AN IMPLANT

The rare sound of a car pulling into my driveway eight in the evening alerts me. My doors are locked, no first floor windows are open, and still a slight shiver goes down my spine. With a single click on the switch near the door, the outside, front and back, look like Christmas without the colored bulbs. An unfamiliar blue sedan, several large dents on the driver’s side, increase my anxiety.

The rumpled driver gets out. His slightly disheveled hair is too long. He carries a black and tan suitcase in each hand. Jim, my wayward son, is back! I am in no hurry to welcome him. With the toe of his shoe he knocks on the door. Slowly, reluctantly I let him in. He gives me a smile a cheery ‘hello’ and a slobbering kiss on the cheek, followed by ‘How are you, Ma?’

What he says next I expect. ‘Ma, I need you. I need a place to stay for a while, me and Barbara. Wait, I’ll go get her. I am struck mute. In comes Barbara, carrying a bag of what looks like groceries. She’s fairly pretty, about 20, shoeless, wearing jeans. Her ample breasts are bound in a yellow too tight T shirt. We walk into the kitchen where I offer them cold drinks and refills. It takes a few minutes before Jim gets enough courage to ask more of me. I sit gathering courage to turn him down. ‘Ma, give us a few weeks. I’ve pretty much got a job at a Camry dealership sewed up. You know I can sell sand to Arabs.’

My previously applied ‘tough love’ wavers, but not completely. ‘Two weeks, Jim, not a day longer, job or no job, you and Barbara go. Now listen closely. This is how it will be or it will not be at all: I will fix dinners for all three of us to eat together, will not wash your clothes nor clean you room. Either you keep my home the way I do or you both are O U T. I will give you $10 a day, $10 I can ill afford to squander. You are to use it wisely. Do you both agree?’ They both nod ‘yes.’ I write my rules on a legal yellow pad and we all sign, making the Judge Judy contract viable.

In the morning I feign sleep, wait to hear them drive away. There are two washed but not dried cereal bowls on the table and a ½ empty carton of milk getting warmer by the minute. Strike one! My small chores done, a little gardening, a shower and a lunch time snack lead me next to the super market where I stock up for a week. We all eat a hearty, tasty meat ball and spaghetti dinner. I know better than to serve any wine. I ask questions, get unsatisfactory answers. Every day is the same. I silently wonder where they go, what they do.

Finally I ask, ‘ Jim, what about that car salesman job?’ ‘I’m workin’ on it, Ma.’ Jim, you and Barbara have two days left. ‘Where have you gotten money for lunch, for gas?’ No reply.’ ‘Don’t ask for more, Jim, you aren’t going to get it.’

Day 13, 9 a.m. I go to take the trash cans and recycle bins to the curb and darn near faint. Jim’s car is not in the driveway but right in the middle of my lawn is a big, fiery red, old fashioned bathtub on claw feet. Oddly its edges look as if they are finished off with molded plastic, making curly cued patterns so noone can sit on it. It is ghastly. Neighbors will complain. A police officer will make me remove it. I rush inside, upstairs and without knocking on Jim’s door start yelling. They are not here. The bed is made and on it a letter: ‘Ma, thought you’d like the bathtub. It hardly cost anything. It will look great if you fill it with red geraniums. Thanks for your hospitality. I’m on my way to sell Camrys in Trenton. See you some day. Jim.’

Over and over I tell myself that I was a good mother, that I still am a good mother, but constant doubts destroy the image. As soon as the garden shop opens, I drive over, get a price to fill the tub with fertile soil and red geraniums, tall enough to be seen from the street. The owner and I agree and sign a contract. I tend those flowers like new-born infants, just the way I cared for Jim, warmly, tenderly. When fall breaths the first touch of winter on my babies, I’ll uproot them, let the snow and hail pack down the soil.

Spring will come and I’ll turn the soil, plant new red geraniums, ever watching for a Camry salesman, a special Camry salesman, to come back and stay longer.