By Sheldon Kranz
Introduction: In an Aesthetic Realism Beauty Conference Sheldon Kranz had in the early 1950s—a class in which Eli Siegel looked critically at the work of one particular artist or writer—Mr. Siegel discussed his prose and poetry. In speaking of this short story, “My Mother Was a Girl,” Mr. Siegel said:
“One of the things that is going on in the world today is trying to see mothers and fathers justly. They sometimes collaborate in not being seen justly. . . .
“Now, it is important that mothers be understood. There’s been much talk of mothers understanding children. There’s been too little talk of children understanding mothers. And children usually find it unnecessary. After all, their mothers are their own; and what you have you don’t have to understand. Of course, parents can feel that way, too.
“There is a story Mr. Kranz wrote recently called ‘My Mother Was a Girl.’ In this story, he deals with a mother as if she were an object of wonder. It’s a story that mothers should know, and I hope that one of these days it will be in a position so that mothers can see it. —Eli Siegel
My Mother Was a Girl
By Sheldon Kranz
Part One of Two
The minute he came into the house, he knew it was the wrong evening. His mother had those pained lines between her eyes, and her voice was sharp when she spoke. He escaped into the bathroom to stall for time.
He wished he had arranged to come later in the week, but he and May were busy every night. And if he didn’t come one week, it always ended in accusations and his losing his temper. He wished his mother didn’t live alone. If she had more to take up her time, things would be easier. Once a week she and some women got together and sewed for charity. Twice a month she visited an old friend in Jackson Heights. She never went to the movies unless he took her. It wasn’t enough to keep anybody busy.
He washed his hands slowly, and then combed his hair carefully. He had to stoop slightly to see himself in the mirror. His hair needed a trimming, he noticed. He looked at himself critically. The long face like his father’s, the irregular features, the sharp chin. He was no bargain. Only his thick black hair saved him from being homely. He started to examine his teeth when his mother called from the living room, “What are you doing in there so long, Robert?” Reluctantly, he came out.
His mother was sitting with her small hands resting limply on the arms of the gray overstuffed chair she had finally had recovered last year. Her thin, determined face was tired, he saw, with those familiar deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her thin mouth. She hasn’t changed in years, Robert thought. Only her hair is grayer. It was short and neat as if she had just cut and washed it.
But there were those warning lines between her eyes he knew so well, and he told himself he would have to be careful or they would end up fighting again. He took off his jacket and sat down in the corner of the sofa with its plump pillows that were never allowed to be left flattened down for long. Outside in the street, he heard some young fellows laughing loudly as they passed by.
“Where’s May?” his mother asked. “I haven’t seen her in weeks. Couldn’t she come with you?”
He tried to sound matter of fact. “She had an awful lot to do. She said she’ll call you this week.” He knew he sounded apologetic and he felt himself growing angry. Besides, he hated lying. What May had really said was, “I don’t mind you going to see your mother, but I simply don’t want to go. We can’t get along, so why make trouble?”
She was right, of course, but still she could have come with him for an hour to avoid this. He heard the voices of some people who were standing in front of the apartment house. A girl laughed.
“I don’t know what she’s so busy about,” his mother said. “She hasn’t any children to look after. What is she so busy about?”
“How should I know,” Robert said, and knew it was the wrong thing to say.
His mother sat up straighter in her chair. “How should you know?” she repeated. “Well, please tell me who should?”
“Look,” he said. “Don’t worry about May.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just asking a question. Is there any law against that?” She was using that cold, polite tone which always infuriated him.
“What are you so concerned about May all of a sudden?” he demanded. “She’s fine. She just couldn’t make it.”
“You needn’t shout,” his mother said. “If May can’t find time to come over, you needn’t shout at me.” She looked less tired now than when he had come in. The people in front of the house had gone inside.
He waited a moment, and then he said carefully, “Have you heard from Harry?” Harry was his older brother who lived in Chicago. He was a successful insurance man, and it was one of his mother’s favorite topics.
Rene Magritte, “Empire of Light”(detail) She immediately went into a detailed account of Harry’s last letter. Robert smoked and only half listened. Harry was the good son. Wrote every week. Sent presents, too, at the right times. It was easy being a good son in Chicago. Sometimes he wished he and May lived in California. The warm September night was tempting through the open windows. It was dark and quiet, and he wished he could just get into his car and drive somewhere. His mother went on talking about Harry, and he nodded, hoping she would be in a better mood by the time she finished.
Harry writes you haven’t answered his last letter,” she said. “Why haven’t you answered it?”
“I’ll answer it this week, ” Robert said. “I’ve been busy.”
“Everyone’s busy in your house. You don’t seem to have time for anything.” His mother shifted restlessly in her chair. “Seems to me you can find a few minutes to write to your brother.”
“You’re right, ” he said. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you these things. What are you so busy about?”
“I work,” he said. “I work hard. Being in the automobile business is a full-time job.”
“You do look tired.” She examined his face critically. “Have you lost weight? You can’t afford to lose weight with your height.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Everything is fine, I just don’t have time for a lengthy correspondence with my brother.”
“May should give you vitamins.”
“Leave May alone. She feeds me fine. She’s a good cook. ”
“You still look thin to me,” his mother said.
“So what do you want me to do,” he demanded. “Buy a coffin?” No matter how hard he tried, it always came out wrong.
His mother’s eyes widened. He stretched his long legs out defiantly to cover his embarrassment. The warm night breeze came into the room. A car honked raucously.
“What kind of a way is that to talk to me?” she asked. “What kind of a way is that to talk to your mother?”
How many times had this happened in the past? How many more times would they go through these scenes? She was still using the same words she had used when he was twelve. Here he was thirty-three and married, and she was still at it. And he hadn’t learned yet how to be with her.
“If you buy any coffins,” she was saying, “you’ll he buying mine. Or perhaps you won’t have time for that, either. You don’t have to come here and do me any favors. You show up once a week and think that’s enough. You sit and look at your watch, and you think you’re doing someone a big favor. If Harry were here, things would be different, believe me.”
He stared at her thin, angry face, and he hated this woman who nagged and accused, and made him go home and fight with May. Every time he came back from his mother’s he had trouble. He hated her for being able to confuse him and make him lose his temper.
“If Harry were in New York, I wouldn’t be alone. I wouldn’t have to sit here alone and wait for you to visit me.”
The pain he felt made him shout, “Then go live in Chicago! If Harry is such a good son, then let him send you the money and go live with him.”
He stood up and pulled on his jacket. “Every time it’s the same thing. You’re never happy unless you have a fight.”
His mother looked very small in the overstuffed chair.
“I’m going home,” he shouted, “to a little peace and quiet.” He strode out of the room and slammed the front door as he left.