He had a dream last night that left him floating all the morning in a surreal fog. In the dream, he was looking through the woods for a persimmon tree he’d once found but lost. That much he recognized; that tree had been on his mind recently. His mother took him to it once when he was a boy and she’d said the fruit was only good when it was nice and fully ripe.
“Otherwise, it’ll turn your mouth inside out.”
He’d been thinking of his mother, too. It happened like this a lot in the autumn. They’d last seen her on a brittle Sunday afternoon of a long lost November. The woman who disappeared just before his tenth birthday had worn a warm coat and a knit scarf of mixed greens and oranges. Her scuffed boots had been brown like her hair. She waved before climbing into the station wagon. The man behind the steering wheel stared straight ahead, his thick glasses glinting so that his eyes could not be seen. She winked at him as they backed into the drive, that familiar wink that was meant to say everything would turn out fine. It wasn’t convincing this time around. He and his sisters lifted their hands and waved as the dusty car vanished down the pale drive.
In the dream, he came to a clearing in the woods and he stood there and turned around and round, peering into the forest, trying to spot the tree. Then suddenly, in the way of dreams, he was no longer alone. Stretched out in the clearing, lit by a stream of heavenly light, was a woman giving birth. Her shoulders and her belly and her knees under the nightdress were a range of mountains. The damp brown hair snaking through the wild onion was a black spring that began and ended with her. He started at the sight of her, but she only smiled at him through her labored breathing. It was a pained, mysterious smile, a bittersweet smile that was a little afraid. She wasn’t his mother, but she had her smile.
“They say you forget the pain,” she said.
He crouched beside her in the wild onions and the hand that reached out to comfort her was pale and dimpled and small. He hadn’t known until then that he was a child in this dream. She took his wrist painfully.
“But you won’t be forever,” she said. “None of us are forever.”
“Please, let me go.”
She looked into his eyes for a long while. He could not decide the color of hers. They shone like the tops of lakes on days when the sun hasn’t broke through, but it might just. Her gaze was a moving storm. Finally, she released his wrist and he took his hand back. He’d not got to comfort her, after all.
In the next moment, she was gone. The clearing seemed to be growing smaller around him. When he looked at his feet, the wild onion had become pine needles. Soon, the forest was overhead again and the sky had changed to a deep, smoky violet. It wasn’t the real color of a night sky, but the color of night skies in children’s books. No, more than that, he decided; it was the exact color of a sky they had painted.
His mother had agreed to help with the Christmas pageant at church. She felt that it was her turn and perhaps she wanted a little something to help fill the long autumn nights. She corralled each of them into the station wagon, Tuesday and Thursday nights for weeks, stopping along the way to pick up the Clatterbuck girl and then, a little farther on, the Willard twins. The other kids lived close enough to the church to walk. They were always there on the porch waiting when they pulled up in front, because his mother had never been on time to anything. When she got the heavy paneled door unlocked, she’d reach along the inside wall for the switch to the vestibule. Then one of the older boys would feel his way half way down the basement steps to flip the breakers for the knave. It had been wired late and funny.
When the lights came up, the red plush cushions on the pews jumped out first, then the dark green carpet running up the twin aisles. The alter looked bare without the Sunday flowers. The big room was cold at first, but the huge old oil furnace would quickly warm the place. Coats and hats went into a graceless pile on a pew at the back.
His mother got them started on lines and in a half hour, another woman came to help out. She brought a few kids with her, too, and she played the piano in the choir loft and helped with the singing bits. His mother was in over her head, her slightly stunned face confessed, but she laughed a lot as she tried her best. That was all she could do.
Close to the pageant, she had one of her breakdowns at home. It was on the carport, while she tried to finish the backdrop to the nativity scene. It was hard to paint the skies over Bethlehem with the wind kicking at the corners of the cloth. The coffee tins she tried using weren’t heavy enough. She tried prying up some stones from the garden. By the time she spilled the paint, she was a nervous wreck.
“Goddam it!” she yelled. “It’s tomorrow. Can’t the world give me a fucking break?”
He watched her for a moment through the screen door and waited for the nervous giggles that her breakdowns always caused. This time they didn’t come, which was a blessing. They always infuriated her, even though she knew it was involuntary. He pushed open the door and came to crouch beside her.
“I’ll help, Mommy,” he said.
“It’s too purple anyway,” she said. Her face looked older than it needed to look under the yellowy overhead light. The doubt and the anger and the suffering in her eyes was something he couldn’t quite understand. They would get the skies over Bethlehem painted in time. But her misery would vanish and come again and again. It was the way of things. He felt the feelings with her and for her, even when they made no sense.
He took up the brush and began to smear the spill back and forth, filling in more and more of the white canvas. Because there was so much, it spread far and quickly. She sat beside him, her face in her hands, but her frown beginning to fade. After a moment, she found another brush in her caddy and she crawled to the other side of the cloth.
“Just pour some on,” he advised. “It works good that way.”
Soon they met in the middle of a vast, plummy sky and laughing, they held up palms of the exact same shade.
“We should have started here and worked out,” she said ruefully. But the crisis had passed again.