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Authors: Carol Plum-Ucci
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cough, which made me realize my left eye had been throbbing for some time. It seemed hard to pick out one particular ache when I ached all over, but now it was strong enough that I couldn't control where my mind went.
"...by a goddamn bunch of rabid, fucking goons."
My mother sounded like some bizarre combination of
Alice in Wonderland
and
Boyz N the Hood.
Oma's words returned, about Jack and Jill and kings and queens and countries losing wars.
Was Aleese "Jill" and my father "Jack"? Was this Jeremy Brandruff Ireland "Jack," and some sort of a great leader?
Was my father royalty?
Had he led Aleese to take pictures of a battle?
I enjoyed a number of possibilities until echoes of Aleese's moaning filled my head again. "
Oh ... Mogadishu!
"
I remembered something ... A bunch of guys from school had seen a movie,
Black Hawk Down,
and they came into physics one Monday talking in disgust about the Somali people in the city of Mogadishu, either ... eating American soldiers alive ... or dragging them alive through the streets until they died ... I hadn't been paying enough attention.
Obviously, Aleese had been in Mogadishu at some point, though that information, like most concerning her adult life, had died with her. I knew she had not been in the military and could not have been involved in the
Black Hawk Down
violence, which had occurred in the midnineties. Putting anyone I knew at the events that sparked a movie seemed almost impossible—and with my mother, it seemed almost laughable.
"It wouldn't kill you to pick up after yourself once in a while. I'm not your nursemaid, Aleese."
I'm just back from singing in the choir's holiday show. I'm picking up socks, beer cans, used tissues that have been thrown at the television screen, at yet another depressing documentary. I realize I've kept my posture very straight while picking things up, squatting with my legs turned sideways instead of stooping or bending. It's part of me lately, this perfect posture, along with reaching for perfect, proper English. It sets me at odds with Aleese, assuring me that I don't have to end up like her.
"You don't know what dirt is, brat. You have never seen dirt."
"I've seen you, and I would say that is plenty."
"Yeah ... I guess I'm pretty scurvy anymore. Sorry about that."
It sounds almost sincere. She can sound very sincere for a mo
ment or two. I wait for her to explode into some deplorable punch line, but she doesn't this time.
"Why don't you get some help, Aleese? Why don't you go to a rehab clinic?"
"
Because." She picks up her jelly arm and lets it flop down again like she sometimes does to amuse herself. "Did you know that even if I came up with the money for an amputation, this would still hurt? Did you know it would hurt all the way down to here?" She makes a swiping motion at her hip.
I feel a stab of pity and continue around, picking up whatever she had dropped, thrown, or left around that week. She's manipulative. Oma had always whispered that. I had to be careful not to get sucked in to her pity parties.
"There's got to be something you can do so that you're not always—" I stop. I was going to say, "so horrid. You're like a person possessed by the devil."
She sits up, and at this point I do get scared, because her dark eyes blacken, like they can when she decides to fly at me. She's always stopped short of hitting somehow, but she gets me in death grips—by the arm, the neck. She can be amazingly strong, even with one bad limb.
"So that I'm not always what? What, Cora! So I'm not always bothering
you?
You have no idea how good you have it! You were raised so goddamn spoiled, you need to visit a few other countries. And do you know how easily I could have had an abortion?"
I smooshed Baba tighter under my chin and wished for sleep, but my mind refused to shut down. Jeremy Brandruff Ireland. September 1, 1957–. I reached for the notebook again, to stare at this name, to see if the air still spun when I thought,
"
My
"...by a goddamn bunch of rabid, fucking goons."
My mother sounded like some bizarre combination of
Alice in Wonderland
and
Boyz N the Hood.
Oma's words returned, about Jack and Jill and kings and queens and countries losing wars.
Was Aleese "Jill" and my father "Jack"? Was this Jeremy Brandruff Ireland "Jack," and some sort of a great leader?
Was my father royalty?
Had he led Aleese to take pictures of a battle?
I enjoyed a number of possibilities until echoes of Aleese's moaning filled my head again. "
Oh ... Mogadishu!
"
I remembered something ... A bunch of guys from school had seen a movie,
Black Hawk Down,
and they came into physics one Monday talking in disgust about the Somali people in the city of Mogadishu, either ... eating American soldiers alive ... or dragging them alive through the streets until they died ... I hadn't been paying enough attention.
Obviously, Aleese had been in Mogadishu at some point, though that information, like most concerning her adult life, had died with her. I knew she had not been in the military and could not have been involved in the
Black Hawk Down
violence, which had occurred in the midnineties. Putting anyone I knew at the events that sparked a movie seemed almost impossible—and with my mother, it seemed almost laughable.
"It wouldn't kill you to pick up after yourself once in a while. I'm not your nursemaid, Aleese."
I'm just back from singing in the choir's holiday show. I'm picking up socks, beer cans, used tissues that have been thrown at the television screen, at yet another depressing documentary. I realize I've kept my posture very straight while picking things up, squatting with my legs turned sideways instead of stooping or bending. It's part of me lately, this perfect posture, along with reaching for perfect, proper English. It sets me at odds with Aleese, assuring me that I don't have to end up like her.
"You don't know what dirt is, brat. You have never seen dirt."
"I've seen you, and I would say that is plenty."
"Yeah ... I guess I'm pretty scurvy anymore. Sorry about that."
It sounds almost sincere. She can sound very sincere for a mo
ment or two. I wait for her to explode into some deplorable punch line, but she doesn't this time.
"Why don't you get some help, Aleese? Why don't you go to a rehab clinic?"
"
Because." She picks up her jelly arm and lets it flop down again like she sometimes does to amuse herself. "Did you know that even if I came up with the money for an amputation, this would still hurt? Did you know it would hurt all the way down to here?" She makes a swiping motion at her hip.
I feel a stab of pity and continue around, picking up whatever she had dropped, thrown, or left around that week. She's manipulative. Oma had always whispered that. I had to be careful not to get sucked in to her pity parties.
"There's got to be something you can do so that you're not always—" I stop. I was going to say, "so horrid. You're like a person possessed by the devil."
She sits up, and at this point I do get scared, because her dark eyes blacken, like they can when she decides to fly at me. She's always stopped short of hitting somehow, but she gets me in death grips—by the arm, the neck. She can be amazingly strong, even with one bad limb.
"So that I'm not always what? What, Cora! So I'm not always bothering
you?
You have no idea how good you have it! You were raised so goddamn spoiled, you need to visit a few other countries. And do you know how easily I could have had an abortion?"
I smooshed Baba tighter under my chin and wished for sleep, but my mind refused to shut down. Jeremy Brandruff Ireland. September 1, 1957–. I reached for the notebook again, to stare at this name, to see if the air still spun when I thought,
"
My
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