10 october 2006
Matt… and Charly
By Beth Dooley
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My son, Matt, left for college about a month ago, so I got a puppy – a little mutt (Yorkie Terrier, Bijon, Poodle mix) -- whose adorable under bite will not require orthodontia. She follows me everywhere, bolts to the car when I pick up keys, and doesn’t need a Math tutor. Her name is Charly (short for Charlotte) but my husband says I should have called her Matt.
I found her on Petfinder.com, e-mailing pet rescue folks about lost and abandoned dogs, alone in the kitchen, where just weeks ago, Matt and I would talk after he walked in from a night with his friends.
Ask my husband and he’ll tell you of Matt’s classes, the co-eds, his fall lacrosse schedule, swing dancing lessons, dorm parties, how nicely Matt has adjusted, how prepared he was to go.
Ask me and I’ll tell you about Charly, a blonde sprite who curls up on Matt’s pillow, digs ratty socks out from under his bed, fetches lacrosse balls and licks salty tears. I sent Matt her picture along with the CD’s he’d forgotten, T-shirts, and fresh chocolate chip cookies. He called right away (for the first time). “I can’t wait to meet her,” he said, “You will,” I replied, “let me know when you’ll be home,” as I sat on the floor in the kitchen and Charly pawed at the receiver.
The afternoon my parents moved me into my college dorm in upstate New York, my dad departed with one last hug. Enveloped in his scent of cigarette smoke and Old Spice, I could hear the geese high in September’s dusky sky. “OK,” he said, “when do you think you’ll be home?” The family wagon with my brothers and sister sprawled over the now roomy back seat, seemed lighter bouncing over speed bumps, vanishing round the gate; I stood watching, alone.
Before Matt flew from Minneapolis to Philadelphia for school, I shipped out a forty-pound box with his quilt, framed family photos, a bear named Annie (scarred from tussles with his brothers and our dear old lab). Left behind are the posters scotch-taped to the walls, and on the rickety bookshelves (I’d meant to replace) the Hardy Boys book collection and shoe boxes of photos, concert tickets, high school play programs. No longer do lacrosse arm pads, soccer shin guards, piles of homework and college brochures, cover the floor. I’d meant to get him a proper desk, a lamp, a file cabinet. “But Mom, I like working at the kitchen table,” he’d said through the years.
The other night, I tried to sit in Matt’s seat, but his two brothers protested at once, “Mom, that’s Matt’s place!” We still chat about homework, team scores, elections, but dinners don’t seem to last quite as long, or maybe it’s me who wants to linger as we rise to clear dishes away. I’m still hungry for more.
It was cool the morning I dropped Matt and my husband at the airport and I wore my dad’s royal blue V-neck sweater left here on one of his last visits. I reached up high to hug Matt who has grown even taller through the summer and tried to swallow the quiver in my voice. My dad’s request that ended every conversation up until the day he died, echoed through thirty years—college and grad school, travels in Europe, writing, teaching, my life as a mom--“I hate to bug you, but when do you think you’ll be home?”
Beth Dooley is a writer and cooking teacher. She has written five cookbooks, including New American Heartland Cooking, and Savoring the Seasons of the Northern Heartland (with Lucia Watson, Knopf, 1994). She serves as an advisor to the Youth Farm and Market Project and to MOMbo. |
