Machine Dreams

sentences ran on to comprise one form, one image. It was a funny card, a dog on the front with big eyes and a gap-toothed grin; couldn’t picture it exactly but the thought bubble referred to some pun on doggone it etc. your birthday. Inside, a check for twenty dollars and her message, which he remembered exactly:
I wish I could do more, honey, but things are a little tight this month. When you come home next, I’ll make you a special birthday dinner. Things all right? Need anything? Love, Mom.
Mitch had sent him fifty dollars. Since the divorce he’d tried to give Billy too much money; Billy would have to persuade his father to take half the fifty back. The card was a money envelope from Central National Bank in Bellington. A paper flap lifted to reveal an oval cutout and the face of Andrew Jackson; near it Mitch had printed
Happy Birthday
and underlined the words. At the bottom, under the money,
Love, Mitch.
And he underlined his name. Lately he signed himself “Mitch” in letters, one every couple of weeks, Bess’s address printed in the top left corner of the envelopes as return. Each letter was neatly typed and nearly telegraphic in nature.
Fall has arrived here, nights are cold and fog of a morning. Better to winterize your car before snow, here is a check. Upshur Drill bought the County Bldg. & are adding on, tore hell out of East Main.
He typed one-fingered on the big manual Billy had moved from the basement on Labor Day weekend; the typewriter sat on top of his metal desk just as before. His bedroom at Bess’s easily held all his possessions: his clothes, the Formica-topped desk in the corner. A swivel desk chair, a file cabinet. His construction manuals, loose-leaf in vinyl-covered notebooks, displayed between steel bookends. Small graduation photos of Billy and Danner in a plastic frame Mitch must have bought at the five and ten on Main Street. A metal nameplate that read MITCH HAMPSON in white letters on fake wood. This was his father’s room and it had existed all along, unacknowledged by anyone, in the basement—in the same cement-block room as the ironing board and the single bed where Jean used to sleep.
    Despite the awkward pain of his father’s anger, Billy was glad Jean and Mitch finally lived apart. Purposefully, Billy stayed out of the cross fire. Bess was his father’s ally, silently, constantly, in companionship, in their familial bickering over when to bring in more coal, over how warm to keep the fire that had burned in the grate of the sitting room since October. Mitch sat in front of the color television in a big-seated upholstered rocker, stoking the fire with a poker. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, feet flat on the floor, his hands touching contemplatively. Or heleaned back, the chair in motion, one arm extended on the broad oak armrest, the other crooked as he stroked the back of his neck. Bess sat in the corner in a small white rocker with her handwork, out of viewing range of the picture constantly beamed by the TV.
I don’t watch anyway
, she confided to anyone, telling a joke on herself,
I only listen to the stories
—the stories being several afternoon soap operas. She sat in near darkness doing cross-stitch, a kind of touch braille, Billy thought, since she couldn’t possibly see the patterns. Her glasses were thick and their lenses made her eyes seem too large for her thin face. If Billy stood close enough he saw pale blue whorls in her brown irises, a milky flaring of age near the tight dots of her pupils. She stood up from her chair carefully, touching the top of the warm television for support.
    They didn’t talk about the divorce in front of Billy.
Lord save us
, Bess would comment good-humoredly while Mitch complained about potholes on Main Street or prices at the grocery store. When Billy went by the house on weekends home, they had Saturday lunch in the kitchen: chicken baked in the oven until it was hard and salty, mashed potatoes, soup beans. Flour gravy Bess made at the stove, Mitch pouring the milk into the pan as she stirred. Afterward she insisted on cleaning up alone.
You go on and visit with your father.
Back to the sitting room, Billy rolling his sleeves up in the warmth. Mitch taking his usual seat, then talk, generalities with specific meanings. Long pauses, expected, not uncomfortable. Crackling of the coal fire. Billy never mentioned his mother; Mitch never asked. Jean did discuss the divorce; Billy knew it was final in February.
    They all