About Eleanor: A Short Story

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Part One: The Mother Eleanor

            “Gil, can you turn up the heater?” she asked, rubbing his stomach. “Freezing in here, hun.”

            “Love you lots more if you did it. This is best dang part of movie.”

            “You’re the worst,” she said, “and I don’t know why I even stay married to you.”

            “Don’t be mean,” he smiled, using every inch of charm a man slumped on a couch could muster. “It’s terrible when you’re mean.”

            She slapped him on the belly and willed herself from the couch, running across the living room and down the hall of their little three bedroom wood-framed house. Everything rattled with her footfalls. The glasses in the cabinets, the hangars in the closets; it wasn’t a castle, but it was a happy backdrop to a steady life.

            After grabbing a blanket from her bedroom, she adjusted the thermostat to 73. They could afford it—winter didn’t linger in Texas. Just one of those nights.

            On the way back to the couch, she yelled that someday a fireplace might be nice, then stopped to tap on the bathroom door. It wasn’t latched and swung open with the draft of heat from the hallway vent.

            “Jesus, Mom! What the hell!”

            “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back and closing the door. “I didn’t mean to come in.”

            “Is dinner ready?”

            “Yeah it’s ready. In the oven. Waiting on you. As are we.” She tapped lightly on the door and wrapped the blanket tightly around her thin frame, returning to the couch with a doleful expression and slow bearing. Nudging back into her spot, he could feel that womanly ability to cause a soundless disruption in the atmosphere.

            “What happened?” he asked, spitting tobacco into an old coffee mug. “You didn’t catch him—you know—because that’s damn funny.”

            He laughed and stayed fixed on the TV. She slapped his leg. “He’s hurt, Gil. You should’ve seen the marks.”

            “Battle scars is all.”

            “What I saw weren’t no battle scars. You go in there and talk to him.”

            He turned off the show and squarely faced his wife. “Eleanor,” he said, “I’ll go on in there and bust in like you just did—if that’s what you want.”

            “Why do I feel like you’re saying more than one thing?”

            “He’s fourteen. A little runt for his age. And we’re in the middle of football season.”

            “But—”

            “I’ll go,” he said, “but think for a second.” Gil wrapped his thick arms around her and kissed her forehead. She loved it, even in a moment of concern. The cocoon of her husband’s protection, even the smell of a day’s work and (though she wouldn’t admit it) beer and tobacco on his breath.

            She whispered into his chest. “No, you’re right. I’m just a mom is all.”

            “Oh you’re a momma bear for sure.” Another kiss on the forehead. “This is an old story though. The cub’s gotta grow up sometime.”

            Eleanor used her fingers to play with his stubble like piano keys. “No, you’re right. I’ll just embarrass him.”

            “There you go.” Gil released his wife and went back to watching the TV.

            “But it was bad. He was weak-ankled standing at the sink. His back was purple. That weird yellow.”

            There was no response. Just a low breath blown out from the bottom of Gil’s gut. They sat in their respective spots and thought their respective thoughts, like almost every night since the night they decided to be together.

            Eleanor looked at the family pictures on the bookcase next to the TV and thought about that night. She wondered for the millionth time why they kept some of those pictures up.

            Not some. Just the one.

            Like there was a code or panel of judges out there always looking down on her, to make sure she was woman enough to handle that faded image and the cheap frame leaning awkwardly away from her gaze.

            “You guys ready?” Riley asked, smelling like cheap shampoo.

            “There he is,” Gil said, slipping out from Eleanor and into the kitchen. She watched her son nod at his much taller father.

            Such a respectful kid. Always had been. That’s why the language in the bathroom was so—

            “Come get it, girl,” Gil said.

            “Coming,” she muttered, still pinned to the couch, still staring at the picture.

            She set her phone down on the coffee table next to her husband’s things. “Honey, you leave your phone?”

            It was a rule. No damn phones at the table. No damn phones in the same room. It was family time.

            “Sorry, woman.” Gill tossed his at Eleanor and told her to put it with his badge and gun.

            She shrugged off the blanket and walked by Riley, sitting with his back to her. Eleanor almost patted him, but realized quickly—that back.

            They sat down like always. Just like always.