The Lost Dream of the Sugar Sand

4- all he ever wanted

     Mays Landing was a classic borough of southern New Jersey.  Serene, tree-lined Victorian streets entangled U.S. 40 as it flirted with the Great Egg Harbor River.  Old-fashioned street lamps flickered to life while cicadas droned their accompaniment.  Neighbors greeted one another with Norman Rockwell smiles as the town drifted through each season.  No one ever thought about leaving Mays Landing.

     No one except Eric.

     Climbing the porch steps like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, Eric took a deep breath and braced himself.  He pushed the door open and paused at the threshold, bathed in light.  He sighed.  There was no one waiting, only the muffled sound of the television and the lingering aroma of what he could have had for dinner.  He became hungry all over again.

     Eric wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and scoured the shelves.  As always, he was not disappointed.  "Good old Mom — meat loaf, potatoes, and peas."

     Eric balanced the plate while gathering the butter, gravy, and ketchup, then herded them to the counter.   He peeled off the cellophane and lifted the plate to his nose, savoring the thick, buttery aroma.   He popped open the Radarange and slid the plate inside.  With a twist of the dial, the microwave hummed to life.  As Eric gazed at the timer unwinding its way to zero, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

     "I'm glad you found it, dear.   I was getting worried."

     Eric turned to see his mother — a tired and lonely figure.  "Um, yeah.  Thanks, Mom.  Sorry I missed dinner."

     "That's okay," she said, touching his cheek.  "Are you all right?  I was thinking about what happened—"

     Eric stepped back.   "I'm fine, Mom.  I really don't want to talk about it, okay?"

     "But your dad was hurt...."

     Eric felt the boa constrictor of anger tightening its grip.  "Mom, please.  Not now.  Others were hurt, too."  Eric removed the hot dish and juggled it over to the table.

     "Do you want some milk with that?"

     "Yeah, I guess so. Thanks."

     Helen pulled out the milk, then studied her son as she filled his favorite glass — the one that didn't match the others.   She felt sad for his despair though she could never understand his simmering anger.  Growing up had its challenges, but she saw no reason for his endless fighting. Life was already hard enough.

     Helen set the glass down next to her son.  "Is there anything else I can get you?"

     Eric looked up.  "No, Mom.  Thanks.  This is really good."

     Helen brushed the hair from her face as she walked away, then paused at the counter to shut the microwave door.   She crumpled the cellophane and placed it in the trash.  With a glance at her son, she turned to leave.

     "Mom?"

     Helen turned around.  "Yes, Eric?"

     "I'm sorry about the model boat.  I promise I'll fix it.  And I'm sorry about what I said."

     "Oh honey...," she trailed off, "that's okay.  Don't worry about it."  As she headed for the doorway, she could barely hear her son's reply.

     "I love you, Mom."

     Without looking back, Helen straightened her apron and indulged a sad smile.  "I love you too, honey."