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Fiction Short Story

by Wayne Scheer

Visiting Mama

Masie Taylor pulled her son to her and kissed his brown cheek. "You a good man, Boo. Just like your daddy. Best of the lot, we used to say." She squeezed his arm. "You go home to Deloris and the children. Y'all don't need to worry 'bout me none."

Bernard had made the drive to Edison from Atlanta, determined to bring his mother to his home, at least for the summer. It wasn't easy talking Deloris, his wife, into converting her office into a guest bedroom, but she understood that a seventy-eight-year-old woman, whose husband recently died, shouldn't live by herself during a South Georgia summer.

"Your mother's a hard woman to live with," she confided in her husband. "It'll be difficult for both us."

"Don't I know it," he said, kissing Deloris and repeating, "Don't I know it."

They tried convincing his mother when Bernard's father was still alive to let them install an air conditioner. Masie refused. "I ain't never had no air condition and I don't need none now. I like my air fresh, so's I can smell the grass." Bernard recalled her saying that as far back as he could remember.

"Your mama 'bout as stubborn as a three-legged mule," his father had said. "Even when she falls down, she still be kicking."

It would have been easier had his mother gone first. Bernard understood this. His father was easy going, eager to please. He had to be, to be married to Mama for over fifty years. "Always listen to Mama," his father would say with a smile. "It be a whole lot easier on you in the long run."

Still, Bernard thought he could persuade her to move in with them. The scar on her forehead from her last fall marked her dark, wrinkled skin. The doctor told them her diabetes caused what he called silent heart attacks. Bernard noticed her getting weaker, but she still could stare down a charging bull if she had to. He knew it would be easier carrying a baby grand up five flights of stairs than moving Mama to their home.

He even tried convincing Miss Ella, Mama's neighbor and oldest friend, to move in with her. The woman, only a few years younger than Masie, looked at Bernard like he was insane. "I loves Masie like my own sister, but if we that close, one of us end up dead, for sure." Hiring a stranger to stay with Mama was out of the question.

So they decided on a different strategy. A visit. It was late March, the daffodils had already faded and hints of summer humidity filled the air. Bernard and Deloris visited with Mama and posed their idea of her staying with them for the summer. Bernard pleaded and Deloris added, "You know how Andrew and Danielle love their grandmother. And Monty and Tyra and the baby live close enough so you can watch your great granddaughter take her first steps."

Masie pushed her tongue under her dentures. He knew that meant she was thinking. "I got to be here for when the azaleas bloom," she finally said.

It was now May; the red and white azaleas alongside Mama's house had long turned brown. Bernard and Deloris talked on the telephone with Masie and made arrangements. At least, they tried. Mama made little more than clicking sounds and an occasional "mm-hmm." Bernard considered it hopeful that she hadn't cussed them out, so he drove down to help her pack.

But she wouldn't budge. She may as well have been standing on her porch, pointing a rifle at a revenue man come to force her off her homestead.

Bernard argued with his mother for more than two hours, even during the meal she had prepared of baked ham with collard greens, mashed potatoes and fried green tomatoes, picked that morning from her garden. Masie stayed determined to prove her independence.

"But, Mama, it's dangerous living alone."

"Pshew! You want me to move in with your fam'ly? You think of anything more dangerous than two womens in the same kitchen? "

Bernard had to laugh. "We'll work it out, Mama. Deloris will be thrilled not to have to cook as often."

"As often? The only reason y'all has a kitchen is it come with the house."

Bernard shook his head.

After dessert of sweet potato pie, she stood at the sink washing dishes while Bernard dried. "Your daddy and Uncle Cletus built this house with they own hands. You think I could just up and leave it like it was nothing but wood and paint?"

Bernard played what he considered his strongest card. "Mama, you've been falling down lately. If Miss Ella hadn't found you the last time, I don't know what would have happened."

"What you think woulda happened? Jesus woulda blessed my black self a little sooner, tha's all."

"Don't talk like that, Mama." Bernard held his mother in his arms. "The kids need you. I want all of them, including your great grandbaby, to know you."

"Then bring 'em round more. Monty and his wife come here with the baby and wouldn't even let me feed 'em. Say they on some kinda low-carbonated diet. She so skinny she 'bout split in two when I give her a hug." Bernard followed his mother through the dark living room with the same faded floral wallpaper he remembered as a boy. Family portraits, many in black and white, hung on the walls. Color photographs in new frames filled the tops of almost every flat surface. "Y'all send me some pretty pictures, but you sure don't come by much."

Bernard knew she was right. It was only a three and a half hour drive from Atlanta, but they made the trip at best once a month, and rarely stayed overnight. He'd have to urge Monty and Tyra to make the trek more than just Christmas and Easter. Worse, he'd have to convince Deloris they should spend some weekends visiting Mama.

"Y'all don't want me in your way, and I sure don't want y'all in mines. Let me die in my home. Tha's all I ask."

Masie pushed her son to the door, handing him a warm sweet potato pie wrapped in tin foil. Bernard refused the leftover chicken and collards. There were no fried green tomatoes left.

"You don't make it easy." Bernard smiled, holding out his arms to hug his mother.

Masie pushed her dentures out with her tongue. "At my age, I don't reckon I got to."


About the Author
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. His recent stories have appeared in The Pedestal, Thought Magazine, River Walk Journal and Skyline Magazine. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2002. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.