big one every year on his birthday, with a circle of birthday candles poking up through the golden-tipped meringue. A sight to behold.
There’ll be Lancashire hotpot too, that’s what’s bubbling away in the oven right now. It’s a simple oldtime recipe that Dot’s mother used to make on Saturday nights back in England: chunks of stewing lamb arranged across the bottom of a Pyrex casserole, then a layer of sliced potatoes, another of carrots, then more lamb, and all this topped with a handful of finely diced onions. Next you add plenty of salt, pepper, and parsley flakes, and a cup of Oxo, and bake covered for an hour and a half. Larry’s crazy about Lancashire hotpot, or at least he pretends he is, for the sake of his sad and perpetually grieving and remembering mother. Mum, he calls her; he always has. Americans say Mom or Ma. People in movies and books say Mother.
She’s set the dropleaf table in the living room for six, her best damask cloth and the good cutlery and china. There’ll be just the family, her loved ones, as she likes to call them, as though they were characters out of an obituary – her husband Stu, Larry, Dorrie, and little Ryan in his booster seat. Her daughter Midge is coming too, but here it is, almost time to sit down at the table, and she hasn’t turned up yet. Three years ago Midge kicked her husband out after receiving an anonymous note saying that Paul frequented a certain gay bar, and now she swears she’s never going to get married again. She says, with her eyes rolling upward, that she knew something was funny-bunny about him from day one.
Larry worries about his mum. She’s not getting out enough lately, hardly at all in fact, unless you call a trip to Sears’ mattress sale “getting out.” It also worries Larry that his mother frets so much about other people. She worries about Midge, that at the age of thirty-two she’s starting to get bitter, always sounding off like a regular women’s libber, and going on marches and so forth. She also worries about Larry and Dorrie, the way they’re half the time bickering, and Dorrie working full-time for Manitoba Motors instead of staying home with Ryan, who’s still in diapers at twenty-three months, and she worries about her husband who right this minute is in the bedroom putting on a clean sports shirt because she nagged him into it, and is in a bad mood. As a matter of fact, he’s done nothing but grumble all day, the heat, the mosquitoes, his lower back pain, not enough sugar in his afternoon coffee, the mess in the backyard because of the compost pile Larry’s talked him into, and now having to eat at the dropleaf table in the living room instead of the kitchen nook. So far he hasn’t even said happy birthday to Larry, to his own son.
She checks the oven, looks at the clock, glances out the kitchen window to see if Midge’s car is coming down the back lane. Where is that girl? Next she pours boiling water over the silver pie server in case of lurking germs, then sets it on a paper towel to dry. Immaculate. So’s the speckled linoleum. So is Dot’s cutlery drawer. In this house you would never see a tea-bag tossed wet and leaking into the sink, or a pile of coffee grounds. People who let a skin of mold accumulate on the hem of their shower curtain are not her kind of people. This is a woman who carries her meat home from the butcher’s and washes it at the sink. Larry is watching her rinse her hands under the tap, and at the same time he’s kicking his foot against the table leg the way he used to do when he was little. The upholstered breakfast nook where he sits has the wiped hygienic smell of on old marriage. He’s blowing a little tune into his empty beer bottle.
Is there room in the tilting, rotating world for a thirty-year-old man who sits blowing into a bottle? He thinks this, and so does his mother, who reaches over and takes it from him, not so much with an air of rebuke as with resolution, and places it under the counter. What deprivation, her expression asks, what injury has stalled her son at the age of thirty? Something’s been subtracted too soon, but what? And is it her fault?
Of course it’s her fault.
Worry, worry, a circle of worry. And these are her loved ones, these five. Her grumbling husband, her errant daughter, her baffling son, and in the living room her daughter-in-law Dorrie, whose neatness of body, whose sharpness of eye and chin and shoulder, is bent over the weekend paper, scouting the ads and cutting out dollars-off coupons, while little Ryan sits on the floor and plays with the paper scraps, tearing them into tiny flakes. This small and insufficient family. This is all Larry’s mother’s got to cushion her against the damage of her own life.
The history of Dot Weller, and how she killed her mother-in-law, came to Larry in small pieces, by installments as it were. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t know at least part of the story, and he’s not sure, in fact, if he’s ever been presented with a full account, start to finish, all at once.
In one of his mother’s albums there’s an old photograph of Larry himself taken at nine months. Little Larry wearing a white smocked nightgown is wedged into an old-fashioned wooden highchair which for some reason has been carried out of doors. Blurred trees and a suggestion of lawn fill in a background lit with a glare of ominous light that falls across the infant’s fine frizz of hair and on to the glossy wood of the chair. Can a head think when it’s that size? Can a baby’s face be this wise and unfoolable? His hands, which look like nothing so much as a pair of crimped shells, grip the edge of the highchair’s tray, and his expression is pulled into a knit of absorbed anguish. He can’t possibly know at this age, or can he, that a calamity has occurred in his mother’s life? And yet, the comprehending orbits of his soft eyes, the small roundness of his mouth, already hold a full level of bruising knowledge. He has a mother who cries in her sleep. A mother who’s missing the kind of cold, saving curiosity that would hold her steady after a tragic event and whose contagion of grief has spread to him. Through her milk, through her skin and fingertips.
Or it may have been, in the beginning, no more than a series of silences that accrued around certain topics, which in the life of his mother could not be approached openly. Looking back, Larry seems almost certain that the story, when it came, was presented through the agency of intense whispering toneless voices – but whose? his father’s? his sister’s? – and that behind the recital of events lay a sense of driving urgency: this was information that he was going to need in order to live in the Weller family, in order to walk around in the world. The calamity that occurred in the autumn of 1949, one year before he was born, was inescapable, housed as it was in the walls like a layer of formaldehyde insulation, an always present, tightly lashed narrative embracing everyone who lived under the family roof. And so Larry knows his mother’s suffering. He’s always known it, filling in around the known bits with his imagination. He would like to put his arms around her, and she would like this too. But he doesn’t know where to begin, doesn’t know if she knows that he knows or how much he knows or what weight he attaches to it. So he’s silent and she’s silent. He sits fiddling with his beer bottle, until it’s firmly taken from him, and she checks the clock for the umpteenth time, as if each ticking minute places an extra weight on her sadness.
Dot Weller was twenty-five years old at the time of the accident and married to young Stu Weller who worked as an upholsterer for British Railways in the northern town of Bolton. Their infant daughter Midge, short for Marjorie, had just taken her first steps, a happy little kid tottering from chair to chair, and chortling in tune with her acrobatic daring. The most contented baby in the world, everyone said. A perfect sweetie.
The family lived in a newish council house, four airy rooms and a tiny garden where in the summer Dot grew lettuce, radishes, carrots, blackcurrants, and a wavy row of runner beans. She would have preferred a patch of fine lawn and a bed of flowers – she was partial to lupines – but an anxious, learned frugality kept her concentration on what she and Stu and baby Midge could consume. The blackcurrants she made into a rather sour jam, since sugar was still rationed and hard to come by, and the runner beans she stewed up and preserved in sealed jars. This made her happy, gazing at her row of bottled fruit and vegetables, twelve pints in all, the beans blue-green in colour, gleaming from the pantry shelf.
Stu was down at the Works six days a week, but on Sundays he stayed at home and made morning tea for his pretty young wife and himself. The least he could do, he liked to say. He tossed little Midge in the air, read the Sunday Mirror straight through, and cleaned out the grates, and just before noon went up the road to the pub for a quick gin and tonic, which he fancied in those days to be a gentleman’s drink. After that he and Dot and their little dumpling of a