A Woman on the Street
I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening,
when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster. It
was just after dark. A blustery March wind whipped the steam coming out of
the manholes, and people hurried along the sidewalks with their collars
turned up. I was stuck in traffic two blocks from the party where I was
heading.
Mom stood fifteen feet away. She had tied rags around her shoulders to
keep out the spring chill and was picking through the trash while her dog,
a black-and-white terrier mix, played at her feet. Mom’s gestures were all
familiar – the way she tilted her head and thrust out her lower lip when
studying items of potential value that she’d hoisted out of the Dumpster,
the way her eyes widened with childish glee when she found something she
liked. Her long hair was streaked with gray, tangled and matted, and her
eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, but still she reminded me of the
mom she’d been when I was a kid, swan-diving off cliffs and painting in
the desert and reading Shakespeare aloud. Her cheekbones were still high
and strong, but the skin was parched and ruddy from all those winters and
summers exposed to the elements. To the people walking by, she probably
looked like any of the thousands of homeless people in New York City.
It had been months since I laid eyes on Mom, and when she looked up, I was
overcome with panic that she’d see me and call out my name, and that
someone on the way to the same party would spot us together and Mom would
introduce herself and my secret would be out.
I slid down in the seat and asked the driver to turn around and take me
home to Park Avenue.
The taxi pulled up in front of my building, the doorman held the door for
me, and the elevator man took me up to my floor. My husband was working
late, as he did most nights, and the apartment was silent except for the
click of my heels on the polished wood floor. I was still rattled from
seeing Mom, the unexpectedness of coming across her, the sight of her
rooting happily through the Dumpster. I put some Vivaldi on, hoping the
music would settle me down.
I looked around the room. There were the turn-of-the-century
bronze-and-silver vases and the old books with worn leather spines that
I’d collected at flea markets. There were the Georgian maps I’d had
framed, the Persian rugs, and the overstuffed leather armchair I liked to
sink into at the end of the day. I’d tried to make a home for myself here,
tried to turn the apartment into the sort of place where the person I
wanted to be would live. But I could never enjoy the room without worrying
about Mom and Dad huddled on a sidewalk grate somewhere. I fretted about
them, but I was embarrassed by them, too, and ashamed of myself for
wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while my parents were busy
keeping warm and finding something to eat.
What could I do? I’d tried to help them countless times, but Dad would
insist they didn’t need anything, and Mom would ask for something silly,
like a perfume atomizer or a membership in a health club. They said that
they were living the way they wanted to.
After ducking down in the taxi so Mom wouldn’t see me, I hated myself – hated
my antiques, my clothes, and my apartment. I had to do something, so
I called a friend of Mom’s and left a message. It was our system of
staying in touch. It always took Mom a few days to get back to me, but
when I heard from her, she sounded, as always, cheerful and casual, as
though we’d had lunch the day before. I told her I wanted to see her and
suggested she drop by the apartment, but she wanted to go to a restaurant.
She loved eating out, so we agreed to meet for lunch at her favorite
Chinese restaurant.
Mom was sitting at a booth, studying the menu, when I arrived. She’d made
an effort to fix herself up. She wore a bulky gray sweater with only a few
light stains, and black leather men’s shoes. She’d washed her face, but
her neck and temples were still dark with grime.
She waved enthusiastically when she saw me. “It’s my baby girl!” she
called out. I kissed her cheek. Mom had dumped all the plastic packets of
soy sauce and duck sauce and hot-and-spicy mustard from the table into her
purse. Now she emptied a wooden bowl of dried noodles into it as well. “A
little snack for later on,” she explained.
We ordered. Mom chose the Seafood Delight. “You know how I love my
seafood,” she said.
She started talking about Picasso. She’d seen a retrospective of his work
and decided he was hugely overrated. All the cubist stuff was gimmicky, as
far as she was concerned. He hadn’t really done anything worthwhile after
his Rose Period.
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
Her smile faded. “What makes you think I need your help?”
“I’m not rich,” I said. “But I have some money. Tell me what it is you
need.”
She thought for a moment. “I could use an electrolysis treatment.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. If a woman looks good, she feels good.”
“Come on, Mom.” I felt my shoulders tightening up, the way they invariably
did during these conversations. “I’m talking about something that could
help you change your life, make it better.”
“You want to help me change my life?” Mom asked. “I’m fine. You’re the one
who needs help. Your values are all confused.”
“Mom, I saw you picking through trash in the East Village a few days ago.”
“Well, people in this country are too wasteful. It’s my way of recycling.”
She took a bite of her Seafood Delight. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
“I was too ashamed, Mom. I hid.”
Mom pointed her chopsticks at me. “You see?” she said. “Right there.
That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re way too easily embarrassed. Your
father and I are who we are. Accept it.”
“And what am I supposed to tell people about my parents?”
“Just tell the truth,” Mom said. “That’s simple enough.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Glass Castle
by Jeannette Walls
Copyright © 2005 by Jeannette Walls.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Scribner
Copyright © 2005
Jeannette Walls
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-7432-4754-X
