Nat tried to speak but his voice was dry and silent and the sound he made was a long weird vowel.
Yeah, that’s good, Johnny said. Hey, Mike, you got that piece of paper?
Mike nodded and extracted a small folded sheet from his jacket pocket and handed it to Johnny, who stood reading it for a moment by the sink. Then he turned and faced Nat. 503 East Fourth, number thirty, he said. That mean anything to you?
My mom, Nat said.
That’s right. That an apartment?
Trailer.
Ah, of course it is, he said. Then he stepped forward and knelt beside him. I’m a businessman, he said. All I want is what you owe me. Do you understand that?
Yes, Nat said. He was shaking with fear now, trembling everywhere.
Let’s get this taken care of. Maybe you can borrow something from your mom.
I’ll try, he said.
Good boy, Johnny said. That’s a good boy. His hand touched Nat’s hair, slowly, almost tenderly, stroking it for a moment and patting Nat’s shoulder. Then he stood. Let’s get the fuck out of here, he said and in the next moment all three of them were out the door.
NAT’S MOTHER had gained some weight since he was a child, becoming heavy and pear-shaped, but otherwise she was just the same: an immovable woman, now living alone in the trailer on food stamps and doing occasional piecework for a mail-order company she had worked for as long as Nat could remember, stringing beads onto thin clear fishing line over and over again, her eyes on the television, hands moving without thought, rising for the bathroom or to make herself lunch or dinner or to refresh the Long Island iced teas she drank from a huge plastic tumbler, one after the other, until at last passing out in the chair again.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom, he said, emerging from the filthy, cramped kitchen with a dinner plate. Fried ham, canned beans, and cranberry sauce.
Oh that looks good, his mother said.
He set the plate on the TV tray and then returned to the kitchen for his own and sat on the sofa, pulling the second tray nearer to him and setting the plate upon it.
I’m glad you’re here, Nathaniel, his mother said. I miss you so much.
I know you do.
Are you still having fun in the city?
Sure, it’s fun, he said. There’s a lot to do.
Do you get to see any of those shows?
Too busy working, he said. Loretta Lynn was in town a few months ago.
Oh my gosh, she said. I just saw her on Hee Haw. Does she look like she does on TV?
He had not seen her but he said, Yeah, she looks just like on TV.
That’s so exciting, she said.
Yeah, it’s a fun place.
They watched Simon & Simon for a time without speaking and when he looked over at her again she was staring at him.
What? he said.
What’s the matter, honey?
Nothing. I’m fine.
Something’s wrong. I can tell.
He looked away from her now, back to the television, where the commercials had ended and the program was just starting up again, but when he glanced at his mother once more her gaze had not left him. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, he said. That’s all.
You can tell your mom, you know.
I know. It’s not anything important.
Sounds like it is.
Just trying to do the right thing.
That’s all you can do, she said.
Yeah, well, it’s hard to figure out what that is sometimes.
You know what your father used to say? Take care of your people. There’s not much more to it than that, is there?
I don’t know. He didn’t take care of us.
Don’t say that, honey, she said. He couldn’t help what happened. Neither could Billy. Those are just accidents.
Accidents? They were both so drunk they drove off the road.
She sipped at her tea and then lifted her cigarette and puffed at it briefly before returning it to the TV tray unfolded at her side. You know, you look just like your father, she said after a time. You’ve got his sad eyes.
I’m fine, Mom, he said again. He looked to the television again but could feel her staring at him and at last he turned to face her once more.
You know you always have a place here at home.
The statement nearly brought him to tears. I know that, he said.
Well, just so you know. No matter what happens you’ve always got a home.
He nodded.
What’s happening with A.J.?
Nat did not at first understand the question but then he glanced to the television to where the characters were embroiled in some kind of intrigue. Oh, he said, I’m not sure. I guess we should try to figure it out.
It’s a mystery, she said.
Always is.
The next time he looked over at her, she was asleep in the chair. He watched the program for a few minutes and then rose and changed the channel. The next program was mostly static but he sat and watched it anyway, rising again to pour himself a glass of vodka from the bottles his mother had always kept up in the cabinet above the stove, sitting again as that program ended and the next began.
He and Rick had driven to Battle Mountain in near silence, listening to cassettes and smoking until the car seemed to contain within it a haze of fog, and when they reached the row of mobile homes and travel trailers at last the only thought that came to Nat’s mind was to ask himself where he could go if not here. If not Battle Mountain then where?
Rick’s mother had come to the door of her trailer looking ten or twenty years older than the last time Nat had seen her just a few months before, her skin a rough gray and her hair bleached to a crackling blond that spiked all around her head like an exploded bird’s nest. She screamed when she saw Rick standing there and in that scream Nat could see her as already dead, a creature comprised entirely of bones, her mouth a dry hole filled with gray teeth. She threw her arms around her son, drawing him into the trailer, the door snapping shut behind them.
Nat’s mother confirmed what he already knew. Mrs. Harris’s cancer had metastasized everywhere through her body. Nat’s mother did not know how much time she had left but she told him she would be surprised if the woman lasted more than a year.
I don’t think Rick knows it’s that bad, Nat had said in response.
I’m sure he knows now, his mother said. It’s not like she can keep it a secret.
He had half expected that Rick would knock at the door at some point during that night, looking for a drink or a cigarette or just to get away from the sad sight of his dying mother but no such knock came and eventually Nat wandered to the back of the trailer, to the room he had shared, so many years ago, with his brother, first in a double bed where they lay side by side, and later in two single beds, and finally with only one.
The room was empty but for his old bed and a few boxes stacked in one corner. When Bill was alive, there had been a poster above his bed and sometimes when he could not sleep Nat would stare at it, its features faint in the dim light from the slatted window: the cover of the Eagles album Hotel California, a dark image of some fancy Spanish-style building flanked by the silhouettes of palm trees, the title emblazoned in blue neon in one corner, the memory of which spawned another, a time when he had been sitting out in the desert at some bonfire party by the gravel pits, sixteen or seventeen years old, and the title song from that album had come pouring out of someone’s dark car in the night. Nat had been stoned or drunk or both, and when those guitars began they seemed to move him, physically, to float him out across the desert, and at the start of the vocal melody he was indeed on a dark desert highway and the cool wind was in his hair. And his brother was dead. That was what he remembered most of all. He was stoned and drunk and listening to the Eagles and his brother was dead.