The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

The Sundays

Diane Lee Moomey

My name is Roseanna. They call me Ro. It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm getting ready to do what I've done every Sunday afternoon since 1967.

My son Bob is with me.

"You don't need to come with me, Bobbo," I tell him. "I'll be okay by myself."

"I want to come," he answers. "What if he's there this time?"

"If he's there, I'll bring him back. You’ll see him tonight," I say. "You have a life too, Bobbo."

"I want to come." His voice has that final note in it.

"Okay." I finish my sandwich and get up from the table.

We have this same conversation every Sunday. It always ends the same way. He gets into the car with me and we drive to the Farmhouse. Sometimes he drives. Today, I drive. We're there in an hour.

The Farmhouse is as it was in 1967. Someone must own it, someone keeps it up, but nobody lives there now. It's empty now.

A long time ago, before there was a Bob, Bob's dad and I spent one magic summer in that house. Then they told him he had to go to the Nam. I was pregnant, and didn't want to stay alone. I went to live with Momma and Dad.

The night before he left, we didn't sleep at all. We made a promise: if anything happened to him, if he was taken prisoner, if we lost touch with each other, I'd go back to the Farmhouse every Sunday. If he managed to escape, he'd know he could find me there, on a Sunday.

We wrote for almost a year and then the letters stopped coming. The government had no idea what happened to him: they said “missing-in-action” and let it go at that. So I started going to the Farmhouse every Sunday. When Bobby was a baby, when he got too big to be called Bobby anymore, when he got bigger than me, after Momma and Daddy died, I went every Sunday. And every Sunday he came with me.

Okay. We pull into the driveway. Today, the front door is open. I look at Bob. He's biting his lip like he does when he's not sure what's happening. We get out of the car and walk up the steps.

"Hello?" I call through the screen. "Is anybody here?"

I hear footsteps inside, a heavy-man's feet. I open the screen door and go in, see him running toward me. I can't move. I'm going to faint.

Oh please God please God help me do this okay, please don't let me mess this up please please.

"Oh, Ro, baby, I missed you so much!" He's hugging me and crying and I'm stroking his head and crying.

They wrecked him. Whoever it was over there, they wrecked him. He's only half here, something was left behind in the jungle and now there's just this crying cave man. That's all I can think of.

Please God, I beg, let me get used to this, help me be here for him.

He stops crying and starts to smile.

"Ro, honey, we've fixed up a party," he tells me, and pulls me by the hand into the kitchen. I'm still kind of dazed. I don't know where Bobby is.

In the kitchen are all these people. His three sisters, his brother, his Mom and a bunch of nieces and nephews and cousins. I’m just staring.

"How come I didn't know?" I'm asking myself. "How come nobody called me?"

There's food, and everybody's eating and drinking. His sister Bet comes over to me. I'm just opening my mouth to ask her what gives, when she curls her lip down like she always does and says, "here we go again."

I'm staring at her.

"What?" I say. "What did you say?"

She opens her mouth again to say what she said again, and suddenly I get it. I feel sick to my stomach.

Everything stops. I don't hear the voices anymore. All I can see is Bet’s face with the lip still curled down. I know now I've been coming here every Sunday since 1967 and this has happened every Sunday exactly as it's happening now and she's told me this every Sunday and I've freaked out every Sunday and

"No!" I scream at her. "It's going to stop right now! Whatever is happening, it's stopping right now!"

She's looking at me, and I know I've said that every Sunday, too.

"No, no!!" I scream louder. "Bobby! We're going! We're not doing this anymore! Bobby!"

Bob comes over and looks at me like he doesn't get it. I grab his arm.

"We have to go, Bobby," I tell him. "Something very crazy is happening and we're not staying!" I know I've said this every Sunday, too.

Bob looks upset. He’s biting his lip again. I know he wants to stay, but he's worried about me being so frantic. He lets me push him out the door and into the car. We get in. I'm still crying, "no no no no" and I know this has happened every Sunday, too.

I can not stand it. I want this to stop right now, I want to do something that I have not done every Sunday, something that is new and real and different, something, anything.

Bob is driving. "Take deep breaths, Mom," he tells me. "You'll feel better."

I take deep breaths. I do feel better. After awhile I start to calm down. We don't say anything the whole way home. We pull into our own driveway. We don't get out of the car right away. We look at each other. Bob smiles at me.

"Well, Mom," he says, "maybe next week."

*

My name is Roseanna. They call me Ro. It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm getting ready to do what I've done every Sunday afternoon since 1967 . . .◊