She glances at our hands and smiles. “He doesn’t eat enough,” she says to me. “Never has. Even before. He’d come over after a twelve-hour shift and I’d ask if he ate. He’d say he had a protein shake and I’d say that’s not food and he’d say it’s a food group. We’ve been having the same argument since he was twenty-two. If it wasn’t for Tex and Sheila, he’d never get fed.”
“I have the same argument with him,” I say. “Nightly.”
“Keep having it. He needs someone who won’t quit on the argument.”
“Well, that would be Benji,” Mickey teases. “He never quits on anything.”
His mother turns back to the counter and checks the cobbler through the oven window. Her back is to us and when she speaks again her voice is quieter. She glances toward theliving room where the Weather Channel is still going at almost full volume.
“I wanted to be there,” she says to me. “At the hospital. When Tex called me and told me Mickey had been shot, I was ready to drive us both to the hospital.” She folds the dish towel into a tight square. Unfolds it. Folds it again. “And then his father wandered out of the bedroom and didn’t know where he was. He thought he was at work. He was looking for his truck keys. I spent an hour getting him calmed down and back to bed. I knew I couldn’t take him to the hospital with me and I couldn’t leave him either.”
I glance over at Mickey and he silently shakes his head.
Let her talk.
“Tex called me with updates,” she says. “And I called Mickey every morning. But it wasn’t the same as being there. My son was lying in a hospital bed with a bullet wound in his spine and I was here making sure his father took his medication and ate his breakfast and didn’t walk out the front door at three in the morning.” She puts the dish towel down and turns around. Her eyes are wet. “I need you to know I would’ve been there if I could’ve.”
She’s not saying it to Mickey. She’s saying it to me. Because I was there and she wasn’t. She needs the person who showed up to understand why she couldn’t. As if I would ever judge her.
“Mrs. Weaver,” I say. “Mickey knew that. He told me you were taking care of his dad and that’s where you needed to be. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was no other answer. And there wasn’t.”
Her hand comes up to her mouth. Quick. Just a second. Then it’s down again and she’s smoothing the dish towel on the counter.
“You’re a good mother,” I say. “And he’s proud of you and how you take care of his dad. He told me that too.”
Mickey’s hand tightens around mine under the table. He hasn’t said a word. His mother and I have an understanding. We both care about Mickey.
“Well,” she says, and the word is thick for a second before she clears her throat and pulls the cobbler from the oven. “The cobbler needs to cool for ten minutes. I’ll go get the nice plates for special company. This is the first time Mickey has ever brought a boyfriend home. You’re special, Benji.”
My heart melts and it’s all I can do not to lean my head on Mickey’s shoulder.
Ten minutes later, the cobbler is on the table and his mother is moving again, setting out plates and forks. The cobbler is extraordinary, the peaches soft and sweet under the lattice crust. I eat two servings because I can’t resist and because Mickey’s mother is watching me eat the way Mickey does. Apparently, the watching is a family trait.
His father wanders into the kitchen during the cobbler. He looks at me then at Mickey.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks Mickey as if he didn’t see me come in the front door a few minutes before.
“This is Benji, Dad.”
“Does he play football?” he asks. “Is he the quarterback?”
His dad is clearly in another decade. I know enough about dementia to play along.
Mickey glances at me, and winks. “No Daddy, he doesn’t play football. That’s just me and Tex.”
“That’s too bad,” his father says. “I bet he’d be a good football player.” His father turns to me. “You want some cobbler?”
“He’s already had two servings, sweetheart,” his mother says, steering him to a chair. She hands him a bowl of cobbler and he eats it while leaning over to watch the weather girl through the kitchen doorway.
We leave an hour later. His mother walks us to the ramp and hugs Mickey from behind, her arms around his shoulders in the chair, her chin on top of his head. She hugs me standing up. Her arms are strong and the hug lasts a full four seconds.
“Come back and visit us, Benji,” she says to me. “Anytime.”
“I’d love to, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me ma’am. You can call me Mama Weaver if you would like to. That’s what Tex calls me and I’m fond of it.”
“Mama Weaver,” I say. “I like it too. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
