The summer after his mother died Philip took a job as a busboy at an island inn that catered to the wealthy. He had never in his 19 years known people who could spend weeks under beach umbrellas watching the roll of the surf. The job would help Philip earn tuition money needed for his sophomore year now that his father had so many medical debts. He had discovered the employment flyer on a dormitory bulletin board. After his application was accepted, it took him days before he could tell his father, certain he would be expected to spend the summer in a house shadowed with absence. But to Philip's relief the man just nodded and said it would be good for him to get away after all that had happened. And here he was, in a place he had never heard of, among people whose lives he would never have thought to imagine, his days devoted to gathering up their leavings while they pretended he didn't exist.

At college, though Philip had several friends for sharing meals and movies, he never told anyone his mother was dying, unable to think of a way to bring the fact into the conversation. The others just complained about roommates, mocked the professors, bragged how much sex they had and how little homework they did. How could he clear his throat and blurt, "My mother has terminal cancer"? A few times, very late, the hallway finally quiet, talking in whispers with people who had turned serious, admitting to fears of failing courses, of humiliating dates, of dismal futures, he had come close to speaking, then stopped, suddenly unsure that his mother was really ill, wondering if her cancer was something he had dreamt, not happening at all; that the next morning he would awake in shame and have to tell the others he had made it up.

Each day at the inn was the same: out of bed at 6 to serve breakfast, the sweet odor of the morning rolls already filling the dining room when the staff arrived; a break from 10 till noon; a buffet lunch on the deck; a few hours on the beach before dinner; then set the tables for the next morning and step out into an evening crisp with salt air. Philip lived in a cottage with the other busboys, across the path from the waitresses' cottage, the young women chaperoned by the sour woman who supervised housekeeping at the inn. A week into the summer Philip realized that none of the others really needed the money from their jobs, planning to spend all they earned on clothes or cars or electronic gear.

He roomed with someone called Terry and they got along well. Terry had a pleasant musical voice, offering continual anecdotes about life at his college, never telling the same story twice, always amusing, fun to listen to. When Terry started dating Theresa, Philip began taking long walks alone each evening, barefoot on the hard wet beach sand, moving far from the lights of the inn to a spot where stars glittered in an endless sky. He would think how slowly the days passed, how long this summer seemed, how he felt trapped in time.

For Philip living his life was like watching a movie he had entered late, unsure how much he had missed, bewildered by the plot, seeing the actors move and hearing them speak, but having no idea what any scene meant, how it related to what had gone before and led to what would happen next. Every time he caught his reflection in a window he would think, that's me, as if the image were another person, someone who ceaselessly followed him, annoying in his constant presence, near enough to touch but always elusive.

One afternoon when Terry asked him what he planned to major in, instead of saying that he didn't know, Philip found himself telling how his studies confused him. Everything was like the term paper he had written for freshman composition, the topic printed on a slip of paper literally pulled from the instructor's hat: General Gordon in Khartoum. He had spent hours in the library, retrieving dry books from grey metal shelves, taking notes, clumsily organizing the material, and receiving a C. All the time he kept thinking, why am I doing this? what does knowing about a useless general in a country that no one cares about have to do with being in college? The instructor was a fair young man with thin blond hair; the others ridiculed his pink scalp, and most plagiarized their papers. Terry shook his head and said they were fools; he was going to law school and you had to know how to do research.

Philip could talk to Theresa because she was Terry's girl friend, but he was shy with the other waitresses, especially with Lucy, even though she was less attractive than most, short with thick, muscular calves, wiry brown curls, and a broad pug nose. Of all the waitresses she seemed most attainable, the one who might be willing to go out with him. But when he moved his towel close to hers in the group on the beach, she didn't interrupt her conversation to acknowledge him, and he never asked her.

Terry told Philip that his older sister was a corporate lawyer, very successful, always flying to London and Rome and Zurich. It was past midnight, the two of them lying in the glow of a bright full moon that filled their room. She was his role model, Terry said, and he meant to do something important too, something that mattered in the world. He was very proud of his sister, and he wanted people to be proud of him. He was much younger than she, born when his mother was in her forties, his sister already a teenager. Philip started to remark on the coincidence; though he had no sister or brother, he too had an older mother. But before he spoke he realized that he would have to explain that his had just died. Instead he told Terry he was an only child.

“I wish you could meet my mom,” Terry said. “All my friends think she’s great. So do I. So full of life. So enthusiastic. They invite her to parties. They tell me how much they love her. But I let her know I love her the most.”

Philip felt himself redden, embarrassed at the expression of emotion, even though it was coming from someone else. Near the end, when he stood over his mother’s bed and tried to tell her that he loved her, the words caught in his throat. Her eyes had seemed so far away.

He pictured son and mother together, sharing the same broad smile, the woman as outgoing and appealing as her son, and he suddenly envied Terry. “Yes,” he nodded. “I’d like to know your mom.”

For the final weeks of her life, Philip's mother had been discharged from the hospital because nothing more could be done for her. She lay between railings on a white metal bed installed in the large bedroom she had shared with his father, a plastic bag on a wire rack dripping clear fluid through a tube injected into a wasted arm, another tube collecting green bile from her nostril. His father had moved into his room, and Philip, home from college for the holiday break, slept on the sofa; in fact, he spent all his time there, day and night, unwilling to turn on television, unable to read, hearing the visiting nurses speaking to his mother, their voices muffled from behind the door, more a blur of sound than words. He would like to have gone outside but didn't want to be seen by the neighbors and have to listen to their awkward sympathy. No one knew what to say to him, and he didn't know what to tell them.

Allen, Philip's best friend from high school, came to visit. Philip hadn't called him, but he showed up anyway, standing on the front porch with an arrangement of flowers in a plastic pot. It struck Philip as odd to see his friend holding flowers. "For your mother," Allen said. Philip rarely went into her room now, unwilling to see her so emaciated, jaundiced flesh drawn tight across the bones of her face. But he tapped lightly and opened the door to ask if she wanted to see Allen. Stretched flat in a darkened corner, she barely could nod yes. Philip stood back while Allen stepped toward the bed and told her that he had brought flowers, that he hoped she'd be well soon, his voice shrill, the sound of him overwhelming that still space. Then he turned and Philip saw the look of horror, the shock in his eyes, the mouth clenched as if he wanted to scream. Back in the hallway Allen touched Philip's arm once and was gone from the house, fleeing.

When his mother died, Philip was dozing on the sofa even though it was mid afternoon. He sat up at his father’s shout, shocked awake. His father plunged down the stairway, wailing, a fierce lamentation, like cries of a wounded animal. He seized Philip, crushing his body against him, shaking with grief. Philip stared over his father’s shoulder, gaze fixed on a stain in the wallpaper, eyes burning.

One evening Philip was the last one to leave the dining room, inserting the breakfast napkins into the juice glasses, their edges protruding like petals of a flower. When he closed the door to step from the inn, he could hear the whir of the refrigerator units and the rumble of the dishwashers; but outside the night was quiet. He moved to the front of the building, and when he saw no guests on the deck, sat in a web chair to watch the moonlight on the waves. Then he heard laughter, female voices–“He didn't!"–and more laughter. Theresa and Lucy moved across the deck, barefoot in shorts but wearing bulky cotton sweaters. Philip in shirt sleeves was shivering, trying to lean back into the shadows when they saw him. Theresa's greeting was friendly, and she sat in a chair across from his, Lucy beside her. Who did what? he wished he could ask, wondering what they would answer.

Theresa spoke first: "It's chilly tonight." Then Lucy said, "Aren't you cold?" He shrugged. "I'm all right." Theresa looked at her watch. "Oh my gosh. I told Terry I'd meet him." Then she was gone and Philip alone with Lucy, waiting for her to get up and leave too; but she did not move, and he didn't know what to say, the voice in his head cursing his silence.

Do you like it here?" she finally said. "Sure. Why?" He couldn't see her eyes in the darkness. "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself." "I'm all right." He stared down at the boards of the deck, clamping both hands on his knee to stop his leg from trembling, a cool sweat spreading over his back; he clenched his teeth until she said goodnight and left.

The next morning when Philip awoke Terry was not in the room and his watch said almost 7. He had overslept, would be late, annoyed with Terry for not waking him. He threw on the clothing from last night and swished toothpaste in his mouth. When he reached the dining room, the others, the waitresses and busboys, seemed agitated, and he didn't see Terry. Bewildered, he moved to stand at his station although it would be ten minutes before the first guest arrived.

Through a window, out on a walkway, he noticed Terry carrying a suitcase, close to him, her arm over his shoulder, an attractive woman in dark glasses. His sister, Philip thought. Why was his sister here? A harsh wind from the ocean tangled their hair, rippled their clothing against their bodies. The two of them stood looking out at the sea, then turned and walked back toward the pier across the island.

In seconds, Theresa stood beside Philip, clutching his arm, her eyes glistening. "Don't you know what happened?"

Philip shook his head.

"Terry's mother died." She seized his hand, locking her fingers in his.

"When?" He felt numb, not sure this was really happening.

"Last night."

"When I went to sleep he was still out. He wasn't there this morning."

"His sister came in the middle of the night. They’re leaving now."

Philip realized how much he liked the warmth of her, the touch of her body against his arm, and he blushed at his reaction but wouldn't pull away. "He never told me she was sick," he said.

"She wasn't. It was her heart. Absolutely sudden."

He imagined the woman sprawled on the floor, eyes staring, mouth agape, her son standing above her, crying out in his grief, and a sheet of blackness struck Philip like a blow. He staggered backwards, breaking free of Theresa, and ran through the dining room, down the steps to the employee toilet.

He slammed the door, fell against it, breathless, fingers trembling on the bolt until he could slide it tight. Then he turned and braced his hands on the cool white sink. When Philip looked into the mirror and saw the sorrow in his eyes, it was a person he knew. At last, he let himself mourn.

§ § §

Walter Cummins has published 100 stories in such magazines as Kansas Quarterly, Other Voices, Connecticut Review, Florida Review, 3rd Bed, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Virginia Quarterly Review, Confrontation, and on the Internet. His story collections are Witness and Where We Live. He also has published essays, articles, and reviews. Walter can be reached by email at wcummins@worldnet.att.net

This piece was first published in INK POT #2 - 2003, a literary journal.

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