Mama’s Boy
by Carol Weekes
Edward Gorley kept the case in question on top of his bedroom bureau. It was black leather glued to a red cedar frame box, the inside sanded to the smoothness of mother-of-pearl and he’d owned it for the past eighteen years. It had been given to him by his mother for his sixteenth birthday so that he would always arrive home on time, no excuses. Home after school. Then home after work. Home on weekends. Help with the chores. Their radio show at seven o’clock each evening. Bedtime at ten, no questions asked.
It had originally held an expensive wristwatch that sat on a plastic core, the core long since discarded. It was the kind of watch with a metal band consisting of aligned frames that occasionally caught stray hairs on his wrist. Perhaps that’s where the box first became acquainted with sacrifice. Not that hair held much more than a DNA imprint and nondescript cellular matter from the end of each follicle. He’d come to realize that it didn’t matter what he placed inside the box as long as its origin had arrived from something live and breathing. Where “it” went, “it” being whatever matter he placed within the aromatic interior, he didn’t know. All he knew was that when he opened the cover again…even seconds later…the proffered item had disappeared.
He’d first noticed this odd occurrence with the placing of a larger item inside the case just months ago. The offering had been a wisdom tooth he’d had extracted from the left top jaw, what the dentist had referred to as a 2-8, meaning second quadrant, eighth tooth. It had come out clean, with a small clot of drying blood and what looked like gingival tissue still attached. He’d wrapped the tooth in a Kleenex and had carried it home in his sports coat pocket. It was a habit of his. His mother had collected most of his baby teeth over the years and had given them to him when he’d moved out on his own. Some were the tone of alabaster, others more yellowed, and one with a shocking spot of decay in its center. Here, she’d said, these are part of you.
He’d spent that evening sitting in his quiet apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes, studying the teeth in the jar. When he undid the lid, a musky scent of old blood and something spicy drifted out at him. So when he’d carried the wisdom tooth home out of habit, he’d decided to pop it into the watch box to allow it to dry before adding it to his collection.
Then it had happened, with the watch box. He’d become fascinated. Unable to help himself, he’d fed all twenty-one teeth from the jar to the box, each one disappearing within seconds of his shutting the lid. No stain. Just the patient wood, waiting for more. He’d felt a ripple of delight, a pitter-patter of dark intrigue tickle its way along his nerve endings to his fingertips and toes. He tried other objects: a feather, a button, and a coin. The box wasn’t interested. When he’d gone to remove these items, he’d felt an odd buzzing sensation in his fingers and a hint of something almost painful. He’d plucked his fingers away, a little frightened. But still, the fascination remained. Clearly, it needed body matter. Skin, bone, calcium products, or blood.
He went to work and he came home. He watched a little television. He didn’t date. He was an only child. His father had been killed in a car accident when he’d been six and his mother, obese and protective, had raised him in a small apartment like this one, working as a seamstress to make ends meet and guarding his every action. He’d almost had to beg to move out two years ago. He felt ennui tug at him. More.
More. He needed more of something, everything. She called him every evening. What are you doing? Why don’t you come and see your mother? Because I moved out so that I could breathe, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he made excuses. He was busy; he had to work.
“Is it a girl?” she’d asked too many times, annoyed.
He’d never been with a girl. Here he was, thirty-four years old and he’d never known what it was to feel a woman’s skin against his. He’d never been able to do that when he’d lived at home with the matriarch. He had his eye on one girl at the bookstore where he worked: quiet thing, a bit mousy, but that was perfect. Her name was equally benign: Sarah. It’s not like he’d ever attract a vamp in satin with a name like Delores or something more exotic, like Claudia. He’d almost worked up the nerve to ask her out. A movie, a bite to eat afterwards…he wondered what it felt like to kiss someone. Did you hold your breath? Did you breathe through your nose while your mouths locked? What might a woman taste like? The idea of this reality terrified him. He was pallid, thin, his hair already receding. He had a nervous tic in one eye. He stuttered whenever she looked at him. He’d have no idea how to go beyond the basics, to actually f-fu…
He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t think it. He’d once uttered the profanity in a fit of rage with his mother and she’d dragged him by the hair into the washroom, forcing a liquid hand soap dispenser between his clenched teeth. That had been four years ago. She weighed 220 pounds. He came in at an even 135. Featherweights didn’t fare well against rhinos bearing dispenser bottles. Everything had tasted of soap for the next twenty-four hours. He’d almost farted bubbles. The memory of it enraged him.
He glanced around himself, his tongue subconsciously feeling at the adult teeth in his mouth. He was out of loose teeth for the box. He supposed he could spare another, just to keep the game going.
He walked into the kitchen and opened drawers, pawing through utensils and a variety of tools, looking for something that could grip and remove a tooth. He found what he sought, a set of vice-grips with thick tongs and handles encased in dark red rubber coating. He carried them to the bathroom and flicked on the piss-yellow light. He stood in front of the mirror and spread his lips apart so that he could see his teeth. An incisor would extract with more ease. He decided to take one from the lower jaw. Positioning the vice grips, he gave the tooth a decisive yank, loosening it in its base and tearing the gum, filling his mouth with pain and blood. He managed to extract the tooth. Ramming Kleenex against his bleeding gum, he carried the bloodied tooth with a touch of flesh attached to its base into the bedroom and approached the box with some trepidation.
“I’ve another gift for you. Fresh,” he said. The box waited on the corner of his dresser like an ebony hole. He reached out with one finger and the box, for the first time, opened its lid just a crack – as if it could smell the freshness of the offering.
“So, you like it wet?” he asked it. The box remained still.
He brought the tooth closer…within an inch, and the lid popped open a full two inches, waiting. Edward paused. He stooped a little and peered into the box. He saw the usual fold of deep blue satin in the center of its base, the rest of it that smooth, almost opalescent wood. But tonight, here in the murk of his bedroom, he saw something else near the center of the satin. It was a dull orange glow like a waning candle flame, only it didn’t flicker. It simply held its stance and seemed to stare back at him.
Unable to help himself, Edward placed the newly extracted tooth on the surface of the dresser and reached out toward a ballpoint pen sitting on the other end of the dresser. He used the pen to prod at the box. He edged the pen toward the lid, a little at a time. The box waited. The pen’s metal tip reached the rim of the box. The box waited. Finally, Edward popped the first two inches of the pen inside, jabbing at the orange glow.
The box clamped shut with a snap, severing the front part of the pen with a splintering crack of plastic. Edward screamed and yanked the pen back to discover the remnants of it hanging by its flattened and ink-splattered inner chamber. The box lid remained open and it seemed to him that the satin folds respired a little. It seemed that the box panted.
“You want it? You have to come and get it.” He left the bloodied tooth inches away from the box and stepped back to the edge of the doorway leading into the bedroom. He watched. The box didn’t move. He saw the orange glow pulsate and dim, pulsate and dim, but it held its ground. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. It came to him that the box didn’t want to be observed.
“I’ll leave you alone,” he told it and stepped back into the hallway. He heard nothing, yet when he leapt in the doorway mere seconds later, the tooth was gone and the box lid had shut again. Edward snapped on the overhead light and searched the surface of the dresser and surrounding floor for the tooth. He could not find it anywhere in the room.
The telephone rang precisely at seven. Mother. Every night, without fail, Mother. Tonight, for the first time in his life, he allowed it to ring until it stopped after twenty-five rings. He gritted his teeth, then felt something akin to a mild orgasm in his groin when it finally stopped. Oh, he knew what those felt like, although he’d had to be very careful about it at home, doing it quickly and cleanly in the washroom, never in the bed where she might discover the evidence. Not her boy. Never her baby boy.
The phone began again. This time it didn’t stop. It went on, relentless, like a young bird abandoned by its provisional parent. On the hundredth ring he tore the handset from its cradle and screamed, “What do you want from me!”
“Just your heart,” she said. “Where were you?”
He hung up on her. Then he disconnected the telephone.
* * *
Sarah had agreed to a movie. She’d agreed, she’d agreed, she’d agreed. They went to see a romance, something classic with antiquated costumes and plenty of lace. His voice had stuttered a little when he’d asked her earlier that day. She’d blushed an inviting rose pink and complied. It had been that simple. He had his first date. Amid the miasma of popcorn and heavy butter, they sat side by side in the dark theatre, his right hand holding the popcorn box, his left casually draped along the back of her seat. She wore a white cotton blouse, loosely fitted, and a grey cotton skirt. A no nonsense girl for an inexperienced man. He had hopes.
He’d purchased a Riesling the day before, four years old, nicely chilled. He’d ordered a box of fresh canapés, something that could be warmed quickly in an oven. He’d changed the linen on his bed, just in case…and he’d eyed the box.
He wasn’t sure that he wanted the box in the bedroom, should he convince her to stay. He used a broom and dustpan to carry it into the kitchen where he placed it on the counter beside the toaster. She wouldn’t sit there. They’d eat in the parlor, and if luck permitted he’d escort her willingness into the bedroom. He’d spent part of his lunch hour at work reading tips online about sex: “What Women Enjoy in the Bedroom” and “Every Girl’s Dream.” He’d even tied silk scarves to the head of the bed; having read that women liked that kind of thrill. He didn’t think she’d ever been with anyone either. He felt gut-certain of it. The two of them, fumbling virgins, and his mother didn’t know. He’d left the phone unplugged. She would not ruin this, his chance for love.
Towards the end of the movie, before he lost his chance, he moved his arm downwards, his fingers inching forwards toward her shoulder. Tentative, he reached out and felt warmth beneath the cotton. She didn’t pull away. He thought she’d allowed a little sigh to escape. He let his hand cup her shoulder. She moved closer to him. His heart soared; he had a girl. During the credits he advanced on his first kiss. As he wondered whether or not to hold his breath or where exactly to place his nose against hers, she reached up, hungry, and pulled his mouth to hers. Hard, her tongue moving past his lips, locking him into place.
It felt right. It felt good. She tasted sweet, like honey and mild perfume.
“I want you to come back with me,” he whispered, startled at his audacity.
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. The moment slid into a taxi and they let themselves into his apartment.
* * *
An only child, she said. Like me, he agreed. A lonely childhood. She had both of her parents, and they’d encouraged her out on her own to learn the ropes of life and become autonomous.
“And you?” she queried. She popped a warmed canapé into her mouth and took a delicate sip of wine. She’d unbuttoned the two top buttons of her blouse, revealing something lacy within its open V. He felt himself rise to the occasion and crossed his legs for the time being, glad that he'd worn looser pants.
“A mother,” he said, his voice flattening. “Father deceased. A mother who always – ” and here he stopped.
She leaned forward, piqued.
“Did her best, I suppose,” he lied, knowing how she’d fume if she knew about Sarah. Sarah, the woman who might usurp her.
He moved a little closer on the sofa. She didn’t budge. They sipped wine and as she reached for a part of him that had never been held by a woman
…the phone rang.
It pealed through the apartment, breaking the moment. He felt his eyes pop open to stare at the wall and the faux-Rembrandt print (a gift from Mother).
“Ignore it,” she said, grabbing at his lower lip with her teeth, nibbling and teasing. How she must have saved it all up over the years. How she must have –
The phone jingled over and over, fifty rings, one hundred, one hundred and thirty-three…
He eyed his watch, the one from the box. It read seven-oh-three. He hadn’t called her at seven. But the phone was unplugged. The phone was dead. The phone shouldn’t have been able to operate.
“Oh, for God’s sake, answer the damned thing!” she spat, pulling away from him and clutching at her blouse.
“Shit!” he yelled, the profanity breaking loose and clear of consequence for once. He ran for the phone in the kitchen, the only one in the house, where he’d spoken to her each evening as he’d prepared and eaten his supper. The black plastic contraption sat on the counter, its plug clearly unattached. And yet it rang. It rang and rang and rang.
“What?” he shrieked into the handset.
“You didn’t call,” she said, her voice icy and accusing. “What are you doing that you would forget? Haven’t I taught you to be punctual? Are you wearing your watch?”
He eyed the watch box by the toaster. Its lid had popped open and the dull orange glow pulsated at him.
“Are you responsible for this?” he asked it.
“For what?” she asked. “Responsible for what? What are you up to? Are you doing something that I wouldn’t approve of, young man? What’s going on over there?”
“Nothing,” he began, feeling the same old fear flood back. And then he heard the front door open and shut and felt the resounding draft echo back at him along the hallway. Her heels click-clacking down the stairs. Gone. Sarah was gone.
“I’m coming over,” his mother told him. “You can’t go a week without me, can you?” She hung up and he heard a distinct “click” on the already disconnected line. He let the handset fall to the floor and felt rage burn at the back of his eyes. He didn’t understand the telephone, nor did he understand the box, but he realized that both continued to work somehow. Her willpower, perhaps.
He turned and regarded the box, then carried it on the dustpan back to his bedroom. He placed it beneath the sheet on the bed; a bed with clean linen prepared for an eager woman that evening. Oh, it wouldn’t be disappointed.
It wouldn’t be disappointed one little bit.
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