Mother’s Little Helper

Mother’s Little Helper

I see my mother standing at the small apartment-sized gas stove in the kitchen, fork in one hand, testing the brownness of the fish she is frying. She wears an apron against the possible grease splatters. She pushes her rimless glasses back snug on her nose with the other hand. She is frowning, further etching that crease between her eyes, her dark dark eyes. Or maybe she is smiling, showing her fine straight white teeth. It’s doubtful she would be laughing. She usually was sitting down when she laughed, more relaxed than when cooking, or sewing, or cleaning, or ironing, or watering her shrubs, or mowing the lawn that she planted herself, spring by sprig.

I hear her voice.
“Gwendie?” she says.
“What?” I say from the platform rocker in the living room where I sit, as always, reading.
“Come here and watch these fish so they don’t burn,” she says.
“Do I have to?” I say.
“Quick, come on in here,” she says, “I have to go pee.”

I get up, reluctantly, turning down the corner of the page to keep my place. I am aggravated. She’s always doing this, having to “quick go pee.” That, and the hot flashes where sweat runs down her nose and she has to stop what she’s doing.
As we cross paths, she hands me the fork. “Oooh, oooh, “ she says, “I need to hurry.”

I walk into the kitchen with the fork. The fish is bubbling in the hot oil. The whole room is filled with the aroma of frying fish—fish and hot oil. It smells this way every evening, because we eat fish every day, brought home by my commercial fisherman father. My mother fries fish in the small kitchen where the afternoon South Florida sun comes through the window and adds its heat to the heat of the gas flame. She makes fried fish and grits and cole slaw and sliced tomatoes and milk for us girls and iced tea for herself and Daddy. She drinks it sweetened and with lemon. Daddy drinks unsweetened.

I hear the toilet flush in the bathroom down the hall and the sound of water in the bathroom sink. I poke around the edges of the fish with the fork, hoping they haven’t gotten too brown on the bottom. I’m not so good at turning them over. I’m a little angry that I got put in charge of this. Why couldn’t she have waited until she’d turned them over?

My mother comes around the corner into the kitchen. She’s drying her hands on her apron. She reaches for the fork with one hand and puts her other arm around my waist. She pulls me up close. She feels warm and sweaty and capable. I pull back a little.

“Thank you, sugar,” she says.
“What would you do without me?” I say.