each other. Lottie understood as they discussed it that he was excited also by this evidence that she had finally realized the inadequacy of her upbringing: when she’d met him, she still
couldn’t see it clearly, she thought of it only as odd, a funny tale she could tell.
Of course, it seemed to Lottie that at first Derek liked the tale too. The crook, the drunk – it had all been exotic and therefore a little exciting to him. He’d grown up safe and
solidly middle class in White Plains. But now it seemed the tale’s charms had faded. It seemed that what he wanted from her was credit for rescuing her from her life, and the story she wrote
seemed the perfect expression of all this – both the content and the fact of her writing it. Her husband taught comparative literature, and most of what Lottie knew about fiction she’d
learned from him.
He sent the story to a friend who edited a literary magazine, and they were both tremendously excited when it was taken. The story didn’t appear in print for almost a year after that, but
when Lottie got her copies, she immediately sent one of them to her mother. Later she thought of this act as having been committed in a state of nearly willed unconsciousness of the pain it would
cause her mother. All she allowed herself to feel at the time, though, was the sense of conviction that her mother would be proud of her accomplishment.
Her mother didn’t respond one way or another. The next time Lottie saw her, months later, on a trip east, she asked her what she’d thought of it.
She didn’t look at Lottie when she said, ‘Well, if anyone had accused you of being capable of writing such a thing, I’d have defended you to the death. “It couldn’t
have been Charlotte,” I’d have said. “This story’s too full of hate.” ’
Lottie had tried to talk to her then about its being fiction, invented. She said she had thought her mother might be pleased. They were working side by side in the kitchen, doing dishes. Lottie
had set the towel down, she’d turned to face her mother.
But her mother kept at her task, scrubbing, rinsing. ‘Pleased!’ she cried. Harsh lines pulled in her neck. ‘How could you imagine such an idiotic thing! A girl of your
intelligence! That I’d read an article that shows me up to be a careless drunk? And want to say it was well written? What can you be dreaming of?’ When Lottie persisted, unwilling to
acknowledge the point, her mother simply turned away and left the room, her wet hands leaving a trail of drops behind her.
Lottie and her mother were angry at each other for a long time after that, but they never spoke of it again. And even after Lottie understood what a mean story it was – understood that she
had in fact intended it to be mean, intended the pain her mother had felt – she couldn’t find a way to talk about this to her mother. And she wasn’t sure it would make any
difference anyway.
How strange it has been this summer, then, to step so directly back into this old universe, to poke slowly through her mother’s stuff, to put a value on the junk that cluttered her house,
her life. Cam had wanted Lottie to sell everything at a yard sale, but she refused. She told him it was simply too much work and that they’d probably get as much benefit from donating
anything of value to the Salvation Army. But the truth was she didn’t want the pathetic leavings of her mother’s life, the icons of her own early life, set out for strangers to paw
through and comment on. And she’s been astonished and pained by the cheapness of everything, by its hopeless trashiness. The imitation Hummel figurines, smirking and badly painted. The grimed
plastic fruit. The ancient, splitting squirrel coat. Every pair of shoes her mother had ever owned, it seems, some cracked, some dotted with blue mold. Graying underpants with sprung waists, bras
with shot elastic. Stockings with mended runs. Drawers full of caked and dried-out ends of
couldn’t see it clearly, she thought of it only as odd, a funny tale she could tell.
Of course, it seemed to Lottie that at first Derek liked the tale too. The crook, the drunk – it had all been exotic and therefore a little exciting to him. He’d grown up safe and
solidly middle class in White Plains. But now it seemed the tale’s charms had faded. It seemed that what he wanted from her was credit for rescuing her from her life, and the story she wrote
seemed the perfect expression of all this – both the content and the fact of her writing it. Her husband taught comparative literature, and most of what Lottie knew about fiction she’d
learned from him.
He sent the story to a friend who edited a literary magazine, and they were both tremendously excited when it was taken. The story didn’t appear in print for almost a year after that, but
when Lottie got her copies, she immediately sent one of them to her mother. Later she thought of this act as having been committed in a state of nearly willed unconsciousness of the pain it would
cause her mother. All she allowed herself to feel at the time, though, was the sense of conviction that her mother would be proud of her accomplishment.
Her mother didn’t respond one way or another. The next time Lottie saw her, months later, on a trip east, she asked her what she’d thought of it.
She didn’t look at Lottie when she said, ‘Well, if anyone had accused you of being capable of writing such a thing, I’d have defended you to the death. “It couldn’t
have been Charlotte,” I’d have said. “This story’s too full of hate.” ’
Lottie had tried to talk to her then about its being fiction, invented. She said she had thought her mother might be pleased. They were working side by side in the kitchen, doing dishes. Lottie
had set the towel down, she’d turned to face her mother.
But her mother kept at her task, scrubbing, rinsing. ‘Pleased!’ she cried. Harsh lines pulled in her neck. ‘How could you imagine such an idiotic thing! A girl of your
intelligence! That I’d read an article that shows me up to be a careless drunk? And want to say it was well written? What can you be dreaming of?’ When Lottie persisted, unwilling to
acknowledge the point, her mother simply turned away and left the room, her wet hands leaving a trail of drops behind her.
Lottie and her mother were angry at each other for a long time after that, but they never spoke of it again. And even after Lottie understood what a mean story it was – understood that she
had in fact intended it to be mean, intended the pain her mother had felt – she couldn’t find a way to talk about this to her mother. And she wasn’t sure it would make any
difference anyway.
How strange it has been this summer, then, to step so directly back into this old universe, to poke slowly through her mother’s stuff, to put a value on the junk that cluttered her house,
her life. Cam had wanted Lottie to sell everything at a yard sale, but she refused. She told him it was simply too much work and that they’d probably get as much benefit from donating
anything of value to the Salvation Army. But the truth was she didn’t want the pathetic leavings of her mother’s life, the icons of her own early life, set out for strangers to paw
through and comment on. And she’s been astonished and pained by the cheapness of everything, by its hopeless trashiness. The imitation Hummel figurines, smirking and badly painted. The grimed
plastic fruit. The ancient, splitting squirrel coat. Every pair of shoes her mother had ever owned, it seems, some cracked, some dotted with blue mold. Graying underpants with sprung waists, bras
with shot elastic. Stockings with mended runs. Drawers full of caked and dried-out ends of
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