Sisters of the prodigal - short story

Christian Century, June 1, 1994 by Madeleine Mysko

All I had to say to Noreen this afternoon at lunch was, "Mother sent Gerald up to Hank's Hardware to get a new screen for the kitchen door."

Noreen cocked an eyebrow and said, "Is there a story to this?"

That's a favorite line of my sister's. She started using it years ago when both of us were busy with babies. I'd call her up and say something like, "You'd better not call Mother this morning. Her spin cycle isn't working," and Noreen would say say something like, "Is there a story to this? Because if there's a story, before you get started let me take Robby out of the high chair and put him in the playpen."

It's not that I'm long-winded. It's just that, in our, family, stories sometimes get complicated. That story, for example - the one about the washing machine - I kept Noreen on the phone telling her about how Mother had kept me on the phone. She was in a state because the Sears repairman was coming and the basement hadn't been vacuumed. And meanwhile, all the time we were talking, my brother-in-law Bob was trying to call Noreen to remind her to get up to the bank to do something or other. Bob really let Noreen have it that day. But then that's another story.

The truth is, much as we shake our heads about Mother, Noreen and I are a lot like her. Neither one of us can get to the point without first running in a circle around the start.

I had to laugh when Noreen asked if there was a story behind Gerald's going to Hank's Hardware for Mother. Yesterday it was the story about Gerald fixing that light in Mother's bathroom that's been broken forever, and the day before that it was about Gerald putting in tomato plants. There's been a story nearly every day since our brother Gerald returned from the dead a couple weeks ago and moved in with Mother.

"Returned from the dead" is Mother's expression. That's how she put it to her friends at Sharon's, the beauty shop she goes to every other week for a shampoo and set. I was waiting for her out front by the magazines when I heard her announce the good news. She was loud enough for everybody to hear, including Mrs. Fitzsimmons, who was under the dryer.

"God answered my prayers," is what she said. "Gerald has returned from the dead."

It was embarrassing. Just about everybody knows by now that Gerald's been a heartache to Mother. Mother's never been one to talk about family troubles, but over the years, after Gerald left that government job Mother used to brag about, and then left his wife Nancy in Virginia, and then was hospitalized twice for what Mother called "exhaustion," her friends began to add things up for themselves. Gerald moved to Colorado. Gerald moved to Texas. Gerald came to see Mother exactly one time the whole year he was living right in Annapolis, so no one was surprised when he left last fall without telling anybody where he was going. I'm sure there wasn't a soul in Sharon's beauty shop - not even Mother - who thought Gerald might be dead those six months he didn't call or write. We all knew he was just off somewhere. Probably drinking. Or maybe something worse.

I wish I'd had the good sense to keep it from Noreen - what Mother said - but of course I had to go and tell her, and she's been throwing that expression out, just between the two of us, ever since.

"I haven't washed my windows," she'll say, "since before Gerald returned from the dead."

"When was it we went to see that movie at the Senator?" she'll say. "Was that before Gerald returned from the dead or after?" It's funnier when Noreen says it. She's better at keeping a straight face than I am. But to tell the truth, there's really not a whole lot that's funny about the situation. And i think if Noreen had been there at the beauty shop and seen those old ladies hovering around Mother and patting her while she cried, all of them with their blue curls and nice spring housedresses - I think even she wouldn't joke about it.

But then if there's anybody who's got a reason to be bitter, it's Noreen. Noreen's been the one looking after Mother all these years. It just worked out that way. After Daddy died, even when all the old neighbors had moved away, Mother wouldn't give up the house on 41st Street. Gerald certainly wasn't around then. And my husband Frank and I had moved up near the Pennsylvania line. But Noreen and Bob stayed in Baltimore. They've always lived close enough to run over to Mother's. Noreen does the grocery shopping. Noreen's kids shovel the snow and cut the grass. Noreen takes Mother to church every single Sunday and to bridge club on Wednesday. Mother walks so slow now, these trips take Noreen a lot longer than you'd think.

It hasn't been easy for Noreen, so I try to help when I can. But it's almost an hour's drive for me. And Mother's so used to Noreen doing for her that sometimes she won't let anybody else. For example, as soon as the children were in school I took over the beauty shop run - l've been taking Mother to Sharon's every other Friday for eight years now - but just the other day when I was coming up the walk to help Mother down the steps, she gave the storm door a bang and said, in that irritated tone of voice she seems to get more often lately, "I don't know why you insist on driving all the way down here when Noreen lives five minutes away and you know she wouldn't mind a bit."