The Painted Table(61)
Guilt rolls in. “Jack,” she begins again, “I never tell anyone about my family, and now I feel terrible that I told you. Especially about Mother. She doesn’t deserve my talking about her like she’s some kind of freak or something. As her daughter, I’m supposed to honor her, not disparage her.”
Again, Jack doesn’t respond quickly. His silence convinces her that they will never again be together on a beautiful snowy night. Disappointment, anger, and guilt collide. She feels ill.
Finally, he says, “It seems to me . . .”
She waits.
“It seems to me that maybe the best way to honor your mother is not to become like her.”
“But isn’t it a little late? I lived at home under Mother’s influence for seventeen years. I see her when I look in the mirror. Her tense expression, her narrowed eyes.”
Jack looks at her face and grins. “Mmm, you mean the way you look right now?”
She’s infuriated. “Jack! I’m telling you serious stuff. Of course I look tense now. And I even talk like her. I open my mouth, my mother comes out. Her emotions, even her vocabulary.”
Once again the words tumble—about funny looks she receives when she innocently uses pretentious words learned at her mother’s knee.
Why does she keep blabbing in this argumentative way? Why stupidly try to convince him that she is strange? At the moment, she does sound like Joann, Joann who always has to win an argument. But this is an argument Saffee should not want to win. She again gentles her voice, but continues the self-incrimination.
Finally, Jack takes charge, ropes her in. “What’s so hard about changing facial expressions and choosing words more carefully if you think you need to?” he says. “Shouldn’t be hard. Your fault, Saffee, is that you run yourself down. Sounds like you’ve rehearsed saying negative things about yourself for so long that you believe them. But if you have your mom’s bad temper, I haven’t seen it. Well, not much, until tonight.”
“I do have a temper, just not as volatile as hers. And you know very well that I’m pretty opinionated and . . .” She’s about to launch into another list of faults.
“Saffee”—he lightly touches two fingers to her lips—“stop.” He takes her mittened hand.
“The question is how to honor your mother. Obviously she has, or at one time had, lots of good qualities that you’d be wise to retain.”
“How can you say that? You haven’t even met her.”
“No.” Jack looks full into her face. “But I’ve seen them in you since the day we met.”
She reddens. She will not put him on the spot by asking what he has seen. She only hopes it’s true. For an hour she’s been babbling about her family and her burdens. But Jack, with his customary few words, has again pronounced a compliment that soothes her pain and washes her with happiness.
The streetlights showcase a sidewalk scattered over with glistening gems. They walk hand in hand in the white silence.
How long have I made huge mountains out of molehills, she wonders, and missed gemstones at my feet?
Jack looks high into the dizzying flakes. “Hey,” he says, “it’s coming down pretty good. You know what we should do tomorrow? I’ve got an old toboggan . . .”
Click-click-click. Kathy’s oversized knitting needles gobble up lumpy red Scandia yarn. Kathy dates a hockey player who is huge even without his game pads. She’s been working on a sweater for him for over two weeks.
“You make it look easy,” Saffee says. “How about teaching me?”
“Sure. You want to make a sweater for Jack?”
“Well, if I can do it, it would solve the gift dilemma.” She doesn’t mention that Christmas giving in her family always triggered tension.
Saffee buys a simple pattern for a man’s pullover, large needles like Kathy’s, and skeins of bright blue Scandia yarn. Soon her needles click in concert with her friend’s. Since Jack seems half the size around as Kathy’s friend, it shouldn’t take long. His arms are pretty long, though.
“I sure hope he likes this,” Saffee says for the third time.
“If he doesn’t, it’s ‘Hit the road, Jack’”—Kathy breaks into a zany rendition of the popular song—“‘and don’tcha come back no more, no more . . .’”
“Stop!” Saffee laughs. “You made me drop a stitch! Sweater or no sweater, I don’t want him to go away.” Then she adds, “But . . .”
“But what?”
“But I can’t figure out what he sees in me. Really, I can’t.”