Saturday morning is pouring down rain, cold, gray. James is over to play. He and Jean are in her bunk bed fort turning the Christmas lights inside on and off, then at the sink in the bathroom, playing with the weird, gelatinous balls called ORBIES. Jean understands what Orbie’s are; I don’t. I am catching up on QuickBooks, worrying about money, returning emails, folding laundry, grateful for their laughter through the wall.
Jean is suddenly in my office with tears in her eyes.
“I gave James my gems. All three of them.”
“What?” Like you, I don’t really understand. Unlike you, I know Jean’s relationship to treasure. Which means shiny rocks. She had three treasure boxes, along with jars, teacups, saucers and cupboards of carefully placed tiny things. This kid loves rocks.
“I don’t want to give them to him.”
James shouts from the other room. “Where are you, Jean?"
“I’m coming,” says Jean. I just have to go the bathroom.” I’m just stalling, Jean mouths, shaking her head that she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom. I’ve never seen her have a two-tiered conversation like this.
James turns the corner. He’s in my messy dark green room.
“Who wants a snack?” I divert.
“ME!” says James.
“ME!” says Jean. She looks back at me terrified, letting me know she’s just covering for the real conversation. I let her know I am too. James returns to Legos, Orbie’s, all year Christmas lights, Jean’s room.
“Jean.” I whisper. “You just got those gems at the Museum in New York. You love those gems. Why would you give them away if you didn’t want to?"
“He asked me.”
“Tell him no.”
“You tell him.”
I shake my head. “You tell him.”
She trembles in the doorway, looking back at me like a deer on new legs.
I stick my head in later to check on the top bunk UNO tournament, and James is holding the two squishy rubber balls which have just arrived in the mail from Montana. Junior, an all-woman band, Jean’s favorite band, sent her a care package. Jean is mad about the Junior girls, as she calls them, talks about them all the time as if they come to dinner once a week. She carries the squishy balls everywhere. She slept with them in her tight little fist once. I look at Jean with a raised eyebrow to say, you give him those too? I’ve seen her do stand-up comedy for a crowded restaurant, invite strangers for sleepovers. I’ve never seen her in pushover mode. She must really like this kid.
“James, those are gifts from close friends. Jean isn’t allowed to give those away.”
James doesn’t really seem to mind or give it a second thought.
I go in directly once we have the house to ourselves again. “Jean. Why the heck did you give all your favorite things away?”
“I didn’t want to be mean,” she replies.
“What?" This is an uncharacteristically capitalist moment for me. Usually, I preach SHARE. The kindness, we don’t live in our thing’s kind of thing. “I don’t understand. Did you offer them as a gift?”
“He asked for them and I didn’t want to be mean.” Her eyes are glassy, brimming with tears, sadness, confusion.
“Jean. It’s not mean to say NO. You have to learn to say no. Also, it isn’t nice manners to ask someone for something that belongs to them just because you want it.”
I begin a small but fervent one woman play.
“Mama, can I have your car?”
“NO.”
“Mama, can I have your house?”
“NO.”
“Mama, can I have all your money?”
“NO.”
“Mama, can I have your dishwasher?”
Jean shakes her head the smallest little bit.
“Absolutely NO.”
“Jean, can I have all your clothes? Jean, can I have your favorite toy Nigel and all of the chocolate ice cream in the world? Jean, can I have all the money in your piggy bank and all of your treasure?”
Jean tries it now. “Tift, can I have your pancho?” She knows my pancho is my favorite. “Tift, can I have your guitar?
“NO, NO, NO NO, NO, No, No, No.”
“What was the lesson we learned this weekend?”
“To say no.”
Jean is sitting on the sink sideboard. I’m cooking dinner in two red pots and am about to cut her hair. The things I have said NO to float around the kitchen. Some of the NOs are loud, some ineffective; some made all the difference. No to touring life for me and Jean. No to going against my gut. No to hierarchies, oversimplified dominant narratives, and taking the easy way. My No to working too much and not getting paid enough hasn’t really done much and seems to always turn into a yes. No to authoritarianism, disinformation, gun violence and climate change inaction doesn’t seem to make a difference at all. But in this kitchen, there is none of that kind of noise. Just me and Jean, the sounds of our little lives together – the faucet, the refrigerator, the scissors, the subterranean sounds of hearts and minds at work.
“Mama, do we have enough money?”
“We are just fine, baby. We are so lucky.”
“Are you worried about money, Mama?”
“A little bit, but everything is gonna be just right.” I didn’t realize she could tell I was worried, but I like thinking she will know she can do whatever she needs to, because I did. My life is messy but it’s mine.
“Mama, you shouldn’t spend money on things we don’t need. Why did you buy those flowers?” She’s talking about the $5.99 Whole Foods tulips that I bought myself for Valentine’s Day.
“They weren’t that much, baby.”
I cannot explain to her the passion and pleasure I have for inexpensive luxury, my deep and long dedication to grocery store flowers. She does not know I have preempted any sort of Valentine’s melancholy for many years by just buying flowers for myself. She doesn’t know the difference between replacing the sink, replacing the car and replacing the apples in the crisper. Nor do I tell her. I trim the little yellow bangs drooping into her eyes. The white hairs are so thin no one will ever be able to pick them up.
“The more you spend money, the more you have to work and the more you have to work the more you have to be away from me. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I brush the hair off her forehead. “That’s definitely not what I want, sweetness.” I hold her little freckled face, but she wriggles free.
“Tift, can I have your guitar?”
“NO!!” I answer with glee. She understands. We are both giggling. “Hold still,” I tell her.
“Mama, what does it mean when someone sticks up their middle finger?”
“Who taught you that?”
“Someone at school.” Jean is perfectly still except for her mouth, realizing she wanted to erase what she just said. “She accidentally did it.”
Frozen in the dim kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator, the scissors hovering in hand, Jeans knees bunched on the counter, even our NOs and YESes pause around us to watch. It is by their witness that I resist the temptation to ask for the naming of names.
“What’s the worst thing you ever heard me say?”
“Fuck.” She nods brightly, absolutely no clue what it means beyond a mother’s frustration.
“FUCK!” I say to the night air.
Jean and the yes no chorus break into a hysterical fit of laughter, a bellowing applause, before supper is even ready.
A wonderfully written short story, encapsulating truth, wisdom, and even a potential for a song, Yes or No?
Jean is a VERY lucky little girl. What a wise and wonderful mama. Our yes’s, no’s, and struggles with saying no are closely aligned. Now if only I had an ounce of your other talents. 😘 You have such a gift for painting a vivid picture. I felt like I was sitting in that kitchen with you. Plus I desperately need a haircut. 😂