Chapter 10 10

10 More than once that morning, as I changed the bandage on my mother's hand, I had to take my eyes off the wound.My mother sat in a brown wicker chair next to her dresser as I cleaned the skin around her stitches with hydrogen peroxide and then applied an antiseptic ointment to a sterile gauze pad.The wound was just below the knuckle, which she collectively referred to as "finger."I kept thinking what a burst of energy it would take to chop a bone with a cleaver.Her body twitched as I placed the gauze pad over her tender, swollen severed finger.I glanced at my father's photo, wondering how he would feel about my mother's situation, which had changed since his death.What he would think of his mother cutting off his finger.Mother also turned her head to look at the photo. "I know, what I do seems crazy to you." Was she talking to him, or was she talking to me? "I just wish you could help me understand why you're doing this?" I said.She tapped the glass on the picture frame lightly with her fingertips, and there was a rattling sound in the room.This photo was taken on the opening day of his boat charter business. "I was five. I don't remember him ever being a lobsterman, I just remember him as the captain of the Jessie Sea. He worked for Shem Watkins before he bought the boat himself, "Sprim and save to catch shrimp," he said. He sailed one of Sham's trawlers for a week at a time, returning with a load of 4,000 pounds of shrimp. But the only thing he wanted was to run a business. His own business, being his own boss, deciding when to go out to sea and when to come back to be with his family. He came up with the idea of ​​an offshore fishing charter and saved up to buy a Chris Clough cruise ship Four years later, the cruise ship was blown to pieces. He said his religion was the sea. The sea was his family. He told Mike and me many stories about an undersea kingdom ruled by a group of ruthless snails while the intrepid keyhole limpets fought to overthrow their rule. His imagination was fantastic. He taught us to make magic wands out of stingray spikes that, when swung in a certain way, would send the waves Singing "The Army Song of the Confederate Army" didn't work, but we spent countless hours doing it. He also said that if we dreamed of a beautiful egret, we would find it under our pillow when we woke up the next day More than once I woke up and found white feathers in my bed, but I never recall dreaming of egrets. Of course, of all his stories, the most wonderful is the story of the mermaid - At Dawn , he saw a whole school of mermaids swimming towards his boat. I never remember him attending mass, but he was the first person to take me to the monastery to see the mermaid chair and tell me the story about it He was just pretending to be a depraved man, I think. Although he refused to accept his mother's beliefs, he seemed to have a certain reverence for religion. At that time, she did not show any morbid devotion to religion. I sometimes think , he may have married her because of her endless receptivity to faith, to every dogma, creed, and church story. Perhaps, her faith in the church was a kind of redemption for him. My mother and Father was a special couple - Walt Whitman and Joan of Arc - but, they were happily married. They loved each other. I'm sure of that.

Mother looked away from the photo, waiting for me to wrap the bandage on her hand.She was wearing a blue silk bathrobe without a belt.She turned up the collar of her bathrobe, and then unconsciously stretched a hand to the drawer full of religious sundries.She ran her fingers over the handles of the drawers.I wonder if the newspaper clippings about his death are still in there.Why should I give him that pipe?My father and I saw that pipe one day at Jojo's grocery store and he loved it.He picked it up and pretended to take a puff. "I've always wanted to be a pipe-smoking man," he said.With the pennies I earned selling fiddler crabs, I bought him that pipe for Father's Day.Mother told me not to buy it, she didn't want him to smoke a pipe.But I still bought it.She never said a word to me about pipes being the cause of the pleasure boat fire.I tore off a piece of tape and stuck the end of the bandage to her wrist.She was about to stand up, but I knelt down in front of her chair and put my hands on her knees.I don't know how to speak.But, I've got things under wraps.I drove Hugh away, now it's up to me.I knelt there, feeling my confidence in my ability to handle this shake.Mother looked me straight in the eye.Her lower eyelids drooped, forming a curved arc, revealing a small piece of tender pink flesh inside.She looked immortal, much older than her actual age.I said: Last night in the garden, you mentioned Dominique, remember? "She shook her head. Her good hand was on her lap, and I took it into my own, and stroked the tips of her nails." I asked you why you hurt your finger, and you mentioned your father, and then Father Dominique.Did he have something to do with you cutting off your own finger? "She gave me a blank look." Does he make you think that you're supposed to atone for your sins with some kind of austerity, or something? "

The blankness on her face turned to anger.No, of course not. "" But cutting off your fingers is an act of atonement, isn't it? "Her eyes quickly moved away from my face." Please, mother.We must have a good talk. "She gritted her teeth on her lower lip, as if considering my request. I watched her touch her hair and thought how dry and yellow it was." I couldn't talk about Dominique. "She finally said." Why not? ""I can't, just can't. "She picked up a pill bottle and walked to the door. "It's time for me to take my painkillers. ' she said, disappearing into the hallway, and I was still kneeling beside her dresser.