Imposing

JAY E. BRADSTREET

Imposing

Ruttan knew, growing up, that a mother's love--above them all--is the most powerful love a woman can have. He retained such knowledge when he moved out from under the roof that raised him, and he elevated it that day his mother found him again.

He was no longer rummaging through the house. It was now in shambles, Rutton's belongings spread all over hell, like a Kansas trailer park. She noted some holes in the walls, words carved and scribbled here and there. His clothes were lying around. Not in the closet, like she had raised him. Jesus, the entire house was not organized the way she raised him!

The minute she opened the door--unlocked--her dread gained length from her stomach to her throat, as if things weren't bad enough for a sixtyyear-old body.

Robbers! Muggers!-NIGGERS/ "Rutt?"

The house was not large. From the front door she could already see every room where he could be. For the first time, she dared not go any further, as if the house was willing and able to swallow her. Or, perhaps she was more worried about the burglars who came inside to rob her son before they murdered him! "Rutt!"

Her son groaned behind his writing desk, which--since mother's last visit--had been moved into the kitchen, set up next to the oven. The irritation was already pumping, but it was not time yet to let it all out. So he held it in, like always. It flowed from its core, out into his veins like rivers meeting the ocean. And, like always, he started trembling as he sat behind his desk.

It was the hardest thing he'd said all day--the only thing he'd said all day. "Back here, Ma."

The old woman released a sigh that seemed to come directly out of a Shakespearean act. She purposely made it an obvious one and hurried toward the back of the house-the kitchen-his new writing room. And she found him there, sitting at work, no trace of a smile or a grin dressing his face.

Mother was smiling though. She let her fluffy purse fall from her shoulder, down her arm. It came to rest on the letters of his typewriter--his work,--and she scooped him up as easily as she had when he was young--

like every other time that she freaked out. There were many times to recall.

Well, he supposed, there was--at least--the hint of a good reason for her to panic this time. After all, she hadn't spoke with him for two days-no idea what could have happened to him on the other side of the county. Not a word in two whole days! "You-you unplugged your phone," she said in preparation to scold.

The phone, the phone! She lived by the damned telephone, which sang out at just the right wrong time, when he had nested himself to flow with his typewriter. What he felt to be a good vision began as a fantastic one since he could lose himself in the clicks that his fingers produced as they used physical force to convince the letters to bare all before him.

Such visions vanished like smoke in evening air when the first ring sang out in a bad voice.

Rutt said no reply to her observation, but he looked down at his typewriter, her purse still locking it up like a steering wheel bar, keeping him from moving forward--driving what he loved more than he loved her.

He nodded.

Now the old woman could feel the change. In his emotion there was none. In his eyes there was distance--never been so far away. Not since his early teens, anyway.

She saw this now, that look in his eyes--like the night when she discovered him in the bathroom and the French kitchen knife in his tight fist. There was already a wound cut into his wrist-lengthwise--that nearly had her faint where she stood. Her strength fought the blade away from him. Mother felt victorious, though Rutton gave up the blade without quarrel.

The children at school must have caused it, she thought. Rutt was always on the sidelines while the others filled the playground and the classrooms with giggles. While they were possessed with the spirit of a kickball game, Rutt worked hastily with hands that created short stories-recreations of "The Three Billy Goats Gruff'--and sloppily-drawn pictures to go along.

No, Mother eventually concluded, my baby boy would be so much happier-in better mind-if he had known his father. "Why did you do that, Rutt?"

He answered immediately, raised his voice, and he said, "Is there something I can help you with, Mother?"

Holding back the explosion allowed it to spread through his body again, like poison-visionary mushrooms. Then, the shakes began again.

The old woman, however, was saddened to realize that the moment she had been dreading since his birthday, when she produced him--naked and innocent--to the world, had arrived. His rebellion was unfolding before her; she thought and found herself speechless.

" ... I. .. uh .. ."

The display on her son's face was clear as a mountain creek but did not enforce the same soothing effect. As she fumbled for words, he sat, stared and waited patiently--almost patiently. "What, Mother!"

She jumped when he yelled. That helped her find the words she was searching for. "I haven't heard from you in two days. You haven't been answering your phone, and look at this mess!" "Mother, can't you see that I'm working?"

The old woman drew a breath. It was long and fulfilling. "I think that my knowing where you are and what's happening to you is much more important than your little stories of make-believe. You've never been able to write more than two pages of each of them."

Now it was Ruttan who inhaled a heavy breath, knowing that what his mother said was the truth. But it wasn't from lack of effort. Still, as much as he loved to write, a novel masterpiece seemed miles off from his reach-a rolling ocean what was keeping them apart. Support in such matters from the only woman--only person- in his life would have done good things for his creative energy, but such support was an untraceable, valuable gem. "Can't you see that I'm WORKING here!"

It blew her back how loud he yelled, the force of his words--his breath-like dragon's fire. She struggled for her own words again then found them. "If writing your useless stories is going to keep you from being my son, then it's got to go to the trash! Just like everything else, Ruttan Laramie! Like everything else!"

And that's when the anger left his veins. Rutt's face went pale again, the hot red vanishing like fog at dawn, and he was not angry anymore. He felt good. "Ma," said he, flowing like a walkway brook, "I know what I have to do now."

She looked at him, unable to place her words again. "I'm sorry," he said, and he rose from his chair and held her. "It's okay, Rutt, baby," she held him back and replied, "You just need to come home for a while and--" "I have something to show you, Mother." "Well, what is it, dear? We should leave shortly." "Come with me, Momma. I want to show you."

He led her to the backdoor--just next to them--and outside. It was chilly so Mrs. Laramie bundled up tight with her coat as her son threw open the cellar door. He told her to go down ahead of him. Her hesitation was tossed away as she realized that this one trek down such god-awful stairs was just a minor sacrifice for her baby boy and his road to recovery. Of

course he needed her support now. She would be there for him, like always.

As she descended, Rutton seized the spade shovel that was set up and leaning next to the backdoor. It had been there since Mother told him to dig up the bulbs in the backyard before they spread like some plague. He made it only so far before he went back inside to write and left the shovel where it had stayed and stared ever since.

Rutton followed her down and reappeared by himself sometime later. He did not burry her in the soil of the floor, but he had made direct use of the shovel which was still in his hands when he returned to the cold day's air. It was set back from where he had grabbed it.

The day was quiet again, perfect like it needed to be for a man to get back to his work, and he was on a roll. As he sat to his typewriter again, he tossed the fluffy purse from the buttons. It joined the mess on the kitchen floor.

But Rutton wasn't so heartless as to forget about her down there. Every now and again he stepped down the cellar stairs to check on her. She loved him so much, and now, he could love her all the same.