I see my mother’s neck muscles lock. I receive her coded plea that I, the liberal, not call him on it today, at least not till this vehicle is stopped. —No problem. Hey, whatever, it can wait.

“Yeah,” recovering, he finally says to no one. “I thought it was right around there.” He means the car. And invites us to join him in beaming at his own vast male efficiency. I simply sit here, numb already. In the back seat. Glad at least for safety belts. Practicing my own homespun form of Zen. Trying to invent it.

Home Safe

y parents’ is a spacious pretty glass box overlooking a lake. Sun browses, touristy, intrigued by this much daily beauty. Cathedral ceilings look steep in a white box this unsmudged. The sun’s interest gets further split among many beveled mirrors. My mom started collecting them while still in North Carolina; she swears she only knew why once she’d hung all thirty in lakeside tropical rooms. Mirrors enlarge the blue-green view, they enhance property value and bespeak our family’s breeding and very good if oh so conventional taste. I myself feel sick to death of it. What help is it?

Their common room overlooks a lake with its own mascot alligator. Soon as we arrive, soon as Dad hurries to mix our drinks, Mom points to a stripe floating loglike. “This one, he’s called Bosco for some reason. They change over time.”

The lake can only support one really big one. When the latest grows six feet long, a game warden will be phoned to come fetch it. Why? Visiting dogs and grandchildren are not safe within eyesight of a wild gator expanding past that size. At Sun City Center last month, a cocker was eaten and one grandkid lost her leg. Retired folks must feel titillated watching this beast grow huge. Comforting to know that just by lifting a “bone white” portable phone, they can banish the creature, death forestalled. Still, they feed it.

I now lean out over my parents’ deck, I see many an old Melmac plate, emptied, around the muddy lake at clocklike intervals.

Using my credit card, I dial our circle’s hospital of choice from the kitchen-wall phone; my parents stay close to overhear key words: “shingles,” “higher dosage,” “nightsweats.”

“But Bama, how about you? Still standing? He betterer? How worserer?” Mother finally mimes something, pointing from her chest to Dad’s. I interpret, “Bamham? Tell Robbie my folks send love and Mom remembers the Godiva chockies.” My father’s face narrows, he hears private references. He’ll sulk now. If betrayals abounded during his dry-land prime, how many must be lurking amphibious these days?

Robert’s conscious. Marco’s about the same. Gideon holding. Suddenly after years of house parties, he’s back to painting all the time. So many sick, and me in Florida!