Guilt

His mother decided to name him Joseph, since their last name was Klein, and it seemed droll enough to her that he should spend his life being called Joseph K. She expected he would be surrounded by other Josephs in his life – which, in fact, he was – and, thus, be distinguished from them by the “K” – which he also, in fact, was. That this occurred without any true effort on her part, and without any understanding of its significance by those doing so, was a primary source of her amusement in those early years.

The trial had been lengthy and, largely, not amusing. Not even a trial, per se. Just months and months of arduous tedium, which had suddenly become their reality, day after day after day. But that was no longer important. It was done. Over. To what end and for what purpose, these many years later, no one could say, least of all Joseph K. – or his mother, for that matter. As trials go, though, it was generally typical, personally atypical.  Now, over.

They had survived. 

On his first day of kindergarten, a grayish morning, she walked steadily up the front steps to the school, lightly gripping his left hand. Oblivious, Joseph climbed beside her excitedly, spindly legs darting here and there. His mother trained her eyes purposefully ahead, aware of the stares and whispers, ignoring them nevertheless. Leaning down to kiss him, she glimpsed the gaggle of onlookers.  

“You’re going to love school,” she said, gently brushing the loose strands of hair from his forehead to the side, skeptical eyes looking up.

“Ok, Mommy,” he agreed as he took his place in the line of children waiting at the unopened door. He smiled; she smiled. He turned to face his new teacher; she turned to face the frosty crowd.

Do these people ever give it a rest? she thought, descending the steps defiantly – almost brazenly. This is what they wanted, wasn’t it? Chin forward, she swept by them. 

*** 

He did love school. She had been right. So much so, he had gone on to become a lawyer. Joseph Klein, Counselor-at-Law. Of course, his mother was very proud. And vindicated. Yes, mostly, she was vindicated. No, she had not become a lawyer, but he had – and it was the next best thing in her estimation.

“Mom?” He asked the voicemail, as if it would answer back. “I’ll pick you up at ten on Sunday, okay?” 

Today was Tuesday; Sunday was Mother’s Day. 

He tossed the phone aside, looked up, then scribbled “Joseph K” on the letter he had been reading before thinking to make that call. A few minutes later, the phone dinged. It was a text from his mother:  10 am fine.  See you then.

*** 

A bleak morning such as this was always a disappointment to him. Especially in the springtime. A spring morning should be bright, he thought. Bright, promising warmth sometime later in the day. It was neither. The sky was dreary, the color of days-old snow, muted and discouraging. He pulled up to the curb and beeped the horn. His mother had told him not to bother coming to the door to fetch her. It made him uncomfortable, but he followed her direction. In the next second, she was closing the door, and then walking toward the car, plastic Shop-Rite bag in one hand, keys in the other. 

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he offered, as she sat down next to him. 

“Yes, thank you.” As she placed the keys and the bag in her lap, he leaned over to kiss her lightly on the cheek. 

“You’re going to love this place.” Too eager.

She played with the keys, plastic bag uncrinkling slowly. The lines around her eyes did so as well, skeptically. 

“It’s really nice.”

What difference does it make? After everything she had been through, this is what was to be. After all I endured, you ungrateful miserab. She had been excited to spend the day with him. To go to an early brunch. 

The letter, which was not supposed to have come to her at all, had come on Friday.

Dear Mrs. Klein: 

Thank you for registering to visit with us during our upcoming Mother’s Day Open House Meet and Greet. We look forward to seeing you and your family that day! 

Warm regards,

The Team at Independence Care 

It was an oxymoron, at the very least. Independence Care. An insult, an indignity. She was independent. She needed no care. For God’s sake, she could text. She would not go. 

She went. 

There were no stairs, only a vaguely unlevel concrete walkway with a painted metal handrail, jutting crookedly from the weeds along the side of the building, which she impudently refused to grasp. With any luck, she would fall and break her hip. 

She did not.

***

Sheepishly, apologetically, Joseph asked the receptionist to validate his parking ticket, while his mother walked on ahead of him, spindly legs darting here and there.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He felt the heat of the mixed gazes upon him – the other children, like him, commiserating; the other parents, like her, reproachful. Chin down, he slunk by them.  

It’s for your own good, he could not bring himself to say. 

“No, not so bad.” The knife, deep in her heart, twisted. The trial, it seemed, was not over. 

They could not survive.