Free Little Black Lies by Sandra Block Page B

real mom liked gardening or roller coasters,” Scotty adds.
    A blast of cold air comes in behind us as the next visitors tromp in, unwrapping scarves and shaking off boots on the black rubber mat. The automatic door grinds shut again. “What do you want to know about Beth? I can tell you, honey. She loved roller coasters. In fact, she once dragged me on Montezuma’s Revenge seven times in a row. I threw up in a garbage can, but she was still running to get into line again.”
    I laugh at this image, as does Scotty, though this doesn’t sound like a very sensitive friend. “Was Dad there?” I ask, having a hard time visualizing him anywhere near a roller coaster.
    “Oh no, of course not,” she says. “And about gardening.” Mom pauses. “I don’t remember her gardening much, but she was very young.”
    Old enough to have kids, but too young to garden? Somehow this doesn’t jibe with the disco-haired, doe-eyed picture of Beth Winters I had in my head. I have always pictured a small side garden with pink hollyhocks, deep purple salvia, and shades of red zinnias in the fall. I visualize this pathetic little garden charred by the fire, sopped from the heroic firefighters’ efforts from the night before, still smoking days later. But I don’t know if this is a true memory or not.
    “I remember a garden, Mom, from after the fire. At least I think I do.”
    “What fire?” she asks.
    I shoot Scotty a glance.
    “The fire,” he says. “You know. When Zoe’s mom died.”
    She smiles at him solicitously and chews on her fingernails again.
    “The fire, Mom,” he continues. “Don’t you remember the fire?”
    “Oh, wait a second,” she says brightly, “the fire, of course!” She gives an unsure smile. “My memory’s not what it used to be. What about the fire?”
    “Nothing,” I say morosely. So now I know Beth Winters loved roller coasters and gardening, not so much.
    “Honestly, honey, I don’t remember that much about it anymore. I do remember the fire. Vaguely. Every day, I lose something else.” She looks down at her nails. “I can hardly even remember Beth’s face anymore. ”
    The bird is chirping now, his gray head wet and matted from the rain. He is yanking something from the ground with glee. A worm!
    Mom puts her hands in her bathrobe pockets. “Oh,” she says with excitement, as if she just remembered, “you guys want to see something?” She pulls out a ratty Popsicle stick (or tongue depressor in my line of work) with bright feathers glued on it in a million directions. Fuzzy neon-pink, electric-blue, and lilac-purple feathers.
    I examine it in my hands, and she waits for a pronouncement, like a child handing over a piece of artwork in first grade. After identifying its wattle, I realize this is a turkey. A glam turkey, sort of stuck in the nineties, but a turkey nonetheless. A Thanksgiving craft.
    “That’s great, Mom,” I say, and Scotty murmurs his agreement. Mom smiles ear-to-ear and then reaches over and takes it back. We sit there awhile, watching the birds, a gaggle of them now, leaping from patch to patch of soggy grass while Mom smooths the turkey feathers in her hands as if she is holding on to a newborn.
    *  *  *
    The smell of buffalo dung hangs heavy in the air.
    The rain has cleared into a cool, blue November evening, the light watercolor blue that comes before night falls in earnest, streaked with pink. I have decided to take Sam’s advice and go for a run, taking my favorite route in Delaware Park. The park edges the zoo so, if you look over the fence, you can see the buffalo, or at least smell them. Buffalo in Buffalo, we know the art of self-parody.
    My pink sneakers slap the pavement, and immediately I feel my brain relaxing, as if it’s a muscle that’s been tense. I run into the wind, the cold numbing my cheeks, my phone strapped to my arm like a gun holster in case a Dum-dum-dum-dah should ring out and I might, God forbid, miss it. This is the exact reason