The Last Time He Made Her Cry

Mrs. Depot could not help herself. She sat at the dining room table with her hands in her lap and looked at Patrick through her tears.

Oh the middle son.

Carl tested her, but the occasional slap across the cheek had kept that stew from boiling over. Brad she watched to keep him from burning rope in the garage.

Put Patrick broke her heart.

All she had done was insist he attend his class reunion.

Ten years, she said.

I don’t care to go, he said.

Whenever he visited she would mention this friend or that had been asking about him. She’d say, I saw Rod a couple weeks back up at the drugstore and he said to tell you to call when you came down again. And Patrick would nod his head and say, yes I’ll have to do that.

This was not how she treated old friends. She had no old friends. Friends were friends, friends for life. Time and distance were illusions, arbitrary illusions she would not acknowledge.

I never understand this, she said. I don’t understand this business of how you don’t care to go.

Patrick lowered his fork, staring at his plate as he chewed.

I don’t want to see them, he said.

Oh how can you say that? she said.

And so she could not help herself. She sat with her hands in her lap and let the tears have their way.

I’m sorry Mother, he said. I don’t mean to make you cry.

After dinner, when the scene was over and she was washing the dishes, Patrick went to the garage with Brad for a smoke.

Is there something wrong with me? Patrick said.

I don’t know, Brad said. Is there something wrong with you?

Maybe there is, he said. I’m not sure.