How To Read An Unwritten Language

Philip Graham

Excerpt from Chapter 4, "We Want You Back," of How to Read an Unwritten Language:

My search through the park had been a success: two ancient bottle caps, their fluted edges rusted; a few sharp brown shards of a broken beer bottle; and a dark iridescent crow feather. After stowing them in a backpack, I simply had to return to a special corner of the park that I'd discovered: a little circle of trees that offered a green tunnel to the sky, its borders subtly altered by swaying branches. I stretched out on the grass and watched bits of cloud pass by, wispy expressions that dissolved into a sheer blue so calming that I felt ready for whatever new character Mother might be concocting back home, even if I didn't know why she might be concocting them.

At the time I hadn't heard of anything called a multiple personality disorder and so couldn't consider this possibility, yet even now I doubt that term could ever explain my mother. She'd simply started a game, a silly game out of boredom or sadness, and too soon that game's logic led her away from where she'd started, led her away from us.

If only I'd known how far, that day when I returned home and stood before the open side door, listening to Laurie and Dan in the backyard arguing some variation of It's My Turn. Their dispute wasn't very serious--the squeaks of two swings punctuated a lazy sparring that seemed mostly designed to trigger Mother's intervention, though she didn't seem to be taking the bait. Where was she?

I ventured into the quiet house. "Hello?"

"Is that you?" I heard her call from upstairs. "Finally. I've been waiting for hours." She barged out onto the landing, an exasperated smile on her face. "There you are. What kind of a repair service do you run, anyway?"

She waited for me to explain myself and enter whatever drama she was plotting, and her toe tapped away at the banister like an improvised, impatient timepiece.

So I once again entered into another game with the simple phrase, "Excuse me, Ma'am?" though I also couldn't help wishing that I could take back my words.

"I said, you should've been here hours ago."

I sighed. "I had a big job over at the Carleton place. If I were you, I wouldn't complain. You're lucky I showed up," I groused, secretly exhilarated that I could reprimand her. Was this the sort of freedom adults enjoyed every day?

She chuckled bitterly. "Oh, do I feel lucky." Setting off down the second floor hall, she called back, "At least don't take your time now that you're here."

I hurried after her and she led me to the one room in the house I never felt comfortable entering, even on Christmas mornings when Laurie, Dan and I dragged our parents from bed as early as we dared. Hesitating at the doorway, I surveyed the night tables and their mysterious drawers that none of us could ever bring ourselves to open, the large bed and its plush covers, and a seascape painting on the wall with waves always about to crash down on the headboard.

"Excuse me," Mother said, "but you can come into the room; we don't have problems with the door hinges. Actually, the problem's right over here," she said, struggling to open a screen window. She peered outside and then she was halfway through, her legs dangling in the air for a brief awkward moment as she scrambled out onto the roof.

"Wait!" I shouted in my own voice.

She peered back inside, her face framed by the window, both hands clutching the sill. "You are wearing your workboots, aren't you?"

I glanced down at my sneakers--they'd certainly keep a good grip. "Sure," I repeated, trying to recover my confident repairman's tone. "But Ma'am, why don't you let me see what the trouble is?"

"How are you going to find it unless I show you?" she said, and scrabbled away on the roof.

I stood before this window that was now much more than a window: if I crawled through I'd really have to become the workman in my mother's story. Except she wasn't my mother, I reminded myself, she was just a very odd woman who was going to give me a rough time on this job.

"I know you get paid by the hour," I heard her say, "but as far as I'm concerned the clock doesn't start until you're out on the roof."

I clenched my teeth. The customer's always right, I thought, easing myself out feet first, testing the shingles' gritty surface on this roof that was tilted like the deck of a dangerously listing ship. Only when I was sure of a steady grip did I turn around.

The front yard seemed miles away, unaware of me and yet at the same time waiting for my feet to slip. Queasy at the first hint of the shingles' faintly tar-ish aroma, I was ready to scramble back inside. But Mother had already clambered to the peak of one of the dormers, and I fought my fear and followed. Using a birds' nest in a nearby shade tree as a guide, I kept my eyes from the shifting clouds and the patient ground below. Finally I reached her, unable to hide my nervous little gasps.

"How long have you been in this business?" she asked quietly.

"Longer than you think, Ma'am. Now what's the problem?"

Tapping the angled shingles with her feet, she said, "Just look at this roof. It leaks. It started in the bedroom--there's a terrible stain on the ceiling. That's not all, of course--you can't imagine what else's been ruined inside. And it's spreading everywhere!"

With a slow sweep of my head I regarded every shingle: each was as ordinary as the other. "The roof appears all right to me. Are you--"

"Oh you! Where are your eyes? Look at this." She stamped her feet. "And this here."

"Well, maybe I was a bit hasty--"

"And this, and this . . . " Mother pounded at the shingles with her fists, working her way up to the crest of the roof.

"Wait!" I shouted, climbing after her, "I see what you mean--" "Mommy!" I heard Laurie cry out. "Mommy come down!"

I reached the top and there were my brother and sister below, rushing to the edge of the house. Laurie began weeping. "Please, please," was all she could manage, staring up at us.

"It's just the brats," Mother said. "Ignore them, they're always crying about something."

I sucked in my breath at her words. Was Mother playing a mother who didn't love her children, or had she confessed something? Her steady gaze waited for a reaction. Was I still a workman in her eyes, or merely a child who impersonated one? Once again the awkward angle of the roof pulled at me. I knelt down, my eyes squeezed shut, and decided I'd lost my patience with this woman--it was time to wrap up the job.

"Ma'am?" I ventured, "I've seen this sort of thing before. So I've just applied . . . Protecto-Guard. On all the problem areas."

She didn't move, she just kept watching those poor wailing kids, not a touch of concern on her face, and I tried again. "Excuse me--"

"Protecto what?" she replied, her voice husky, barely audible.

"Guard. So if you'll just follow me," I said, assuming a tone of professional impatience. "I can get to my next job down on Sycamore Street."

I tugged at her resisting elbow until she nodded silently and let me lead her carefully down the roof. Emboldened, I kept up a distracting patter: "As you can see, Protecto-Guard dries quickly, and gives off no unpleasant odor. And it's inexpensive too."

The woman didn't say a word, though I could tell from the amused line of her mouth that she was listening. I decided to charge her extra just for being such a pain in the ass. But first I had to get her off the damn roof, so when we reached the window I shuffled to the side and motioned for her to climb back in.

She grabbed the sill with both hands, then closed her eyes and leaned back.

"I'm in a hurry," I grumbled, alarmed that she might let go and fall. "Please, after you."

With a sharp grunt she pulled through the window, as if returning inside were painful. Following too quickly, I scraped my shin but kept quiet--I was a grown-up, after all, with no mother nearby to offer any sympathy.