didn’t matter though, because Mr. Panageotis seemed to lose interest anyway about halfway through and was reaching around in his pants for something. Right about when she finished singing he found a crumpled pack of Chesterfields and took one out. Karen reached over with her silver Zippo before he could light it and clicked on the flame for him.

"Thanks there, Karen." His bleary old eyes took in Karen’s dress, then her bare tanned legs, freshly shaved, then all the way down to her silver sandals with the buckles and heels, only a little bit worn, that Aunt Lucy gave her for her birthday. "Yer lookin good, hon. How’s Fat Barry treatin ya?"

Mr. P. was good friends with Fat Barry, the owner of Bee El’s Restaurant, where Karen used to work till last Wednesday when she hit Fat Barry on the arm with a half-filled coffee pot and it broke. He had rubbed his hand on her rear, she told us, and it was just a reflex because she was pouring coffee and that’s what she had in her hand. If she had been holding a slice of bread, that’s what she would have hit him with. If she had been holding an ax, then she would have hit him with that. She wished it had been either one of those things, because the coffee pot just made him madder than hell; a slice of bread would have made him laugh, and an ax might have killed him. But when he got mad, he hit—luckily, most of Karen’s dresses covered where he smacked her. She looked a little nervously at Mr. P. I guess she was surprised he hadn’t heard about the coffee pot.

"I resigned that job, Al. It’s just too hard on the dogs, and I missed seeing my girls."

"Oh ho. Fat’s gonna miss you. You’re a hell of a good waitress, he always told me."

Karen laughed, a little too loud. "He’ll survive without me. How’mi and my girls gonna survive, now that’s another story."

They both laughed then, like that was a big joke. I looked at Carla, she looked at me, and neither one of us was laughing.

Some great smells were coming from that kitchen, along with some silence from Mrs. P. I couldn’t blame her, really. It was pretty obvious Mr. P. liked Karen and Carla, even me, better than he liked her. I mean, this was the third time we’d done this little trick, and most people would have caught on, unless they had their own reasons for feeding us.

Dinner was weird. Mr. P. and Karen talked to each other like they were in a restaurant somewhere, just letting Mrs. P. wait on them. She wouldn’t even sit down; she just came out of the kitchen with the dishes full of food—great food, delicious, warm, meaty, Greek food, which she ladled onto our plates. Then she waddled back into the kitchen without saying one word. We could hear her crashing things around again. Carla and I jumped when things got loud, but neither of us missed a beat, forking big piles of food into our mouths. But Karen and Mr. P. just kept drinking beer and chatting away, about Fat Barry, things on the news like Cambodia and Tricky Dick Nixon, about how good the Pirates were doing this season. I was amazed at how much Karen knew about these things, since she never watched TV or picked up a newspaper. I decided she has a talent for conversation, something I definitely don’t have. If you have it, you can chat about anything at all, pretty much by agreeing with the person you’re speaking with a lot and saying things like "Isn’t that always the way?" and "Some things never change" and "They’re all a bunch of crooks."

I got full kind of fast. I surprised myself by not wanting seconds, and all I could think about was getting home and going to bed. It was getting a little late by then, for me anyway. Carla likes to stay up for Johnny Carson. But she looked kind of pooped too. She had a smear of tomato sauce on her chin. I didn’t tell her; I liked the way it made her look, like a littler kid than she was, like a baby almost. And also because she’s usually so careful about looking neat, so that made it funnier. Her eyelids were drooping down; she looked like Karen, after a double shift and a few beers.

Karen’s plate was still full of moussaka. She was on her third or fourth Iron City. I think she had a cigarette lit during the entire dinner, and she was putting them out in the dirt of a plant pot on the floor behind her. Mr. P. didn’t seem to notice, but I knew Mrs. P. would have a fit when she found the butts. Karen was doing it on purpose. She pushed back from the table and crossed her legs; her dress was way up around her thighs. Mr. P. couldn’t look away from them. He was still eating, huge bites of food, barely chewing before he swallowed, staring at Karen’s legs. She wiggled around a little, acting like she didn’t notice how that affected him. I noticed that she has thin elbows; they come down in a sharp point from her upper arms, which are getting a little flappy. Mr. P. burped, loud. It sounded like the last of the bath water going down the drain.

"Excuse me, ladies." The burp distracted him from Karen; he looked at Carla and I like he had just remembered we were in the room.

"You’re excused," said Carla. I was trying so hard not to laugh that I bit the end of my tongue.

"It’s the IC. Lets out the bad air, eh, Al?" said Karen.

Mr. P. wiped his mouth on his wrist, smearing sauce on it, the sight of which sobered me up. His face was getting red, and I hoped he wasn’t about to have a heart attack. He wasn’t the type to get embarrassed over a burp. Karen coughed, then spoke.

"Al, can you and I talk in the living room for a minute? My girls can help Moira with the dishes."

I looked at her, surprised. Carla looked at her with knives coming out of her eyes. "Mommy, I’m tired. Can we go home?"

"Get up off your spoiled little asses and take the dishes into the kitchen," Karen said, with no particular emotion behind it, but Carla and I hopped up and started clearing the table. "And you thank Mrs. P. for dinner. Stay in there till I call you. We’re having a grownup talk."

We traveled into the kitchen with arms full of plates, silverware, and platters, dumped them into the sink, and went out for the rest. Mrs. P. sat at the kitchen table looking at a wall. I loved that clean kitchen. The wallpaper had a pattern of woven bamboo, tan colored, with dark green leaves twined around it and a sky-blue background. It made me feel like I was somewhere else. Even better than the wallpaper, there was a small gold cage hung by the window over the sink that had a little bright-green bird inside, sleeping. Tweety-Bird. "I love your wallpaper," I said.

I don’t even know if she heard me. She was holding a small glass of some clear, thick drink that smelled like licorice—I could smell it from across the kitchen. There was a bottle by her elbow. She looked like she was thinking some very deep thoughts. Carla bumped me on purpose, and I dropped a big plate into the sink, and Mrs. P. didn’t even turn around.

I wondered what Karen and Mr. P. were discussing. Carla was slapping leftovers into some Tupperware she found on the counter, which I don’t think was clean. I ran water over the dishes and stuck them into the dishwasher kind of randomly, wherever they fit. It seemed like there should be a neater way to do it, but we didn’t have a dishwasher so I wasn’t sure of the system. We were done in about fifteen minutes. Carla looked over at me.

"I’m going home," she said. There was a kitchen door that led to the Panageotis’s backyard, and she was going to make a break for it.

"Karen’s going to kill you. You should wait for her."

"Fuck her." When Carla said that, I looked over at Mrs. P. She seemed to be sleeping in a sitting-up position.

"OK, go. I’ll tell her you had to throw up."

Carla rolled her eyes, but I knew she was grateful, and I also knew she knew I would always cover up for her. I sometimes think I was born for that reason. She opened the door and flew away into the night.

I didn’t want to disturb Karen and Mr. P.’s conversation, but I also didn’t want to stay in the kitchen with Mrs. P. There was a carton of Mr. P.’s Chesterfields on the counter by the sink; I thought that a cigarette might wake me up. I took a pack, found some matches in a drawer, and stepped out onto the back porch. Sitting on the lowest step, I opened the pack and took out a cigarette. It smelled wonderful as I pulled it across my nostrils, dark, rich, and woody. I lit a match, held it to the tip of the cigarette, and waited till the tobacco glowed red. I knew better than to suck hard enough to light it; that would have sent me into a coughing fit. Just take in a little smoke, hold it in my mouth, maybe breath it down mixed with a lot of air, and that way, I wouldn’t cough. I tucked the pack and the matches into the belt of my dress; they’d last me weeks, if Karen or Carla didn’t find them.

The night was quiet as I sat there with my cigarette. There were the usual insect sounds, chirps and squeaks coming muffled through the heavy, warm air. A rosebush next to where I sat sent out perfume to me. I was getting a peaceful feeling, and even though I knew it would be gone soon enough, I enjoyed it. Just being alone, with lots of space around me, a full stomach, and a cigarette; that could be enough sometimes.

I heard a screech from inside the house. At first, I thought it was the green bird, but then I realized it was Mrs. P. She yelled some words, in Greek I guess, then "Get outta my house, you pig!"

I dropped my cigarette into the grass and ran inside, though it was the last place I wanted to go; but my feet moved anyway, fast. I got to the doorway to the living room. Mr. P. was sitting on the couch, looking dazed. His trousers were down around his ankles, and his hands covered his naked thing. Mrs. P. had a frying pan in one hand. She was waving the pan around, and with her other hand she was pushing Karen out the front door, but Karen was fighting back, trying to get around her. She saw me at the kitchen door.

"Where’s Carla?" she screamed in a higher voice than I was used to. "Get your sister! Get my purse!" Tears rolled down her face.

It was a second or two before I could answer.

"She’s gone, she went home already, she’s already home."

Mrs. P. was still pushing and yelling; "You come inna my house, you eat my food and you dare to touch my husband! Take your brats and your filthy things, get the hell outta here, you goddamned whore!"

I ran over to the coffee table where Karen’s sequined purse was laying, snatched it up, trying not to look at Mr. P. as I ran by, almost tripping on the plastic mat underneath. I darted around Mrs. P. She had a handful of Karen’s hair by then, and was pulling hard. I kicked her leg, and she let go of the hair, so we got out, fast. She slammed the door, and we could hear her screaming sounds that didn’t even sound like words anymore, even Greek words.

Karen collapsed onto her knees. Her hair was standing straight up where Mrs. P. had been pulling on it. I was afraid Mrs. P. would call the police, so I tried to get Karen to stand up. Finally she wobbled to a standing position, and leaning over on me, she let me lead her to the sidewalk and we made our way back up the street to our house. I could have used Carla then, but of course, in the crunch she was nowhere to be found. While we walked, I tried to think about what I had seen. I felt sick. Who would want to touch Mr. P. or his thing? I decided Karen couldn’t have been touching him; he had probably taken it out himself, and Mrs. P. just jumped to conclusions. That made me feel a little better. I was glad I had stolen his cigarettes; I could feel the sharp paper corners of the box digging into my waist. I decided I would break their living room window in a couple of nights, after things died down.

Karen quieted after we got home. I sat her in the recliner by the TV, leaned it back for her, and put up the footrest. She closed her eyes. I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, added a lot of sugar and a slosh of gin, took a sip, then brought it out to her. While she sipped, I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I looked into the mirror, and saw my face all hollow looking, like Twiggy.

When I came back out, Karen looked straight at me, for the first time since we left the P.’s house.

"Goodnight, Mommy," I said, hoping that would be that. But she pulled me over to her, set the tea down on top of the TV, and started hugging me, hard. I was mushed up into her chest, and she smelled of Yardley’s perfume and beer and smoke.

"Honey, did you get a good dinner tonight?" she said, slurred and slow. "How was that dinner, pretty girl?"

"Mommy…" I said pulling away from her. I couldn’t stand there and pretend that we had just spent a normal night at our friendly neighbors’ house, and that she was a great Mommy, and that I was her sweet little kid. "Why did Mr. P. pull his thing out?" I don’t know what I thought she would say. She let me go, and looked away from me.

"Is that what you think? You think your Mommy’s a whore, like Mrs. P. said?"

"I don’t know."

She looked at me. Her face looked so tired that I almost felt sorry for her. All the makeup was off, and her eyes were puffy.

" We were just having a little talk. I want my job back. I thought he could talk to Fat Barry for me." She looked away again. "Whatever I do, ever since you were born, baby, I do it for you. Remember that."

I remembered more than she could imagine, I thought; she had no idea. "Thanks, Mommy." I turned around and went to the bedroom, left her to think and stew away all by herself.

In the morning, Carla shook me awake.

"Get up!" she hissed. "You’re gonna miss the bus."

I was kind of surprised. "Since when do you care?"

"OK, miss it. Be a bitch." She flounced away. She was wearing the same dress she wore to the Panageotis’s house the night before. I saw a couple of wet spots in front where she had sponged stains out of it. I pulled some jeans on, and a big flannel shirt my dad had left behind the last time he visited.

Karen was sleeping where I had left her. I picked up the tea cup and put it in the sink, grabbed a handful of Captain Crunch, my books, and ran out just in time to get the bus. Carla was already onboard, sitting with some snobby girls she knew. When she saw me, though, she came over to the seat I had fallen into when the bus took off with a jerk. I was really surprised now; she never acknowledged me in front of her friends if she could help it. She sat down beside me.

"You could at least brush your hair. It looks like a bird nest." I ignored her, and she was quiet for a minute. Then: "How late did you have to stay last night?"

"Not too." I pretended to be fascinated by a clump of pine trees we were passing.

"OK. I know something happened after I left. Was it something I’m gonna be embarrassed about?"

"Let’s just say I don’t think we’re gonna be eating moussaka for a while."

"God. What did she do?"

I thought about Mr. P.’s eyes, his freckled, hairy hands crossed over his thing kind of dainty, like a shy little boy. "Nothing. Just got drunk, and Mrs. P. got mad and kicked us out."

Carla leaned back and covered her eyes with her arm. "Oh, great. Jesus, I hate Karen, I really do. She always screws up."

I thought of Karen, probably still snoring in the recliner, her head turned to the side with a little line of drool coming out of the side of her mouth. I knew her neck would be sore when she woke up. She would shuffle into the kitchen and make a cup of tea; sit at the table, drink it, swallow some aspirin, smoke a few cigarettes; not even think about eating, probably. I felt Karen’s day stretched before me, long and dull, not a thing to look forward to except Carla and me coming home, and I suspected that event had lost its thrill for Karen a while ago.

"Shut up, you little asshole." I suddenly wanted to slap Carla’s face, feel the smart of it on my palm and see the red imprint bloom on her white cheek.

She whipped around and stared at me. I never talked to her that way; for some reason, the words had fallen from my mouth, like toads. Carla and I, with all our fighting, are usually a team against Karen. We make fun of her; Carla has a killer way of imitating her drunken walk, a stagger that tries to be sexy. But there was nothing funny going on.

Carla didn’t say anything the rest of the way to school, but she stayed in the seat beside me, and sat next to me again on the way home. When we got there, Karen was out, but there was a note on the kitchen table: Got my job back! Working late tonite. Do homework. Love, Mom.

Carla and I did our homework, ate the last of the Captain Crunch, and went to bed.