The Mommy Box, Part 5

The Mommy Box, Part 4

My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I almost couldn't hear Tim's mother dialing the phone that hung on the wall in his kitchen.

I heard her say, "It's me. I just walked all the way down to the corner to wait for that bus. It doesn't come until 10:15am. How could you not know that? You've lived up here for 20 fucking years. How can you not know the goddamn bus schedule? I'll go back down there when it's time for the bus. You'll see me when you see me. Good-bye."

Dizzy, I raced through a mental list of options. I could call out to Tim's mother, say that I was in the apartment, that Tim had asked me to....asked me....ARGH! I couldn't think of what he could have asked me to do. OK, what else? I could call out to her and say that there was a leak in my apartment and that I came down to see if there was damage. Only my apartment was TWO floors above, not one. And anyway, she'd come into the bedroom and see me with the Mommy Box up on the handtruck. In either case, she was bound to scream, come at me with a knife, mace me, shoot me, who could tell with that old bitch? At that point, I would have settled for her calling 911, but I didn't dare risk the other options.

So I stayed paralyzed. I looked at my watch, it was 9:40am. I had about 30 minutes before she'd leave again to head to the bus stop. I still had the Mommy Box tilted back on the handtruck, my right hand still on the handle. I was afraid to lower the box to the ground, lest the contents shift position and make noise. My hand was aching, my heart was pounding. And I had to piss. Possibly as much from fear as real need.

The bedroom door wasn't open all the way, so I stepped to the right, turning the box slightly on the handtruck wheels, so that I could hide behind the door. Twenty seconds later, Tim's mother walked past the bedroom into the bathroom. The next couple of minutes are still a bit foggy for me because Tim's mother was topless. As in not wearing a shirt. As in saggy, leathery, 75 year old boobies. I wanted to cry out, "My eyes! My beautiful eyes! My cursedly operable beautiful eyes!" But I didn't.

Then she walked past the bedroom door again, this time wearing a sweatshirt, thank Jeebus. I stayed cowering behind the door. The pain in my hand was unbearable. The need to piss was causing me to jiggle my leg. The longest half hour in recorded history later, I heard keys jangling again and Tim's mother left the apartment. I waited sixty seconds, then raced to the door, dragging the Mommy Box out behind me. Another minute later I had the Mommy Box upstairs and safely inside my apartment, whereupon I collapsed on the floor and twitched for a few minutes.

*****

Allen left me a message about a week later. "Joe, I just wanted to let you know that Tim died in his sleep two nights ago. It was very peaceful and the nurse on duty said he wasn't in discomfort, which...you know....is a blessing. I guess it was the infection, towards the end they were thinking he had sepsis. I know you guys weren't really friends or anything, but I wanted to tell you because you'd done that nice thing for him with his box of porn."

Surprisingly...I wasn't surprised. I suppose I had grown numb to these sort of phone calls. I played Allen's message a couple of times and went to the Twin Peaks Safeway, where I ran into Allen himself. We hugged in the aisle, an oddly long hug from someone with whom I really had only a passing acquaintance.

I stepped back from our hug and said, "So how's Tim's mom taking this?"

Allen shrugged, "Who can tell? That old biddy was always so mean to Tim when I was around. She came by the hospital after he died, to claim the body and all that stuff. She didn't even speak to me."

"What are they doing as far as a funeral?"

"He's already been cremated. They did it the next day. There isn't going to be a service, or at least, I haven't heard about one, not that his mother would bother to tell me."

"What about his friends? Are you guys doing anything?"

"Well, there's really just me and Eduardo. As far I know, all of Tim's other friends have died. I don't even know anybody else who knew him. There isn't anybody to notify."

That blew me away. Outside of his family, Tim only had two friends that would note his passing. Allen followed me home from the supermarket and I gave him the contents of the Mommy Box, which he put into two Hefty garbage bags.

"What are you gonna do with it all?" I asked

"I dunno, keep it....I guess. I didn't know Tim back during his porn days, but somebody should keep this stuff, you know? Keep a record that Tim was here."

I nodded. Allen left with the bags and I never ran into him again.

*****

About a month after Tim died, my friend Ray stopped by on his way home from the gym. We stood chatting in the kitchen and Ray noticed the Mommy Box, still lying behind my sofa. I had already told Ray about Tim.

Ray asked, "So what are you gonna do with the box?"

"Throw it out, I guess."

"Maybe the family wants it. Isn't that them down there moving his stuff out?"

I went to my bedroom window where I could see a Ryder truck parked across from our front door. A couple of big guys were loading the truck with Tim's furniture. His mother was standing at the back of the truck, smoking. She was wearing that ridiculous black wig and sweatpants.

I had Ray take an end of the now empty Mommy Box and together we carried it downstairs and put it on the sidewalk next the front door. I walked across the street to Tim's mother and said, "Hi, I'm Joe. We met in the hall once?"

She narrowed her eyes. "So?"

"Oh, well...I had a piece of Tim's furniture up in my place. I guess he didn't have any room for it. It's over there by the door. My friend and I can put it in-"

"Just leave it there. I'll see if I want it," she said. Then she turned away, dismissing me.

I shrugged at Ray, who waved and headed down the sidewalk to his car. Back upstairs, I looked out my bedroom window to see that, apparently unbidden, the furniture movers had carried the Mommy Box over to the rear of the truck, leaving it on the ground while they moved larger pieces inside.

Tim's mother was standing over the Mommy Box. I watched her flick her cigarette to the ground. Then slowly, she dropped to her knees. I watched her hands...her knotted, bony, liver-spotted, nicotine-stained hands as they spread out reverently over the faded words on the lid, just as I'd seen her son do.

Good Boys Always Put Their Toys Away. Love, Mommy.

Then Tim's mother leaned forward and hugged the box.

.