Page 28 of The Curve
“What the hell? What’d you tell her?”
“Nothing. I said you and I don’t discuss our personal lives.”
I chuckle. “Did she buy it?”
“She didn’t have a choice. I never liked that one.”
“Me either. Well, she was fine till she opened her mouth. I need substance.”
Looking around him on both sides of the room he says, “Okay, where’d you put Atticus?”
Then he breaks into a laugh.
“Idiot.”
“Want to catch some breakfast?” he says.
“Can’t. I’m gonna meet with Mom. Check out the plans for tomorrow night.”
“Don’t mention I may be bringing someone. I’d never hear the end of it,” he says.
“Don’t worry, I’ll file it under bro code.”
* * *
“Doyou know where my mother is, Delia?”
My parents’ housekeeper’s head is halfway into a lower cupboard and her back end is sticking out. Bowls and casserole dishes surround her on the wood floor.
“In the library. Want something to eat? There’s fresh muffins on the counter,” she calls back.
Messing with each other is one of our things and this is the perfect opportunity.
“Yeah. If you don’t mind I’d love some French toast and bacon, with some poached eggs. Oh, remember to warm my syrup, please.”
She backs out of the cupboard, picks up a wooden spoon and looks me in the eye. “I’m going to whip your ass with this if you’re serious, boy.”
Her tiny frame and delicate southern flower look contradicts the truth. She’s a ball buster. I think that’s why we all like her so much. Never did she take any shit from the Swift boys. Bristol was the only one who got away with anything. As far as Delia was concerned the little princess could do no wrong.
I pick up the white napkin on the counter and wave it, laughing in defeat.
“That better be your answer, you little shit,” she says.
It doesn’t matter that I’m thirty and she’s sixty, and I tower over her like Godzilla. Her laugh follows me as I head out of the kitchen and down the hall to the library door. Three short knocks announce me.
“Come in,” my mother calls.
Walking into her inner sanctum is like entering a corner of Lucinda Swift’s mind. It’s the only room in the house decorated with no other person in mind. It’s all her. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves face each other and the large picture window takes up the entire back wall. A window seat as wide as a double bed offers a place for her to fall asleep or watch the flowering bushes and swaying trees. The coffee bar and a compact refrigerator hold her favorite blends and snacks.
There’s no pictures of children, or baseball memorabilia, no wedding photos or any reference to her art or life outside this room. It’s just her, the beloved books, and a quiet space to read them. Her favorite piece, an antique dark purple velvet chaise sits in front of the carved stone fireplace. Lifting her head, she turns toward me and smiles.
“Hi, honey.”
“Morning, Mom. You’re here early.”
Putting her book down, she rises and comes to me for a kiss hello. “Charlotte sent me a book I can’t put down. You should read it.”
“Charlotte?”
