Free A Paper Son by Jason Buchholz Page A

lawyers would arrange it. They said some more nice things about my dad, emptied his room, and left. My sister and I emerged to see what a half-million dollars looked like. It seemed like a prize, so I figured he must have won his race. My mom folded the check and put it in her purse. “Go finish your homework,” she told us, “and then we’ll go get some pizza.”
    By the time Eva and I reached my mom’s gate we were miles from the nearest streetlight. Using my headlights as illumination, I wheeled through the numbers on the combination padlock and then swung the gate open. I locked it behind us and we drove up the long driveway to the house.
    Mom answered the door in her red-and-white striped apron, which was dusted with flour. She looked quickly at Eva, and then back to me. “Hello Peregrine,” she said, and gave me a quick hug. “Did you lock the gate?” I nodded. She extended a hand to Eva. “I’m Pamela,” she said, without smiling.
    â€œEva,” said Eva, taking her hand, also not smiling. My mom bolted the door behind us.
    I hadn’t been there in a few months, and things had changed. The front of the house, which consisted of a living room and the open kitchen, had been consumed by her crops. Rows of waist-high plants had replaced the couch, the coffee table, the easy chairs, and the television. Piled in one corner of the room were her bed, a dresser with a few books on it, and a lamp. I could only imagine what had become of her bedroom. The kitchen counter had been completely taken over by low planters, out of which baby plants sprouted. A cheap card table with folding legs now stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, creating a path just wide enough to move around the room. It held her mixing bowl, bags of flour and sugar, chocolate chips.
    â€œYou’ve made some changes,” I said.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Market pressures. Have a seat.” There were a few stools hidden beneath the kitchen counter’s lip. We pulled them out and found spots for them in her narrow walkways.
    â€œWhat did you do with all the furniture?” I said.
    â€œSold it,” she said.
    â€œThis doesn’t look healthy,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean? It’s an oxygen-rich environment.”
    â€œThese are lovely,” Eva said politely, eyeing the plants. “What are they?” She reached out and touched a leaf.
    My mom had gone back to work, and was now dragging a long wooden spoon through some thick chocolate batter. “Cannabis,” my mom said.
    â€œNever heard of them,” Eva said.
    The slightest smile touched my mom’s lips. “Give me one minute and I’ll make some chamomile,” she said. Her voice sounded a little friendlier. She poured the batter out into a couple of cake pans and slid them into the oven, then turned the flame on beneath a teapot. She leaned a hip against the counter and we considered each other. She looked tired. At some recent point the gray in her hair had come to exceed the black.
    â€œSo,” she said, “two things. I need you to haul a couple of boxes of your stuff out of here. I found them in the back of the hall closet, and I need the space in there.” She glanced at Eva, and then back at me. “So what are you researching?” she asked. “Aren’t you still a teacher?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “But I’ve also been working on a story. I’m publishing chapters of it in a journal in the city. I should have brought a copy of it to show you.”
    â€œThat would have been nice,” she said. The kettle began to whistle. She dumped tea bags into a few mismatched mugs, poured the hot water over them, and brought them to us.
    â€œIt takes place in China,” I said.
    â€œWell, bring it along next time, and I’ll read it.” She set her mug down on the counter with a clunk. “Let’s go grab those boxes.”
    I