现代大学英语精读第二版（第六册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——8 - Housewifely Arts（家庭主妇的艺术）
Unit 8 - Housewifely Arts
Housewifely Arts
Megan Mayhew Bergman
I am my own housewife, my own breadwinner. I make lunches and change light bulbs. I kiss bruises and kill copperheads from the backyard creek with a steel hoe. I change sheets and the oil in my car. I can make a pie crust and exterminate humpback crickets with a homemade glue board, though not at the same time. I'd like to compliment myself on these things because there's no one else around to do it.
Turn left, Ike says.
There is no left-only a Carolina road that appears infinitely flat, surrounded by pines and the occasional car dealership billboard. I lost my mother last spring and am driving nine hours south with 7-year-old so that I might hear her voice again.
Do you need to pee? I ask. We could stop for lunch.
Chicken nuggets? He asks.
If I were a better mother, I would say no, there would be bread, carrot, and seedless grapes. If I were a better daughter, Ike would have known his grandmother, spent more time in her arms.
How much longer? Ike asks.
Four hours.
Four hours till what?
You'll see, I say.
What I'm having trouble explaining to Ike is this. We're driving to a small roadside zoo outside of Myrtle Beach so that I can hear my mother's voice ring through the beak of thirty-six-year-African gray parrot, a bird that I hated, a bird that could beep like a microwave, ring like a phone, and sneeze just like me.
In moments of profound starvation, the exterminator told me, humpback crickets may devour their own legs, though they cannot regenerate limbs.
Our house has been for sale for a year and contract has finally come in, contingent on a home inspection. The firm I work for has offered to transfer me to Connecticut-in a state where Ike has a better chance of escaping childhood obesity, God, and conservative political leanings. I can't afford to leave until the house sells. My realtor has tried scented candles and apple pies in the oven, but no smokescreen will detract from the cricket infestation.
They jump, the realtor said before I left town with Ike. Whenever I open the door to the basement, they hurl themselves at me. You'll never pass a home inspection, he said. Do something.
The exterminator already comes weekly, I said.
I'll see you Sunday, the realtor said. I'll come over for a walk-through before the inspection.
That night Ike and I covered scrap siding in glue and flypaper and scattered our torture devices throughout the basement, hoping to reduce the number of crickets.
Ike shivered and stuck out his tongue at the crickets, which flung themselves from wall to celling.
What if we live here forever? He asked.
People used to do that, I said. Lived in one house their entire life. My mother, for instance.
I pictured her house, a two-bedroom white ranch with window boxes, brick chimney, and decorative screen door. The driveway was unpaved-an arc of sand, grass, and crushed oyster shells. People didn't landscape in fancy ways then. Mom had tended her azaleas and boxwoods with halfhearted practicality, in case the chickens or sheep broke loose.
I thought about Mom then, and her parrot. If we moved, this might be my last chance to hear her voice.
I pull into a rest stop, one of those suspicious gas stations and fast-food combos. Ike kicks the back of the passenger seat. I scowl in the rearview.
I need to stretch, he says. I have a cramp.
Ike's legs are the size of my wrist, hairless and pale. He is sweet and unassuming. He does not yet know he will be picked on for being undersized, for growing facial hair ten years too late.
I want to wrap him in plastic and preserve him so that he can always be this way, this content. To my heart, Ike is still a neonate, a soft body I could gently fold and carry inside of me again. You can just see the innocence falling off child's face-every-day.
Ike and I lock the car and head into the gas station. A burly man with black hair curling across his shoulders hustles into the rest room. He breathes hard, scratches his ear, and checks his phone. Next, a sickly-looking man whose pants are too big shuffles inside. He pauses to wipe his forehead with an elbow. think, these people are someone’s children.
I clench Ike's hand. I can feel his knuckles the small bones beneath his flesh.
Inside, the toilets hiss. hold Ike by the shoulders. I do not want him to go in alone.
Garlic burst, he reads from a cellophane bag. Big flavor!
I play with his cowlick. When he was born, I could see a whorl of hair on the crown of his head like a small, stagnant hurricane. Ike also had what the nurse called stork bites on the back of his neck and eyelids.
The things my body has done to him, I think. Cancer genes, hay fever, high blood pressure, perhaps a fear of math-these are my gifts.
I have to pee, he says.
I release him, let him skip into the fluorescent, germ-infested cave, room slick with mistakes and full of the type of men I hope he'll never become.
The first time I met my mother's parrot, he clung to a wrought iron perch on the front porch as we ate breakfast outside. Claiming the house was too quiet, Mom adopted Carnie from a neighbor one month after Dad's funeral, and constructed an extensive cage for him both indoors and out.
Carnie could already imitate the sound of oncoming traffic, an ambulance siren, leaves rustling. He could replicate my mother's voice completely.
The bird moved from his perch to my shoulder without permission.
Mom, I said. Get this damn bird off of me.
Language! She warned. He's sponge.
I was still grieving Dad, and it was strange to watch Mom find so much joy in this ebony-beaked wiseass.
What are you selling? He said. I already have car insurance. Carnie spoke with perfect inflection, but he addressed his words to the air-a song, not conversation.
You can't take anything personally, Mom warned.
The man of the house is not here, Carnie said. He's dead, dead, dead.
That night he shredded the newspapers in his enclosure, which smelled like a stable. Lights out, Mom said, and tossed a threadbare beach towel over his cage. Carnie belted out the first verse of Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight," then fell silent for the evening. His tricks seemed cheap, and I hated the easy way he'd endeared himself to Mom.
Later that week, Carnie became violently protective of her. Wings clipped, he chased me on foot through the halls. As I tried to shoo him from the kitchen counter, he savagely bit my wrist and fingers.
I'll take him to specialist, Mom said mildly apologetic. I knew she wanted a bird she could be proud of. But I think part of her was flattered by Carnie's aggressive loyalty.
Show me how you pet the bird, the behaviorist had said.
Carnie, inching left and right on Mom's wrist, cocked his head to one side and shot us the eye. Like a whale, he gave us one side of his face at time.
Mom ran her pointer finger down Carnie's chest.
I don't know how to tell you this the behaviorist said, but you've been nsexually stimulating your parrot. Mom blushed.
Less cuddling, the specialist said, more cage time.
I called three places to find Carnie-the plumber who took him after Mom, the bird sanctuary he'd pawned the parrot off on, then the roadside zoo. Now the car is too warm and I'm falling asleep, but I don't want to blast Ike with the AC. He's playing card games on the console.
Are we leaving so that people can move into our house? Ike asks.
we're going to Ted's Roadside Zoo, I say.
What's in the zoo, he asks.
There's a bird I want to see, I say.
We pass a couple in a sedan. The woman is crying and flips down her visor.
It's hard being a single mom, but it's easier than being a miserable wife. I hardly knew Ike's father; he was what I'd call a five-night stand. We used to get coffee at the same place before work. A director of the local college theater, he was notorious flirt but already married. Separated, he'd claimed. He sends little money each month, but doesn't want to be involved. The upside of our arrangement is simplicity.
I put some pressure on the gas and passed a school bus.
Did I tell you about Louis's mom? Ike says.
Louis's mom is a born-again Christian with two poodles and a coke habit, the kind of person I avoid at open houses at school.
Tuesday afternoon, Ike says, she boarded the bus with her dogs, raised her fist, and said. "Christ is risen! Indeed, he is risen."
No, I say. Really?
Really, Ike says. Louis pretended not to know her when she got on, but his mom held on to that chrome bar at the front of the bus and said, "Lord, I've been places where people don't put pepper on their eggs." And she started to dance.
Ike waves his arms in front of his face, imitating Louis's strung-out mother. I see the rust-colored clouds of eczema on his forearms. I want to fix everything. I want him to know nothing but gentle landings. I don't want him to know that people like Louis's mom exist, that people fall into landmines of pain and can't' crawl back out.
When Ike was almost a year old, I took him by for Mom to hold while I emptied the old milk from her fridge and scrubbed her toilets. The house was beginning to smell; Mom was not cleaning up after the bird. Suddenly the woman who'd ironed tablecloths, polished silver, bleached dinner napkins, and rotated mattresses had given up on decorum.
Would you like to hold Ike while clean? I said.
Mom sat in a brown leather recliner, Carnie in his white lacquered cage a foot away from her-almost always within sight. She was losing weight and I worried she wasn't eating well. I brought cartons of cottage cheese and chicken salad, only to find them spoiled the following month.
Are you trying to sell my house? She said. Are you giving realtors my number? They're' calling with offers.
There's a shopping center going in next door, I said. This may be your chance to sell.
I placed Ike in her arms.
It's not hard to lose the baby weight, Mom said, eyeing my waistline, if you try.
I was determined not to fight back. There was heat between us, long-standing arguments we could still feel burning. Shouldn't we sell Dad's tools? Should she go to the eye doctor? Who would care for her goddamned bird? Didn't know how hard they'd worked to give me the right opportunities? Our disagreements were so sharp, so intense that we'd become afraid to engage with each other, and when we stopped fighting, we lost something.
You're like your father now, she said. You never get mad, even when you wat to.
It was true-Dad was hard to anger even when I'd wasted $15,000 of his hard-earned money my freshman year of college at a private school they couldn't afford. The night I came home for the summer, he'd sat with his hands in his lap and a look on his face that was more sad than disappointed. Mom stood behind him, silent and threatening. I knew later she'd berate him for taking it easy on me, and I hated her for it.
I guess you'll need to get a job, he said.
Dad, I said. I made a lot of mistakes this year—
I wanted to give you good chance, he said, looking down at his fingers.
I remember feeling relieved that he' yelling at me. Now I wish he had.
I'd do it again, he said. But you understand, there just isn't enough money.
I tortured myself imagining each of his hours. He worked at the same plant for twenty-six years making industrial-quality tools-hammers, chisels, clamps. Every day he ate a cold lunch on bench caked with pigeon shit. I could almost hear the echoes of men moving and talking, their spoken lives bouncing from the plant rafters as their hands worked. The black hole of his effort, the way it would never be enough, or easy-is hung over me, a debt I couldn't pay.
Mom ran her fingers over Ike's cowlick I emptied the trash can in the kitchen, then the living room.
While you're' at it, she said, would you change the newspaper in Carnie's cage?
As approached the cage, the bird let out a piercing cry, his black beak open. I held my hand up. Cut it, I said.
Put your hand down, Mom said. You're scaring him.
Carnie continued to scream. It was a pleading, horrifying sound. He cocked his head and danced across his bar, shrieking. Ike began to cry.
Never mind, Mom said. I'll do it.
She thrust Ike in my arms and marched toward the cage. When she opened the door, Carnie scampered onto her finger, and she brought him to her shoulder. He was silent. Mom pulled the newsprint from the bottom of his cage with bare hands. Dried bird shit fell to the carpet; she didn't seem to notice.
Let me help you, I said.
Sit down. I can do this.
Sit down, Carnie said. Sit down. Sit down.
Mom ignored me and moved to the kitchen, stuffing the soiled papers into the trash can.
You should wash your hands, I said.
Don't tell me what to do, she said.
Sit down, Carnie said. Sit down.
I'm sorry, I said. I don't know about birds.
You'll learn, Mom said. Soon.
Ike and I arrive in Myrtle Beach at eight p.m. I know the zoo will be closed at this hour, so we find Day's inn. There’s something about the hum of an ice machine that takes me back to childhood.
Ike face-plants onto the bed before I can remove the comforter.
Wait a second, baby, I say. Let me get that dirty thing off.
We get in bed and flip channels.
I remember a hotel I stayed with my mother during her own mother's funeral, Downtown Norfolk, 1986. There was a rotating bucket of chicken on a sign pole below our window: I watched it spin. Even when the lights were off and my mother cried into her pillow, I watched that bucket of chicken rotate like the world itself.
At the time I thought that moms were not allowed to be sad, that surely women grew out of sadness by the time they had children.
Mom, Ike says. I don't want to move.
His eyes flicker and he fades. The news is on. A lipstick-shellacked anchor tells of a new breed of aggressive python in southern Florida that strangled toddler in his sleep. Maybe one will come to our hotel, I think. And I will have to fight it off with my pocket knife, club it with the glass lamp on the bedside table, offer it my own body.
On our second date, Ike's father showed me a video of an infant in Andhra Pradesh. The child had rich brown skin and curious eyes. He pulled himself across a grass mat while a cobra, hood spread, hovered above the boy's soft body. The baby grabbed after the cobra's tail while the toothless snake struck him repeatedly on his downy head, snapping down upon his body like a whip.
This, Ike's father said, is how you cultivate the absence of fear. Don't you wish someone had given you that gift?
Fear keeps me safe, I said.
Snakes. Why do I think of these things before I try to fall asleep?
I put one arm across Ike's chest so that I will know if he moves. I can feel the pattern of his breath, the calm and easy way he sleeps, the simple way he dreams.
When I moved out, Mom had said. I need you to take Carnie.
It was the hundredth time she'd asked. We had her bills and bank statements spread out on the coffee table. Her eyesight was failing and we knew she couldn't live alone much longer. It was time to plan.
Carnie hung upside down in his cage. Empty seed casings and shredded newspaper littered the floor. Occasionally he pecked his image in a foil mirror, rang a bell with his beak.
I don't want the bird, I said. He hates me. He's drawn blood, for Christ's sake.
If you loved me, Mom said, you'd take him. I can't sleep without knowing he's safe and taken care of.
That's what you get, I said, for buying a bird with a life expectancy longer than your own.
You know, she said. Then she stopped, as if she were afraid of what she'd say next.
I'd always felt Mom's vision of perfection was outdated. I was never the ruddy-faced, pure-of-heart Girl Scout that she'd been. I failed home ec and took a liking to underground hip-hop and traveling jam bands. Dyed my hair blue one high school summer. In college got a tattoo of a purple bear on the back of my neck, which had infuriated Mom when she saw it.
In Mom's eyes, atonement was more than surfacing from the typical throes of adolescence and early scholastic failures. Atonement included my adoption of a bird I'd hated for over a decade.
I don't trust the bird around Ike, and I can't handle the mess, the noise—
Mom was silent. I'll give Carnie to the plumber, Mom said, collecting herself. He's always liked Carnie.
I wish I could take him, I said.
Lying doesn't help, Mom said.
Even before I see it, Ted's Roadside Zoo depresses me. We park outside. The entrance is a plastic lion's face. We walk through its mouth.
The place smells like pee, Ike said.
It's nine a.m., but it feels like Ted's place isn't open. I've yet to see an employee.
I've heard stories about these places, how they keep big cats in small enclosures. How the animals often have ingrown nails and zero percent fat.
I have the urge to call out, Mom? -as if I'm coming home after a long day.
We find a man feeding a seal.
Where are your birds? I ask. Specifically, your African gray?
We have two, he says. Over by the vending machine.
I need the one named Carnie, I say. The one you received from the Red oak Bird Sanctuary.
I think it's the one on the left he says, they all look alike.
I hone in on Carnie's knowing eye. He looked like the same bird, though his eyes had yellowed and his gray feathers had worn thin around his neck.
Carnie, I say. Carnie. Good boy. What do you want for dinner? I pull out a pack of sunflower seeds I had purchased down the road. I look at the white down on the bird's chest and think, Mom's voice is in there.
Ike closes in on the cage. He waves his hands in front of the parrot's face.
Carnie? I ask. Want to sing some Patsy?
For a half-hour, Ike and I coo and speak and dance, but the bird doesn't say a word. Beneath this wall of gray feathers is the last shard of my mother, and I feel myself growing increasingly desperate. How thick was her accent? Was her singing as beautiful as I remember? She always spoke sweetly to Carnie, and wanted to hear that sugary tone, the one she hadn't used with me in her last years.
How do you know this is the right bird? Ike asks.
I did my research, I say. And he hates me. He's spiting me with silence.
Please talk, Ike says to Carnie. Carnie bobs his head up and down and bites his leg, a gesture that strikes me as the bird equivalent of thumbing one's nose.
Just say something, I think. Anything. Just let me hear her again.
I'm surprised when I remember phone numbers and the alphabetical listing of all fifty states. But can't recall the funny way Mom said roof or Clorox. Not the rhyme she used to say about bad breath or the sound of the way she said good night. The longer Carnie goes without talking, the more I miss her.
The morning we moved Mom into a home, the plumber came for Carnie. Mom's possessions had been boxed up and her furniture sold. She'd prepared a box for Carnie that contained his food, toys, water dish, spare newsprint, and a fabric square from one of her dresses. So he remembers me, she said.
The kids are excited, the plumber said. He was tall and large and moved quickly. I was thankful for his efficiency.
I'll be in the car, Mom said, letting herself out of the house. The screen door shut behind her with metallic resonance, as it had thousands of times. I didn't like letting her descend the steps on her own, but I knew, in this moment, she'd refuse help. I took the box she'd made for Carnie and followed the plumber to his car.
I'm always walking, Carnie sang, after midnight…
I couldn't look at Mom. I knew she was crying. I was relieved to see Carnie go, to have the burden of his welfare hoisted onto someone else's shoulders. But immediately I was brought back to the sadness of the moment, the fact that this represented a breaking-off point. There was an air of finality-my mother grieving in the car, our small home empty.
After the plumber pulled away, I walked through the house one last time. I could almost hear the place settling, breathing a sigh of relief, coming down from a high. Still, there was a palpable residue of our past lives, as if old gifts and parrot tirades had left their marks. I paused over my father's plastic fixes and things shaped by his hands that I couldn't take with me. Empty, the house reminded me of tombstone, a commemoration of my childhood.
I joined Mom in the car. I imagined her stillness and set face belied inner fragility, as if beneath the crust lay a deep well of hurt. As I turned onto the highway, I saw her touch her shoulders, the place where Carnie had so often rested, his remembered weight now a phantom presence on her thinning bones.
We've been driving toward home, for five hours. Ike has been in and out of naps. We pass a billboard that says, Jesus Is Watching.
Jesus makes me nervous, Ike says. Jesus is a spy.
I laugh and then pause, thinking how the statement would have made Mom uncomfortable. The night sets in and Ike gets quiet. I watch his eyes in the reaiview. I wonder what he is thinking about.
Will you love me forever? I think to myself. Will you love me when I'm old? If I go crazy? Will you be embarrassed by me? Avoid my calls? Wash dishes when you talk to me on the phone, roll your eyes, lay the receiver down next to the cat?
I realize how badly I need a piece of my mother. A scrap, a sound, a smell—something.
One more stop, I say to Ike.
We pull into the dark gravel signage. It's just a deserted, plain house for plain folks on what is now a major highway. The white paint peels from the siding. I remember pulling into the driveway when I was past curfew, the light in my mother's bedroom flowing, the way I could simultaneously dread and love the thought of slipping through the front door, pouring a glass of water, and crafting an elaborate lie to explain my late arrival.
Ike is sleepy. He's wearing my rain jacket, though it's barely raining. RVs are pulling into the Walmart parking lot for the night. The smell of wet leaves makes me sick to my stomach with nostalgia. The boxwoods are overgrown and shapeless.
Hold my hand, I say to Ike. Stay close.
The screen door is still intact, though the screen itself is punctured and webbed over. I stare into the dirty glass of the front door. I try the knob—locked.
I break the front door pane with the butt of the knife. I carry in my purse and carefully reach in through the mouth of teeth to turn the door-knob.
This is weird, Ike said. I'm scared.
The damp carpet heaves underneath my feet. The house smells like cave, and yet like home. Windows are cracked; sills are covered in dead wasps and crumpled spiders. There is mold on the drywall and water spots on the ceiling. The stove and toilet have been ripped out. Ike starts to cry.
It's okay. I just want to stay here a minute.
I lead him to the back of the house, down the hallway which still feels more familiar to me than any I know. My bedroom, with its pale pink walls, looks small. Barren.
I'm sad that you lived here, Ike says, still crying.
It wasn't that bad, honey, I say. This was a beautiful house.
The crown molding my father installed is still up, though one piece is loose and sags. I remember him getting up early so that he could work on it before heading to the factory. It was my mother's birthday present-crown molding or my room.
My father died on the steps of the tool manufacturing plant. A heart attack. The doctor said it was a birth defect, that he was born with a weak heart. And now the building is empty, abandoned, as if all his work was for nothing. Mom's grief was as long as a river, endless.
I walk back to the kitchen and climb onto the green plastic countertop. Ike watches me, curious and confused. I remove the valances Mom made in the early eighties, dried bugs falling from the folds of the fabric into the sink below.
These are the things with which she made a home. Her contributions to our sense of place were humble and put forth with great intent, crafts which took weeks of stitching and unstitching, measuring, cutting, gathering. I realize how much in the home was done by hand and sweat. My father had laid the carpeting and linoleum. Mom had painted the same dinner chairs twice, sewed all the window treatments. My parents were quick-fix-averse, always in for the long haul. When the country road in front of their house had been widened to a highway, they complained but never entertained the idea of moving.
I scan the kitchen and picture Mom paying bills, her perfect script, the way she always listed her occupation with pride: homemaker.
I pull scraps of peeling wallpaper from unglued seams and corners. It comes off slow and steady like skin after a sunburn.
Mementos, I tell Ike, close my eyes. Now can hear my mother everywhere—in the kitchen, in my bedroom, on the front porch.
Turn off the television.
Warm up the stove.
Brush your hair.
Put your father's shoes where I can't see them. In the trash.
On Sunday, as promised, my realtor arrives a half-hour before the potential buyers and their home inspector. Your house should look as perfect as possible, he'd said before I left for the weekend.
Ike and I had come home to a spare house; some of our chairs, photographs, and Ike's art had been relocated, as the realtor had suggested, to "let the place breathe."
I see the realtor's convertible in the driveway.
Sorry I'm late, our realtor says. He rushes to the kitchen, as if he has immediately sensed disorder. He strokes the valance over the kitchen window.
Is this velvet? He says. Are these cobwebs?
I have placed scraps of rogue wallpaper next to my stove and another in the bathroom.
These must come down, the realtor says. Now.
He pinches the curling shreds with his thumb and forefinger.
Leave it, I say. They add charm.
You'll never sell this house, he says, shaking his head in despail.
A couple in a minivan pulls up in front of the house, followed by the home inspector in a pickup truck. They come to the door, their faces already twisted with scrutiny. She is small and blond and he is thick like an old football player.
Hi, I say. Welcome. We're about to head out; the house is all yours.
I stuff some magazines and soda into a canvas bag and look around for Ike. I hear him running up the basement steps. He presents a scrap of siding that is covered in glue and cricket exoskeletons. The couple exchange glance. The inspector scribbles a note.
I crouch down to the floor and touch Ike's cheeks. You're brave, I say. Thank you. Ike grins. Together, we can make a solid grilled cheese, prune shrubs, clean house. Together, maybe we're the housewife this house needs. Maybe our best life is here.
A week before she left for the nursing home, we packed my mother's belongings-robes, slippers, and lotions that could do little good for her sagging face. Her diminished vision made it hard for her to read the labels on the boxes.
I held up various little souvenirs for Mom's approval.
Take or toss? I asked.
Mom sat in her recliner. She wore a light blue dress she'd made herself. The fabric was so worn it was nearly transparent. Carnie rested comfortably on her shoulder. I worried that his talons would break her thinning skin, but she moved as if she hardly noticed his weight.
Toss 'em, she said.
I began to wrap her glassware in newspaper.
Make sure to leave plenty of print for lining Carnie's cage, she said.
My mother cupped Carnie with both hands and brought him to her lap. She crossed her legs, then scratched the finger-wide point between Carnie's wings. His eyes, like little black seeds, fell to half-mast as she stroked him. They were accustomed to each other. He was more familiar with her voice and touch than I, more dear to her everyday existence.
Don't call here again, he said. Don't call.
Remember, I told my mother. I'm not obligated to look after that bird.
Well, she said. I'm not obligated to look after you.
You are, i'd thought at the time, her splinter in my chest. You have to be.
In that moment, I withered. I hated her for her coldness, her stubborn rationale, her ability to come up big in a fight even when she was dog-tired and bird-boned and couldn't see the food on the end of her fork.
There she sat, outmoded in her homemade dress, bird in her lap, shit on her shoulder. Steamrolled by the world but in the face of defeat, she threatened us all.
Carnie moved back to her shoulder and buried his head into her thin hair. It occurred to me that with her voice inside of him, he would always have more of her to remember.
You don't want to keep these? I asked, giving her a second chance on a box of photographs.
My heart, she'd said. I can turn it off.
For years, I'd believed her.
But I know the truth now. What maniacs we are—sick with love, all of us.
参考译文——家庭主妇的艺术
家庭主妇的艺术
梅根·梅休·伯格曼
我一个人又当爹、又当妈。我自己做饭、换灯泡，自己清理伤口，自己用锄头杀死从后院爬进来的铜头蝮，自已换车坐垫、换车油。我能自己做饼皮，用自家做的粘板消灭蟋蟀。我之所以这么贤惠是因为周围真的没有任何人能帮我分担。
左转，艾克说。
左边根本就没有路。面前只有一条直得不能再直的卡罗琳娜路。路两边种着松树，偶尔有一些汽车经销商的广告牌。去年春天我妈妈去世了，在为了再听一次她的声音，我带着7岁的儿子要往南开9个小时的车。
你想尿尿吗？我问。我们正好找个地方停下吃午餐。
鸡块吗？他问。
如果我是个好妈妈，我会说坚决说不行，他得吃面包、胡萝卜、无籽葡萄。如果我是个好女儿，艾克就应该知道他的姥姥，多在姥姥怀里待一会。
还有多久？艾克问。
四个小时。
四个小时到哪？
到了你就知道了。
我总是不愿意跟儿子解释这些问题。我们要去在美尔特沙滩外的一个小型路边动物园。在那我能从一只36岁的灰色非洲鹦鹉嘴里听见妈妈的声音。我曾经那么恨这只鹦鹉，他能学微波炉的声音、电话的声音，还能生动地学我打喷嚏的声音。
清除害虫的工人告诉我，蟋蟀在快饿死的时候会吃自己的腿，虽然吃了就再也长不回来了。
我们的房子已经挂牌出售一年了。终于有人打算买但是还得取决于最后的房屋验收。我所在的那个公司提出来要将我调到康涅狄格州去工作，那个州里，艾克会有更好的机会避免得儿童肥胖症，也能避免受宗教的控制，以及保守的政治倾向的影响。但是除非我把这个房子卖了，否则我们都搬不起家。房产经纪人已经尝试在我家放香味的蜡烛，在烤箱里放苹果派，但是这些根本不能摆脱那些横行的蟋蟀。
在我们走之前经纪人还说：“蟋蟀跳得到处都是。每次我打开地下室的门，这些该死的蟋蟀都向我扑过来。你要是再不做点什么就永远都不可能通过房屋验收。”
每周灭虫的人会来，我说。
我周日去你家，验收之前我会先检查一遍，经纪人说。
那天晚上我和艾克用胶水和粘苍蝇纸把坏了的墙板都盖上了。整个地下室的废旧东西都让我俩扔了，希望能减少蟋蟀的数量。
艾克吐着舌头战战兢兢地对着满屋子的蟋蟀。
如果我们永远住在这怎么办？艾克问。
有人这样，一辈子只住在一个房子里，我妈妈就是，我说。
我脑子里浮现出了那个房子。一个有两间卧室的平房，窗户下面放着花箱，砖头砌的烟囱，带着装饰的纱门。车道都没有铺，上面都是石头、草和压碎了的牡蛎壳。当地的人对园艺并不太感兴趣。但是妈妈一直种着杜鹃花和黄杨树。事实上妈妈也不是全心全意照看，只是防着鸡和羊会跑出来把花都吃了。
我想起了妈妈和她的鹦鹉。如果我们搬家了，这次也许是最后一次听到她的声音。
我把车开进了一个停车休息站，这有臭名昭著的配有速食店的加油站。艾克踢了一下副驾驶的座背，我皱着眉看了一眼后视镜。
我得下去伸伸腿，都要抽筋了，他说。
艾克的腿和我的手腕一样粗，头发不多，脸色发白。但是他性格温和又很低调。他还不知道长大后会有人因为他体型太小、发育不良对他指指点点。
我想把他包在塑料袋里，保护他，让他永远像现在一样容易满足。在我心里，艾克还是那个刚出生的婴儿，我把他柔软的身子轻轻地抱在怀里。可是现实却是我每天都能看见天真在他脸上消失。
我们把车锁好进了加油站。一个留着一头及肩的黑卷发的大汉横冲直撞地进了厕所。他喘着粗气，一边抓耳朵，一边摆弄着手机。接着一个拖着肥裤子看上去病怏怏的人进去了。他用手肘擦了一下脑门。我想他们也是某个人的孩子。
我紧紧地握着艾克的手。我能感觉到他手上的小关节。
厕所里面都是嘘声，我把着艾克的肩膀，不想让他进去
艾克看着一个塑料袋，看到大蒜口味，蒜味无与伦比！
我玩着他翘起来的头发。他出生的时候我就看见他脑袋上有一撮小卷毛像停滞的小台风。用护士的话说，他脖子和眼皮上还有毛细血管扩张斑。
我想这些都是我的身体给他造成的。癌症基因、花粉过敏、高血压，甚至数学不好，这些都是他在我身体里的时候我给他的礼物。
我要尿尿，他说。
我让他进去了。那个又黑又充满细菌，满地都是尿的地方。我希望他将来永远不要变成厕所里的那些人。
第一次看见妈妈的鹦鹉的时候我在屋外吃早餐。他紧紧钩着门廊前的铁杆。在爸爸葬礼一个月之后，妈妈抱怨房子太安静，就从邻居那收养了卡尼，还在屋里屋外都给他做了大笼子。
卡尼早就已经可以模仿过往车辆的声音、救护车的声音、叶子沙沙的声音。很快，他可以完美地复刻我妈妈的声音了。
这只鸟忽然飞到了我的肩膀上。
妈，赶紧把这只死鸟赶走，我说。
别乱说！他会学的，妈妈警告道。
我还没有从失去爸爸的悲伤中走出来，看见妈妈从这个自作聪明的黑漆漆的东西上得到这么大的快乐，我心里总是很不爽。
你又要推销什么，我已经买汽车保险了。卡尼对着天空又开始模仿了，不过他不是想跟谁对话，而是在自己唱歌。
什么都不能太较真，妈妈警告道。
你老公已经不在了，他死了，死了，死了，卡尼说。
那天晚上他把笼子里的报纸都撕碎了，闻着像个马厩一样。熄灯了妈妈说。然后在他笼子上盖了个沙滩巾。卡尼最后大声唱了佩茜·克莱恩的《午夜漫步》的第一段后就再也没出声了。我讨厌他用这么低级的方式讨好妈妈。
那周快结束的时候，卡尼开始极具攻击性地保护我妈妈。他呼扇着翅膀用脚在走廊追着我跑。我试着把他从厨房的台面上撵走，他就开始使劲啄我的手腕和手指。
我会把他带去给专家看看，妈妈抱歉地说。我知道她想养一只让她骄傲的鹦鹉，但是我想她对鹦鹉的这种过激的忠诚还是挺享受的。
让我看看你是怎么摸鹦鹉的，动物行为专家说。
卡尼在妈妈手臂上来回飞，他把脑袋转向一边瞪着我们。像个鲨鱼一样，每次都只能看见半张脸。
妈妈用手指在卡尼的胸前从上到下地抚摸。
我不知道该怎么告诉你，但是你刚才的动作是在给鹦鹉性暗示，专家说。妈妈的脸一下就红了。
少摸他，多让他在笼子里待着，专家说。
我打了三个地方的电话才找到卡尼。第一个是最开始带走卡尼的水管工，然后是鸟类收容所，最后是路边动物园。车里现在热得我都要睡着了，但是我还不想把空调对着他，怕在玩纸牌游戏的艾克着凉。
我们走是为了让别人搬进咱家吗？艾克问。
我们要去泰迪路边动物园，我说。
动物园里有什么？艾克问。
有一只我想看看的鹦鹉，我说。
我们路过一对坐在轿车里的夫妻。那个女的把遮阳板放得很低，一直在哭。
做一个单亲家庭的母亲是很不容易的，但是比做一个悲惨的妻子还是要强一些。我对艾克的父亲几乎没有什么了解，他只不过是我几次一夜情的对象而已。我们经常在上班前去同一个地方喝咖啡。他是当地大学剧院的一个导演，一个臭名远扬的调情能手，但是已经结了婚。现在分居了，他扬言。他每月寄点钱，但是不愿意真正有认真的关系。这种安排的唯一好处就是简单。
我踩了一下油门，超过了一辆校车。
我跟你说过路易斯的妈妈吗？艾克说。
路易斯的妈妈是一个重生基督徒，养了两条狗，吸毒。我在学校举行活动的时候一直躲着她。
星期二下午她带着狗上了校车，举起拳头说“上帝来了，上帝来了”，艾克说。
不是吧，真的？
真的，路易斯一开始装作不认识她。但是她妈妈在校车前面说：“上帝，我已经去了一个吃鸡蛋不放胡椒的地方了。”说完她就开始跳舞。
艾克挥舞着手模仿路易斯吸毒的妈妈。我看见他手臂上的湿疹斑。我多想让一切都朝着好的方向发展。我想让他除了轻松的生活之外什么都不知道。我不想让他知道有很多像路易斯妈妈的人一旦落入痛苦的深渊就再也爬不出来。
当艾克一岁的时候我把他带去看我妈妈。我要一边带着儿子，一边要给她清理冰箱里坏了的牛奶、刷厕所，否则房子都要臭了。自从有了鸟之后妈妈就不再打扫房间。从前熨桌布，把银饰抛得闪亮，漂白餐巾，调换床垫的妈妈，现在除了鸟之外突然什么都不在乎了。
我打扫的时候你能不能抱一会艾克？我说。
妈妈坐在一个棕色皮斜躺椅上。卡尼就在离她一步不到的白漆笼子里，基本就在她眼皮底下。她越来越瘦了，我担心她不好好吃饭。我买了奶酪和鸡肉沙拉，但妈妈根本不吃，最后都坏了。
你要卖我房子？你给房屋经纪人我的电话了？已经有人来报价了。她说。
旁边正在建一个购物中心。也许房子更好卖了。
我把艾克放在她怀里。
其实减掉怀孕时增加的体重不难，看看我的腰围，你也能，妈妈说。
我决定不还嘴。我们俩总是不停地吵架。我们是不是该卖掉爸爸的工具？她是不是该去看看眼科医生？谁来照顾这只该死的鸟？难道我不知道抓住正确的机会？我们俩的分歧太多了，以至于我俩都不敢和对方待在一起。每次我们吵完了，都感觉失去了点什么。
你现在越来越像你爸爸了。虽然特别生气，你也从来不轻易发火，她说。
爸爸确实不爱生气。即使我在他们根本负担不起的私立大学里上学，并且第一年就花光了爸爸辛辛苦苦挣的15000美元。那年暑假我回家，看见爸爸坐在那，手放在腿上，他的脸上不是失望，更多的是伤心。妈妈在他身后，什么也没说，一脸凝重。我知道她抱怨爸爸太不严格管教我，因为这个，我恨她。
我想你得去找个工作了，他说。
爸，我知道我这一年犯了好多错误。
我想给你一个好机会，他说，低头看着他的手指。
我当时还很庆幸他没冲我喊。但是现在我希望他把不开心都说出来。
我想供你读大学，但是你得明白，我们没有那么多钱，他说。
我一想到爸爸每天的生活就感觉是种折磨。26年来他一直在一个车间里做工具，锤子、凿子、钳子。每天中午在一个都是鸽子屎的凳子上吃凉饭。我甚至能听见工人走动和聊天的声音。他们一边谈着有的没的话题，一边工作。可是无论他怎么努力都养不起每天宿醉的我。我欠爸爸的永远也还不清。
妈妈弄着艾克的头发，我把卧室和厨房的垃圾桶倒了。
正好你在弄，帮我把卡尼笼子里的报纸换了吧？她说。
当我靠近笼子的时候，这只鸟就开始惨叫。我把手举起来对着他说：“闭嘴。”
把手放下，你吓着他了，妈妈说。
卡尼继续叫，发出乞求又可怕的声音。他翘着脑袋在笼子里来回乱跳，声嘶力竭地喊着。艾克终于被他弄哭了。
算了，我来吧，妈妈说。
她把艾克甩到我怀里，赶紧跑到笼子那。当她把笼子门打开的时候，卡尼立刻跳到了她手上，她顺势把他放到了肩膀上。这只鸟终于安静下来了。妈妈熟练地把笼子下面的报纸拿出来，鸟尿掉到了地毯上，可是她和没看见一样。
我帮你吧，我说。
坐着吧，我自己来。
坐下，坐下，坐下，卡尼赶紧跟着说。
妈妈完全不理我，自己走到了厨房把脏纸扔进垃圾桶。
你应该洗洗手，我说。
不用你告诉我该干什么，她说。
坐下，坐下，卡尼又叫。
对不起，我不知道怎么弄，我说。
你以后就知道了，她说。
艾克和我晚上8点才到沙滩。这个时间动物园都关门了，我们找了一个旅馆住下。旅馆碎冰机嗡嗡的声音让我想到了小时候。
还没等我把被子拿走艾克就趴在了床上。
等等，宝贝，我把这些脏东西拿下去。
我俩躺在床上换着电视频道。
我记得1986年姥姥葬礼的时候我们就住在旅店里。我们窗户下面的指示杆上有一筐旋转的小鸡。最后灯关了，妈妈倒在枕头上痛哭，我还在看着小鸡转。
那时候我感觉妈妈不应该伤心，因为当了母亲的人已经不会伤心了。
妈妈，我不想搬走，艾克说。
他疲倦地眨着眼睛。电视里在播新闻。一个涂了紫胶般口红的主持人说南佛罗里达一条新品种的极具攻击性的蟒蛇把一个刚刚会走路的小孩勒死了。当时孩子还在睡觉。我想要是这个屋子里面跑出一条蟒蛇怎么办？我一定要用包里面的刀和它对抗，用床头的灯泡打死它。让它伤害我，不能伤害我的儿子。
在我们第二次约会的时候，艾克的爸爸给我看了安得拉邦一个新生儿的视频。视频里的孩子有着古铜色的皮肤和一双好奇的眼睛。他趴在草地上，一条没有牙的眼镜蛇盘在他身上。孩子抓着蛇的尾巴，而蛇像鞭子一样一直打他毛茸茸的头。
这个就是怎么锻炼克服恐惧的方法。你有没有希望过自己也没有恐惧？艾克的爸爸说。
因为有恐惧我才活到现在，我说。
蛇，我也不知道为什么要在睡觉的时候想这些东西。
我把一只胳膊放在艾克的胸前，这样我就能知道他动没动。我感觉得到他呼吸的频率、他安稳的睡眠和简单的梦。
当我决定搬走的时候，妈妈让我带着鹦鹉一起走。
这已经是第一百次她这么问了。我们把她的账单和银行对账单都铺在咖啡桌上。妈妈的视力越来越不好了，我们都知道不能让她自己生活太久。所以是时候为卡尼打算了。
卡尼悬停在笼子里。空瓜子壳，碎纸片掉了一地。偶尔他对着锡纸啄自己，或者用嘴弄弄铃铛。
我不养，他讨厌我。他得要了我的命，我说。
如果你爱我就养他。要是不确定他过得好我肯定睡不好觉，妈妈说。
这就是你买一只肯定活得比你长的鸟的代价，我说。
你知道，没说完妈妈就停下了，好像害怕接下来要说的。
我一直感觉妈妈的想法早就过时了。我永远不能像她在做童子军的时候那样容光焕发天真可爱。我没通过家政考试，喜欢地下嘻哈音乐。高中暑假的时候把头发染成了蓝色。大学的时候在脖子后面文了一只紫色的熊。妈妈看见的时候差点没气死。
在妈妈看来，我要真想悔改，光是摆脱青春期的那些典型的叛逆和早期学习上的失败还不够。真要悔改，还必须把我十年多来一直讨厌的鸟接过去好好抚养。
我怕鸟在艾克身边会伤着他，而且我也受不来他的笼子和叫声。
妈妈安静了一会。我把他给水管工吧，他一直挺喜欢卡尼的，妈妈说。
我也希望我能养他，我说。
别说谎了，妈妈说。
还没等我看见鹦鹉，我就对泰迪路边动物园失望了。我们把车停在了外面。动物园的大门是一张塑料的狮子的脸。
这里闻起来像厕所，艾克说。
现在已经是早上9点了，可是动物园还是和没开一样，一个工作人员也没见到。
我听说这些动物园把大型猫科动物都放在很小的笼子里。指甲长到了肉里，快瘦成了皮包骨。
我想大叫，就像放学回家时候那样。
我们找到一个正在喂海豹的工作人员。
你们的鸟在哪？非洲灰鹦鹉？我问。
我们有两只，在自动售货机那，他说。
我想找叫卡尼的那只，从红橡树鸟类收容所里来的那只，我说。
应该是左边的那只吧，他们都长一样，他说。
我全神贯注地看着卡尼会意的眼睛。他没怎么变样，就是眼睛变黄了，脖子周围的羽毛也没有以前厚了。
卡尼，好孩子，想吃东西吗？我拿出了一包在路上买的瓜子。我看着他的胸脯，我妈妈的声音就在里面。
艾克靠了过来，对着鹦鹉挥手。
卡尼？想唱首佩茜的歌吗？
半个小时，我和艾克又唱又跳又咕咕叫，但是鹦鹉一个词都没说。想到他的灰色羽毛下面，存留着妈妈最后的碎片，我越发着急了。他的声音还那么好吗？他还像我记得的唱得一样好吗？妈妈对卡尼说话的时候总是很温柔，在她最后的几年里很少这么跟我说话。
你怎么知道这是你要找的鹦鹉？艾克问。
我调查过了。他还在讨厌我，用冷漠惩罚我，我说。
请说句话吧，艾克说。卡尼脑袋上上下下地来回动，不断快速地猛咬他的身体。他的这个动作让我感觉他在鄙视我。
说点什么吧，什么都行，让我再听听妈妈的声音。
我很惊讶我还能记得电话号码和按字母表说出50个州的名字，但是回忆不起妈妈说“roof”和“Clorox”时有趣的方式。我想不起来她说口臭时候用的词和她说晚安时候的声音。卡尼越不说话，我越想妈妈。
我把妈妈送到疗养院的那天早上，水管工来取卡尼。妈妈把她的东西装箱，家具也卖了。她把卡尼的玩具、水盆、多余的报纸和她裙子上面剪下来的布都放在了一个箱子里。这样他就不会忘了我了，妈妈说。
孩子们都很激动。水管工说。他很高很壮，走路也快。我很感谢他这么有效率。
我在车里等你，然后妈妈就出去了。纱门像以前一样关上的时候会发出巨大的金属的响声。我不想让妈妈自己下楼梯，不过我知道现在她不想让别人帮她。我拿着妈妈为卡尼准备的盒子跟着水管工走向他的车。
我午夜经常散步，卡尼唱着。
我不敢看妈妈。我知道她在哭。我感觉卡尼离开是种解脱，终于可以把照顾他的负担丢给别人了。可是现在回想起来，那是个真正让人心碎的日子。一切都已成定局，妈妈在车里难过，我们的家空了。
水管工走了之后，我在房子里最后走了一圈。我甚至感到了这个房子如释重负。这里仍然有我们过去生活的气息，好像旧礼物和鹦鹉的长篇大论都留下了痕迹。我停在了那些带不走的爸爸做的工具那。房子空了，可是她是我童年的纪念。
我上了车。我想象着她呆呆地坐在那，假装着坚强，就像坚硬的贝壳下面隐藏着最痛的伤痕。我开上高速公路的时候，我看见妈妈碰了一下肩膀，卡尼经常待在上面。他的重量从来没有在妈妈瘦弱的肩膀上消失。
我们已经往家开了5个小时了。艾克一直处于睡睡醒醒的状态。我们路过了一个宣传板，上面写着“上帝在看着你”。
上帝让我很紧张，他是一个间谍，艾克说。
我笑了，然后想着如果妈妈听见这句话她得多不舒服。天黑了，艾克也变安静了。我从后视镜里看着他的眼睛，想知道他在想什么。
你会永远爱我吗？我问我自己。我老了之后你也会爱我吗？如果我疯了呢？你会以我为耻吗？不接我的电话？或者接电话的时候在刷碗、揉眼睛，宁愿看猫也不愿意和我说话？
我强烈地想要一些关于妈妈的东西一个碎片、声音、味道，关于她的任何东西都行。
再停一下，我对儿子说。
我把车开进了碎石的车道上。一个被遗弃了的给普通人住的普通房子，现在旁边的路已经成为主干道。墙板上的白漆已经掉了。我记得有时候回家过了规定的时间，开着车进到屋前车道时，看见我妈卧室里仍然灯光未熄。这时我一面担惊受怕，一面又感觉兴奋刺激，想着如何溜进前门，倒上一杯凉水，再琢磨如何巧妙地编个故事，来解释这么晚才回家的理由。
艾克困了。他穿着我的雨衣，虽然基本没下。房车都停进了沃尔玛的停车场准备过夜。湿叶子的味道让我更想家了。黄杨木长得太大，又没有形状。
拉着我的手，靠近点，我对艾克说。
纱门还在，可是已经很破了。我透过前门上那块脏玻璃往里看。门锁着。
我用放在包里的刀的刀柄把前门的玻璃弄碎，然后小心翼翼地把手伸进去从里面把门打开。
太奇怪了，我害怕，艾克说。
我脚底下的地毯鼓起来了。房子闻起来像个地窖，但是也像家。玻璃碎了，窗台上挂满了黄蜂和皱巴巴的蜘蛛网。石膏板上还有石膏线，房顶上还有水点的痕迹。火炉和坐便器已经掉了。艾克开始哭。
别怕，我只是想待一分钟，我说。
我带他走到房子的后面。走廊的味道我仍然感觉最熟悉。我房间粉色的墙已经掉色了，看上去很小，空空荡荡。
艾克边哭边说，我很难过你以前住在这。
宝贝，其实没有那么坏。它曾经很漂亮，我说。
房顶上爸爸安的装饰线还在，只不过有一块已经松了。我记得他早上起得很早，就为了在上班之前弄好。这是妈妈给我的生日礼物，给我房间的装饰线。
爸爸由于心脏病死在了工厂的台阶上。医生说爸爸生下来心脏就不好。现在房子空了，被遗弃了，就好像他所有的努力都白费了。妈妈的悲伤像条河，绵延不绝。
我走回到厨房，爬到了工作台上面。艾克好奇又困惑地看着我。我拿掉了妈妈在80年代做的窗帘挂布，挂布上面裹着的已经干掉的死虫子纷纷落在下面的水池里。
这些都是她用来使这房子有个家的样子的东西。她对给我们产生这种感觉的贡献虽然朴素简单，没有一点富丽堂皇的东西，但是她却为此付出极大的努力，那些手工制品都要花上她几个星期的缝缝拆拆、裁裁剪剪，然后再在布上打褶。我才发现家里有多少用手和汗水弄的东西。爸爸铺好的地毯，妈妈一个餐椅漆了两遍，所有的窗帘都是她缝的。我的父母都讨厌凑合，凡事都要做下去直到圆满完成。虽然他们抱怨门前路因为公路扩宽了，但是从没想过要搬家。
我看着厨房。想象着妈妈付账单时候的样子，她漂亮的字体，骄傲地在填表的时候把职业一栏填上家庭主妇。
我把墙角掉下来的墙纸都撕下来了。它们就像晒伤后掉落的皮肤，慢慢地落下来。
纪念，我告诉艾克。我闭上了眼睛。现在我能在厨房，在我的卧室，在门廊听见妈妈的声音。
关掉电视！
把炉子点着！
梳头！
把你爸爸的鞋放到我看不见的地方。放垃圾堆里！
和约好的一样，星期日，房屋经理人比买家和房屋鉴定人早到了半个小时。在我这周走之前他跟我说，你的房子看上去越完美越好。
艾克和我回来之后又收拾了一遍房子。椅子、照片、艾克的画都重新摆放了。像经纪人说的，我们得让这个房子呼吸。
我看见了经纪人的车。
对不起，我迟到了，经纪人说。他一下子冲到厨房，好像马上就知道哪不行一样。他弄了一下厨房窗户的窗帘。
这个是天鹅绒的吗？这些……是蜘蛛网吗？他说。
我已经把罗刹女墙纸的碎片放到火炉旁边和卧室了。
这些必须拿下来，现在，经纪人说。
他用手指把卷起来的碎片都夹起来。
留着它们吧，能增加魅力，我说。
你永远也卖不出去这个房子，他说，绝望地摇摇头。
一对开着迷你面包车的夫妇把车停进了院子。后面跟着房屋检查员的卡车。他们走到门口的时候就已经开始到处审查了。那个女的个头很小而且很瘦，男的很结实，像退役的足球运动员。
你好，欢迎。我们正要出去呢，房子是你们的了，我说。
我把一些杂志和苏打放到塑料袋里，看了一眼四周找艾克。我听见他从地下室跑上来。艾克拿着一个带着胶水和蟋蟀尸体的坏墙板上来。这对夫妻看了一眼对方。房屋检查员不知道写下了什么。
我摸着艾克的脸说，你真勇敢，谢谢你。艾克笑了一下。在一起，我们可以一起做奶酪，一起修剪灌木，一起打扫房间。在一起，我们也许就是这个家里需要的家庭主妇。也许我们最好的生活就是在这个家里。
在妈妈去疗养院的前一周我帮她打包行李。她的长袍、拖鞋，还有对她下垂的脸部肌肉有点好处的乳液。她的视力已经差到看不清盒子上面的标签了。
我拿起了各种各样的纪念品问妈妈。
留着还是扔了？我问。
妈妈坐在椅子上，穿着她自己做的淡蓝色长裙。衣服洗了太多次好像都要透明了。卡尼在她的肩膀上舒服地休息。我担心他的爪子会弄伤妈妈瘦弱的肩膀，但是妈妈躲开了，就好像她从没关注过他的体重一样。
扔了吧，她说。
我开始用报纸把她的眼镜包起来。
给卡尼的笼子多留点报纸，她说。
妈妈用两只手把鹦鹉放到了腿上。她把腿交叉，把手放在了卡尼的翅膀上。他黑种子似的眼睛在妈妈摸他的时候眯成了一条缝。他们熟悉彼此的存在了。他更熟悉我妈妈的声音和触摸，更喜欢她每天都在。
别再往这打电话了，别打了。卡尼说。
我跟妈妈说过，我没有义务照顾这只鹦鹉。
妈妈说，我也没有义务照顾你。
你有，我当时想。她的话把我的胸膛都撕碎了。你不得不。
在那一瞬间，我完全手足无措了。我受不了她的冷淡，受不了她不依不饶的据理力争，以及她那种即便已经精疲力竭，瘦骨伶仃，连自己刀叉上的食品都看不见的情况下，仍然能够挺身迎战的样子。
她坐在那里，穿着她自己做的式样已经过时的衣服，膝上停着鸟，肩上落着鸟屎，这个世界已经越过她奔驰而去，但是面对失败，她仍然傲然挺立，让我们满怀敬畏。
卡尼又到了肩膀上，把头埋在了妈妈的头发里。我突然感觉他身体里带着妈妈的声音，他比我有更多用来怀念妈妈的东西。
你不想要这些？我问，给她第二次机会来决定要不要一盒子的照片。
我的心已经可以休息了，妈妈说。
很多年，我一直相信她。
但是现在我知道了真相。对于爱，我们都是偏执狂，因爱成疾。
Key Words:
scowl [skaul]
n. 愁容，皱眉 v. 皱眉，（天空）变阴沉晦暗
hoe [həu]
n. 锄头
hurl [hə:l]
n. 用力的投掷
decorum [di'kɔ:rəm]
n. 端正，礼貌合宜，礼仪
anchor ['æŋkə]
n. 锚，锚状物，依靠，新闻节目主播，压阵队员
atonement [ə'təunmənt]
n. 赎罪，弥补
sanctuary ['sæŋktjuəri]
n. 圣所，耶路撒冷的神殿，至圣所
rogue [rəuɡ]
n. 流氓；小淘气；凶猛的离群兽；（尤指植物的）劣种
splinter ['splintə]
n. 碎片，刺，分裂出来的小派别 v. 劈开，破裂
参考资料：
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(1)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(2)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(3)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(4)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(5)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(6)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(7)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(8)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- http://www.kekenet.com/daxue/202005/61063shtml
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(10)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(11)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第六册:U8 Housewifely Arts(12)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语