Chapter 7- Mombie

I always visit mom on Sundays. She lives alone on the west side of town. It's a pain in the neck getting over there, I have to take 2 trains and a bus. I asked her to move closer to me and she almost punched me. It was like she believed it was a crime to leave that house. Sure, it was where I grew up, where Dad died, and was only a block away from her church, but the neighborhood has gotten bad over the years. I worry about her safety sometimes.

I walked in the door and immediately smell memories. You know how every family has a unique smell? My mom is a mix of fresh bread, flowers, and moth balls. "Mom... Where are you?" I call out. No answer. I move through the hallway into the kitchen. There's a pot of something gurgling on the stove. It smells disgusting. Rancid. "Mom?" I call out again. Still no reply. I'm about to head upstairs when I spot some movement out of the corner of my eye. It came from the back yard, but I can't tell what it is because Mom insisted on keeping the original glass in the windows. The hand blown panes warp the trees and plants into odd disfigured shapes, and there's something dark walking out there. I open the back door to see my mother trimming her rose bushes.

"Mom- what the heck are you cooking- it smells awful!" she turns and gives me a toothy smile, although missing a few. "Hello sugar, welcome home." She kisses my cheek and pulls me in for a hug. "How was the train?" I notice she's standing in a pile of rose branches. It surrounds her almost like a nest. She trims her roses back every year and uses the branches for kindling in her fireplace. She hasn't lit a fire since we put in central air and heating the year after Dad died and subsequently has a massive thorny pile next to the house that she couldn't possibly use anytime soon.

"Please tell me that's not lunch on the stove" I grimace. "That smell..." She dismisses me with a clipper handed wave. "Those are Mr. Lawrence's shoes" she says nonchalantly. "He was mixing chemicals in his garage and spilled something all over them. I told him I'd fix them up, good as new."

Mr. Lawrence was the old man who lived three doors down. He's the only one who's lived in the neighborhood longer than Mom, and they've been odd friends for years. I remember going over there when I was young and being scared of him. He was a cruel, evil looking man, very grumpy. His house was dark and gloomy, and he spent all his time in a rickety old shop out back, full of diabolical old woodworking tools hanging from the rafters like a torture chamber. Dad always said he just didn't like kids but Mom told me once that he lost his wife and daughter in a fire in the early 40s. I guess they burned alive while he was out in the wood shop and he didn't hear their screams until the house was in full blaze, and by then it was too late to do anything. Mom says he's just got a broken heart and pretends to be mean to stay emotionally distant. Even so, they've remained friends for decades.

"So the smell is old shoe leather boiling?" I inquire. She turns and looks and me with a confident smile. "And turpentine mixed with bath salts. Shame the bad reputation bath salts are getting these days. They're extremely useful. Most people don't know how much you can do with them." She clips off the last few stems leaving thick, thorny stalks poking out of the ground like booby traps. I never understood the appeal of rose bushes, but she loves them.

I help her add the fresh clippings to the top of the pile and open the door for her as we both walked in the house. "So you don't believe that eating bath salts can make someone go mad?" I asked. "Oh I don't know anything about that. It's very possible. I accidentally put a handful in my mouth years ago, mistaking it for rock candy. I wasn't mad but I sure was angry" she said with a smile. My mother was always using plays on words for humor. It was rarely funny. "They don't taste as good as they smell, you know." It made me wonder if the people from those news reports had experienced the same, or if they thought they were oddly delicious.

Over lunch I told her all about my week- about Jeff and his obsession with conspiracy theory and his latest rants about the Zombie outbreak, about my suggestion to recycle, and about Tracy's impromptu visit. "What's wrong?" I asked. "You look disappointed." I would assume that any progress I might make toward eliminating my bachelor status would enthrall her, fill her with hope that she might actually see a grandchild before she passes from this green earth. She sat silent for a minute and then said slowly "I don't meddle in your affairs. You need to live your life the way you feel is best, but.." she paused. "But what?" I inquired with trepidation. I expect this is either the "she's not good enough for you" speech or the "it's inappropriate for a young lady to call on you" talk, but she kind of surprised me. "There's something unusual about that behavior" she said pensively. I could tell she was trying to word carefully. "She doesn't even live close to you, yet she just shows up that early? And she's never expressed any interest in you before..." I explained the lunchtime laughter and the glance after Tracy scolded Jeff. "Still..." we both sat in silence for a minute before a knock on the door startled us out of our thoughts. "That must be Mr. Lawrence." Mom leapt to her feet with a smile. "Get the door, will you dear?"

I walked through the hallway to see a large dark shape muddled by the colored glass panes. He was a broad, ominous man, and when I opened the door the smile on his crooked face disappeared immediately. "Oh, it's you," he said with disappointment. "Your mother here?"

"I'm coming Harold!" Mom chirped from the kitchen. Mr. Lawrence shifted uncomfortably where he stood and I noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes. He had a pair of socks in his hands as though he expected to sit on the doorstep and shod himself then and there. Mom came around the corner with a bucket, two large boot tops poking out of the lip. "Here you are Har..." she stopped short and began to laugh. "Oh Harold, are these your last pair? No wonder!" she chuckled jovially as she handed the bucket to the awkwardly nervous giant of a man. "Put them next to the radiator tonight and they'll be ready in the morning." He grumbled out something like a "yes'm" and turned down the steps. Mother followed his footsteps as she dried off her hands on her apron. "Good man, that Harold Lawrence" she said. "salt of the earth."

We enjoyed a casual dinner together and I helped her arrange the last of her roses in a case before I finally gave her a goodbye hug and kiss. I always wanted to stay longer, but on Sundays the trains stop early, and I'd have to leave now or I'd be walking home.

"Love you mom, see you next week!" I called out as a walked away. "Love you too sweetheart!" she said as she waved a dish rag. "And don't worry about bath salts dear- they're just taking the blame for some crack addict's behavior. After all, we embalmed your father using bath salts, and he hasn't come back yet, has he?"