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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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All A Boy Could Give
Bob Strother
It was only natural that Petrov Bashmet would love his mother. She had raised him by herself since he was three years old. When he was five, and asked about his father, she knelt and ruffled his silky blond hair.
“He went out for a pack of cigarettes,” she said. “He is still gone.”
They lived in a duplex just off Chicago’s Devon Avenue ” a Russian neighborhood that was last in a line of immigrant communities stretching from west of the lake almost to Evanston.
Elena worked six days a week at Crawford Metals, a small manufacturer of wire newspaper racks and shelving. The work was hard and Petrov recognized the fatigue in his mother’s face every night when she came home. One morning he had cried and begged her not to go.
“It’s all right,” she said, smiling down at him. “I do it for love ” my love for you. It’s all a mother can give.”
Over the years, he had returned that love as best he could, never once forgetting her birthday, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s or Christmas. She had lined the top of her clothes chest with his meager, heartfelt offerings ” cards he’d made from construction paper, dried flowers, and dime store jewelry.
She bought a new dress for his high school graduation and had arrived in time to claim a seat on the front row. Seeing her face wet with tears of joy, his heart swelled with love and gratitude, and he almost cried as well.
Petrov met Denise a few weeks later while working the service counter at Burger Haven. She sidled up in ripped jeans and a cutoff tee top that revealed a small silver stud in her belly button.
“I’ll have a chocolate shake and small fries,” she said. Then, staring at his name tag, “You don’t really look like a Petrov, you know? I think I’ll call you Pete.” She winked and smiled, and he felt a sweet pain boil up from somewhere deep inside him.
At the movies that Saturday night, they sat on the back row and played a frenzied game of tactile tag that left them both hungry for more. Soon, Wednesday afternoons ” Pete’s day off ” became “their” day, and his bedroom, their trysting place.
Summer gave way to fall, and domestic manufacturing to cheaper off shore production. On a Wednesday afternoon in late September, Crawford Metals closed their doors forever.
The door to the duplex slammed shut and Pete’s heart almost stopped.
“Petrov,” his mother called out. “You finally get your wish. I will work no more.”
“Quick!” Pete said to Denise. “Get your clothes on!”
Denise had one foot in her jeans when Elena knocked softly, then opened Pete’s bedroom door. “Petrov, are you sleeping?”
The older woman’s face contorted with rage. “What is this? Who are you ” you whore! What are you doing?” Elena rushed the girl, slapping at her wildly while Denise struggled into her clothes. “Get out! Get out of my house, you tramp!”
Denise escaped through the front door and the house became eerily quiet. Petrov could not meet his mother’s eyes.
“It is not your fault,” Elena said. “Men are weak ” easily corrupted by women like that. Your father was the same.” She sat down on the bed beside Petrov and took his hand in hers. “Do not worry. In time, you will find a pure love, someone who will love you as I do.” She narrowed her eyes and turned toward the door. “Not like that one.”
For two weeks, he left Denise messages that went unanswered. Finally, he waited on the sidewalk in front of her house until she came out.
“I’m sick without you,” he said. “I have to see you.”
Denise shook her head. “What’s the point, Pete? Your mother hates me ” thinks I’m a whore. That’s not going to change. I can tell.”
“But I want to be with you ... always.”
“I love you, Pete, but...” She shrugged, then turned to go inside. At the top of the steps, she looked back and gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The route home took him by McWhorter’s, the dime store where he had so carefully sorted through dozens of bins to find his mother the perfect gift. He stopped briefly to look in the big plate glass window. After a moment, he went inside.
He opened the door to the duplex quietly. Since losing her job, his mother had taken to napping in the afternoon and he didn’t want to wake her. The door to her bedroom stood open, and from the hallway, he heard the rhythmic sound of her breathing.
Elena struggled weakly when he placed the pillow over her face, but her efforts were short-lived. She was tired, Pete knew. His mother had worked hard all her life. She had lived for him ... and now she would die for him.
When it was over, he took a small, cut-glass brooch from his pocket and gently pinned it to her dress. He never forgot her special days and surely this was one of them.
He and Denise would be together now. How could they not? He had given up a mother’s love for her. It was all a boy could give.
