Chapter 4 Chick's Mom in the Second Morning

My father once said to me: You can be mother's son, or you can be father's son.But you can't be both. So I became my father's son.I imitate the way he walks.I imitated his low, smoky laugh.I carry a baseball glove with me because he loves baseball.I caught every hard ball he threw, though some shook my hands so badly that I almost cried out. After school I'd go to his liquor store on Clift Road and stay there until dinnertime, crouching in the storeroom with empty cardboard boxes until he got off work.We rode home together in his sky blue Buick.Sometimes we would get in the car parked in the driveway and he would smoke a Chesterfield and listen to the news on the radio.

I had a younger sister named Roberta, and in those days she wore pink ballet slippers everywhere she went.When we ate at restaurants in town, my mother would pull her into the ladies' room, her pink feet gliding across the floor tiles, and my father would lead me into the gentlemen's room.In my little heart, I think this is the task assigned by life: I follow my father, and my sister follows my mother.Lady's.Gentleman's.mother's.Dad's. A son that belonged to Papa. I am a son who belongs to Dad.I was like this in front of my father's son until that hot, cloudless Saturday morning in the spring of the fifth grade.That day we agreed to go to a league game against the St. Louis Cardinals.The Cardinals wear red wool uniforms, sponsored by Connors Plumbing.

The sun was warming the kitchen, and I put on my long socks, picked up my baseball mitt, and saw my mother sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette.Mother was a beauty, but she didn't look beautiful that morning.She bit her lip and looked away from me.I still remember the smell of burnt toast wafting from the kitchen.I thought she was upset because she messed up breakfast. I'm fine with cereal chips.I said. I took the bowl out of the bowl prong. She cleared her throat and said, Honey, what time does your ball game start? Are you sick?I asked. She shook her head, resting her cheek with one hand.What time does your ball game start?

I have no idea.I shrugged.At this time I was not wearing a watch. I pulled out the fresh milk in the carafe and pulled out a large box of corn chips.I poured out the corn chips so quickly that some bounced out of the bowl and onto the table.Mother picked up the fallen chips, one at a time, and put them in her own palm. I'll take you.She whispered: No matter what time the game starts. Why can't Dad take me there?I asked. Your dad is not here. Where did he go? Mother didn't answer. When is dad coming back? Mother gripped the corn chips tightly and they crumbled into crumbs.

From that day on, I became a mother's son. Now, that's what I mean when I say I saw my dead mother.She was standing next to the players' dugout, wearing a lavender jacket and holding a purse.She didn't say anything, just looked at me. I tried to push myself up towards her, but a sharp pain pierced my muscles and I lay back down again.My mind wanted to call her name out loud, but no sound came out of my throat. I hung my head and clasped my hands.I push again; this time I lift more than half of my body off the ground.I look ahead. She is gone. I don't expect you to believe me.Pretty crazy, I know.You don't see dead people.You won't have this kind of visitor.You don't miraculously survive jumping off a water tower with a mortal determination, and then see your dear deceased mother standing on the third base line of the baseball field with her purse.

I've thought about everything you're thinking about.A hallucination, a whim, a drunkard's dream, the wild thoughts of a troubled mind.Like I said before, I don't expect you to believe me. But that's how it is.She was there; I saw her.I lay on the court for a while, not sure how long.Then I got up and walked around.I slap the grit and debris off my knees and arms.I was bleeding from dozens of wounds on my body, mostly minor and a few more serious.I had the salty taste of blood in my mouth. I walk across a familiar meadow.The morning breeze blew the branches, and the yellow leaves fell like a storm.I committed suicide twice and failed both times.Is there anything more pathetic than this?

I walked towards the former residence, wholeheartedly wanting to complete this task. Dear Charlie, I wish you a happy day at school today! I'll come to you at noon and we'll have a milkshake. Love you every day! Mother (Note preserved by Chick Bernato, circa 1954)