The Sound of Gravel

by Ruth Wariner

Mom never learned to speak Spanish well. I sometimes thought she was only pretending that she didn’t speak Spanish so that she wouldn’t have to talk to Alejandra, Lane’s first wife, who was Mexican and barely spoke English.

The socks were indeed stuffed, though mostly with peanuts, which didn’t feel like a treat as we always had peanuts around the house. I was happy to find two mini Almond Joy bars and an orange mixed among them.

Having the household managed by Matt had its perks. Babylon’s excesses were welcomed with open arms.

I wanted to run my finger along its length. But as soon as I touched it, a powerful surge of electricity stunned me. I jerked my finger back. I should have known there would be a catch. Lane, whose do-it-yourself skills had just begun to impress me, would later explain that the electric current was necessary for the pipe to heat water on its way up. The shower was something of a mixed blessing. He warned us not to touch that metal tube, “especially if you’re barefoot and wet,” two things that were unavoidable in the shower.

She cried the first time she read it, then read it a second time aloud, breaking down again. In language simple and honest, Matt thanked her for having been a kind mother, saying that although he knew San Diego had been the right choice for him, he missed her very much and loved her very much, even if he never told her so. Mom’s tears that day were joyful, like the tears she cried when we sang “Happy Birthday” to her each year. I cried too, but only much later, when I realized how little she had asked of the world, and how even that had been too much for the world to give.

Finding a name we liked that someone in our enormous family hadn’t already taken was so difficult that a group effort was required.

She put down the tweezers, gazed at me, and calmly and matter-of-factly said, “Ruthie, you just have to have faith.” No, you don’t, I thought. You also need money and a husband who’s not a deadbeat. But I didn’t say anything.