Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
When I got in, safely off the wheel—as Jack London called the bicycle in Martin Eden: the wheel—my telephone message system was blinking. It was my mother, at 11 a.m., saying she hadn’t heard from me for a while. I talk to her every week, basically. I resisted this for years. For years, she’s wanted to talk to me every week. These days, it seems good to stay in touch more. She’s 90.
I studied her voice as she left her message and she did very well with the directions I’ve given her—how to not sound too urgent if it isn’t, because I may come in too late to call, and it’s worrisome if she sounds emphatic. Hepped up. I decided to call right then, before making dinner. Twinges of guilt about wanting to get it over with.
I phoned, she picked up, but their answering machine started feeding back in a slow unravelling sound like a Halloween ghost: wwwoooooooohhh. “I’ll call you back,” she said and began the process of replacing the receiver back in its cradle. I hung up, waiting, looking into the darkness beyond the computer screen, towards the mountains that she loves, where I taught skiing. The never-ending mountains on the other side of the inlet.
Back on the line, she had problems with the volume on the phone and she called for John to come and help her. He turned it down and I demonstrated my voice a couple of times, but it was still too loud and John returned to fiddle with the volume on her hearing aid. She was about to make fishcakes and I was happy to keep things short, but I wanted to let her know of my new hours at work. She wrote down the days after repeating them back to me.
“Yes, that’s right. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Yup.”
She asked how I was and I said I’d been busy, and I mentioned that I was seeing someone on Sundays, but she didn’t quite catch what I meant. I told her about him last time I saw her, but it was part of a larger conversation.
“I’m seeing a fella and Sunday is date day,” I said, feeling decidedly circa Anne Of Green Gables.
She still isn’t getting it—the phone isn’t quite right and I think she wants to get to her fishcakes.
“His name is Max,” I say.
“Pardon, dear?”
“The fella I see on Sundays. His name is Max,” I say, wondering if the sibilance of the x is squealing in her hearing aid. “Maxwell,” I say, wishing I had fishcakes that I needed to get to.
“Maxwell Kent,” she says, to my amazement.
“That’s right, but how did you remember his last name?
“It’s not a name you forget,” she says.
“I see,” I say.
“Is he nice?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “He is.” Wanting to summarize and move on to the remainder of the evening, I say, “He’s not a jackass.”
She laughs. We make a few more remarks about technology, volume and fishcakes, and then she wants to get off the phone.
