Read God's Gym for Free Online Page B

me, something that has nothing to do with a jar of unhealthy white gook in the refrigerator he claims is necessary to rescue a chicken?
    It's strange how things happen, how people behave. The man asked for mayonnaise. I still haven't said yes or said no. Then I take it upon myself, for some inexplicable reason, given my fear and the oddness of the situation, to offer him something he hasn't requested. "Do you want a glass of water? You seem
to be upset about something. May I get you a glass of water? Come in. Sit down, please. Let me get you a glass of water."
    Like a child, like one of my children after they'd done something bad, something they were proud of for a while but then started to worry about because it might ruin the good thing I'd become for them, destroy the unspoken understanding that they could ask for anything in the world and I'd give it to them if I could, so they'd get worried and become very quiet, wait for me to tell them what to do next, playing me, little darlings again, wanting to be led by the hand, to be dressed or undressed, told to go off to bed or fetch me a glass of water or drink the glass of water I handed them—that's how the man seemed, like a little kid or a teenager who's gone too far and knows he'd better step back from the brink but doesn't exactly know how.
    He shuffles like a zombie across the gleaming Mexican tiles to a chair and sits, head down, waiting for a glass of water.
    I fill a glass at the sink and then pour it out. Why am I giving him sink water? There's cold, filtered water in the refrigerator. Embarrassed, hoping he hasn't seen my first impulse, hoping he won't take it the wrong way if he has, I dump out the first glass, open the fridge, push the blue button on the water container, run a fresh glass, and put it in his outstretched hand, a large hand, a trembling hand, a hand that looks pinkish on the inside, brownish on the outside.
    "I'm sorry, Mrs...." and then he pauses and I know just why he's pausing. He doesn't know my name. But he shouldn't be embarrassed. I want to say to him, "Don't be embarrassed, I don't remember your name either." But I can't say what I wish I could because I do remember. His last name, at least. So I just look at that two-toned hand and wonder why it's trembling, wonder why he doesn't retract it and hide it but leaves it dangling there until his fingers curl around the water glass. "I'm so sorry, Mrs., Mrs...." I could see the three dots hanging in
the air,
dot, dot, dot,
meaning he leaves his sentence unfinished. I see the dots the way you can see quotation marks around words when some people talk or see words in their speech italicized.
    "I feel foolish now, ma'am," he says. And I wonder where the
ma'am
is coming from. We must be about the same age. This
ma'am
reminds me of the way the only black man I ever saw inside my parents' house addressed my mother. I was still a little girl and once an old dark man driving a bread truck came to pick up Lucy. To him my mom was
ma'am
and my father
mister
or
sir.
Though I never thought of Lucy as old, I guess she was, but the black man seemed really old, older than my parents, so I didn't understand why he called them
sir
and
ma'am,
and now there's this man. "Ma'am," he says, "I'm sorry, I feel foolish, ma'am, sitting in your kitchen. I don't know you. I don't know you at all. And not only don't I know you, but I can't help myself from saying what I'm about to say. Forgive me, please. I'm imposing on your hospitality, but I have no one else to speak to. My wife's been gone two months now. The first month I was pretty sure she was coming back. Now I know for certain that she's not. I heard it from my mother. My wife and my mother are the best of friends. In fact, I think along with everything else she's taken, my wife intends to steal my mother from me. I can't tell you how cruel that would be. I can't tell you how much I need my mother, particularly now. I won't try to tell you, because I don't know