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That was enough. He didn’t really want, in one sense, to make love with his mother. On the other hand, the idea didn’t bother him at all. He had no idea if it would ever happen or not, but that was the same as with many other women he knew. To Bobby, Mirriam Dalton was two women ... his mother ... and Mirriam Dalton.“It’s late,” she said, even though it was only eight-thirty. “I’m going to bed.”“Again?” he teased.She shot him a look, frowned, and then stuck her tongue out at him.The windows were open, and a cool breeze was blowing through them. Bobby lay on his bed, reading. He expected the door to open, and for three sisters to come in.He wasn’t disappointed.On the last day of September, Bobby was sharpening an axe when he saw Christy’s car drive up to the house. She got out, carrying a case, and a tripod. He walked out to meet her.“Hey,” he said, smiling.She smiled back. That his simple greeting sent a thrill through her belly was neither unexpected, anymore, nor disconcerting.“Hi,. It has been years since that happened, she told the story factually, without much emotion, but it was then I realized what I saw in her, what really touched me – there seemed to be a sadness in her that connected with my own. There was something deep, permanent, irrevocable in her, something hidden by the scars that time accretes on our soul, but beneath which lives the dulled sense memory of searing pain that can never be forgotten. She came over just this past Tuesday night – the circumstances and logistics seemed to present themselves, a coincidence and an opportunity. It was so cold that we agreed we’d order Chinese food, a so-very-New York thing to do. Candles flickered on the table in my apartment as the heat from the register struggled to keep us warm, and gently nudged the flames atop the wicks. The Empire State building literally shimmered on the horizon, the air so cold that the light from its tower danced and wavered as it sped through the subfreezing ether. She wore a.
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