“Happy birthday, molecule.” I said handing Tess the album, on the morning of April 20th, about a week after I’d bought it. I had no trouble hiding things from Tess, for she was extremely short and I was very tall. That situation often came in handy and never changed; she was always at least a head shorter. I’d stashed it on the top shelf in the bedroom closet, in the bag that held the Christmas lights.

As it also goes for basketballs, there’s no need to gift wrap an LP. It’s either that or a calendar.

Tess was almost as amazed by the receipt I’d taped to the album (in case it turned out to be a skipper) as by the present itself.

“You actually bought it?” she said, for Tess often spoke first and thought later. She was in the kitchen, eating her idea of breakfast–Cap’n Crunch with Crunchberries, straight out of the box.

This prompted a dark look from Mom, who was lurking hard by, shrouded by Winston smoke the same way Saturn has rings, but no comment. She was busy getting ready for work. Mom was tired of Welfare and owing Graydon so she got a job at Howell Hardware through Nora. She had been threatening to go to work for a long time. I figured it occurred to her that she may as well because it would hardly cut into her parental duties–like, say, making breakfast. To be fair, I honestly don’t recall ever seeing her eat anything before noon. And to be fairer still, she had actually wrapped the art supplies that were her presents to Tess.

“This is so cool,” Tess said, “Thank you, thank you.” She always said thank you twice when she meant it–once only to be polite.

The main cause of Mom’s lack of appetite was her Winston habit. She was good for three packs per day, and often opened a fourth, and washed them down with black coffee, RC Cola and loganberry wine. I can still see the succession of cigarette purses she owned, and the mere thought of them strikes my atrophied sense of nostalgia. She bought soft packs and removed the tops and would cram one plus a box of Black Diamond matches in the little purse. She also kept her money there. She pulled out a five and handed it to Tess. “I ordered a cake. Pick it up on your way home.” Gavin’s Bakery lay between school and our building; it irked me that Mom always gave the money for things to Tess, never me.

I grabbed the box of cereal from Tess and poured a bowl. Unlike her, I ate mine with milk. I opened the fridge and discovered that there was maybe an inch of milk in the carton. Even though I was the person who’d left it that way, the near empty carton along with the money thing placed me in a pissy mood; whenever that happened I had to fuck with it.

“I hear some mothers bake cakes for their kid’s birthdays,” I said, ostensibly to Tess

Mom would twitch her head the same way that Elsa Lancheseter did in The Bride of Frankenstein when you fucked with it . It was a strange movement so sudden that it appeared to finish before it began.

“Something wrong, Miss?” Mom’s head twitched twice more and she measured me with a gunfighter gaze.

That remark was, of course, expected. It seemed that we had been at war with each other since the time I punched her for trying to spank me at nine–which was about when Mom stopped speaking directly to me unless absolutely necessary. And I would have replied in a manner that suited the situation if not for the pleading look I glimpsed in Tess’s eyes. She always got anxious when Mom and I flared up. But the best I could do was shrug and shake my head no as I began to eat my mostly dry cereal. Mom knew how far “Miss” got under my skin and always leaned into it extra hard, as you might expect from a person who still bore a grudge against her twelve-year-old daughter.

Another twitch: “You sure about that, Miss? I’d hate for there to be something wrong with buying your little sister a birthday cake.”

I hated “something wrong” nearly as much as Miss, and neither as much as when she’d bring someone else into our war. I’m convinced that there are magic words that lead to matricide. And whenever Mom used Miss, something wrong and used anyone handy like a prop, I imagined hurting her, bad. Real bad.

Tess wouldn’t always have the luck of the timely interruption going for her, but Nora’s arrival at that moment wasn’t unexpected. We heard the familiar rumble of an engine out front. Without dropping her gaze, Mom unlocked the door. Nora was close enough to have the right to sort of knock on the door on her way in, which happened instead of a mother-daughter showdown.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she said, “Troy’s gotta stop for gas.” Troy was Nora’s boyfriend, and though not a Speck, he was illiterate, yet had served in the Korean War and worked at the shipyard, even though he could barely sign his name to his paychecks.

Mom dropped her gunfighter gaze and grabbed her coat off the sofa in the living room, and her keys, two packs of Winstons and some more matches off the counter. She drank some then dumped the last of her coffee in the sink and said, “Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute, hon,” Nora said. She ran over and kissed Tess on the check. “Happy birthday, kiddo.” She pulled a small gift wrapped package out of her pocket and handed it to Tess.

“Thank you, thank you,” Tess said. We used to call her Auntie Nora when we were small. But as we got older there was an awkward in between phase between that and just plain Nora, in which we avoided calling her anything.

“Go ahead and open it now, Kid,” Nora said, “I can’t make your party tonight.”

She filched a Crunchberry out of my bowl and popped it in her mouth. “These taste like shit without milk, sister,” Nora said to me with a wink.

I had to smile, unwittingly, or perhaps otherwise, Nora had zapped Mom a bit for me.

Although it can be energized no better than by cliches, I like to remember Nora as she was then, so young and alive. I tried to keep that in my head six years later, when uterine cancer had reduced her to sixty pounds, before killing her at thirty-four. It’s easy to intrude ominous visions that weren’t extant at the time on the past; and yet I recall often experiencing a vague inexplicable sadness about Nora, as I had then, long before she got sick. Probably a trick of the memory, spreading out a pain too big for one time to handle alone.