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stomach troubles. There’s no reason to be ashamed. We all gain a little weight once in a while. And we must all go on a diet occasionally. Are you on a diet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, have some cake and start your diet tomorrow.”
    “I started it yesterday.”
    “Make an interruption tonight, since I made this difficult cake just for you. Go back on your diet tomorrow.”
    “Actually, I do, also, have stomach trouble.”
    “Are you going to have some cake or not?”
    I hesitate, realizing it may make a tremendous scene if I don’t have a piece of cake, but then I decide no, I cannot break my commitment to the destruction of the maggot in me.
    “I’m afraid I shouldn’t,” I say.
    “Does that mean no?”
    “Yes.”
    “You are so selfish. You ought to have your head examined.”
    “By you?”
    She doesn’t answer. We clear the table.
    Charlotte rarely wants to have sex. I guess she’s simply not a very sexual person. When we do do it, she just lies there stiffly. She must think that’s the romantic way to do it, the Snow White-ish way, the feminine way.
    So I suppose I’m a sexually frustrated guy. This evening we do not do it, which is just as well because I don’t really feel like it anyway. I go home feeling depressed, empty.
     
    T hat evening, my mother calls me, something she does about once a week. She’s seventy-one years old and lives alone in Mount Kisco, in Westchester County. My father was twenty-eight years older than her. He died of old age when I was four. I guess she’s lonely. She always asks me when I’m going to visit her. I go see her sometimes on weekends, and I bring my cat. She loves Minou and wants me to come every weekend so she can see us.
    Unfortunately, she also enjoys paying me surprise visits in the city, once every couple of months. She says, “There is nothing healthier in the world than having your mother visit you by surprise once in a while.”
    Her last visit was two weeks ago. It unfolded in the usual manner, as follows:
    My buzzer rings. I’m not expecting anybody.
    “Who is it?” I ask in the intercom.
    “It’s me.”
    I recognize my mother’s voice.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, Jeremy, it’s me.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I’m visiting you.”
    “But you didn’t call beforehand.”
    “You know I prefer it this way.”
    “I can’t let you up. You should have called me. I’m sorry.”
    “Of course you will let me up. Open the door.”
    “No, I’m sorry, you should have called. I’ve told you this before. If you want, I’ll come down, and we’ll go and have coffee.”
    Are you kidding yourself, Jeremy? She is not interested in going out for coffee. Five more minutes of begging, and I have no choice but to let her up. Sometimes, while she’s still begging downstairs, someone enters or leaves the building. Taking advantage of the open door, she enters and continues the begging in front of my apartment. Either way, I always end up letting her in, to my deep regret, because she lets out a loud scream when she sees the mess in my apartment.
    While she climbs up the stairs, I scramble to clean the filthiest things in the room, which almost always turn out to be my cat’s old vomited fur balls, lying in dried-out puddles of stomach fluid, like little orange sausages. There are usually about five of them, which I frantically pick up, sometimes even with my bare hands in the rush of it. I invariably miss one, which my mother invariably finds, and although I’m sure she knows exactly what it is, she goes down on her hands and knees, examines it from very close, and says, “What is that? It looks sad. Or dead. Is it a mouse? Oh, it must be your cat’s poopy. But no, it has no smell.” She then crawls over to the moldy, shriveled-up melon shells and shrunken avocado skins and, groaning, says, “Oh my God, I can't believe it, it stinks, it smells like the Antichrist... Etc.
    Thank God the last visit happened two weeks ago, which means I should have