Bulls Island by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

said a word about it to me.
    After as many altercations as I could bear, I felt deeply abused and that’s one reason why I stopped calling them. I sent my father and sister cards and gifts on the expected occasions, but at some point, I’d just stopped calling. They had to suspect that Sela knew where I was, but my every birthday and holiday went unremembered, and I cannot tell you how much that hurt. Being forgotten is one thing, but to be purposely overlooked over and over is very painful.
    Joanie always seemed to conveniently dismiss the fact that I had lost my mother as well as the affection of my father, my sister, and J.D. But everyone looks at the world from their own point of view. Momma used to say that Joanie had been born angry. There washardly such a thing as a pleasant encounter with Joanie for anyone as far as I knew. Sela thought I needed a sex life? Well, perhaps I did, but Joanie’s need for some kind of a cure, sexual or otherwise, surely surpassed mine.
    I looked at the clock. It was about six in the evening. Where was Adrian anyway? Then I remembered. That morning he had told me he was going down to the Village with some friends and then out to a movie. I decided to call his cell again.
    Please enjoy the music while your party is reached… I then had the distinct privilege of thirty seconds of unintelligible noise that passed for music with Adrian’s generation. At last, he picked up.
    “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
    “Somebody got a letter from the admissions office at Columbia University today.”
    I could hear the excitement in his voice as his breathing quickly escalated.
    “And?” he said.
    “You’re in!”
    “You’re kidding! Sweet! Hey, guys! Guess what?”
    The sounds of high-fiving and “Congratulations, man!” in the background was deafening.
    “Adrian? Adrian?”
    “Sweet! Awesome! This is some very awesome news!”
    “Excellent! You got it made, man! Got it made! Awesome!”
    If young people could not use the word awesome (and to a lesser degree, excellent and sweet ), I feared their ability to communicate might be greatly impaired.
    “Adrian?” I was calling loudly, as I knew he had lost interest in my end of the conversation. In fact, moments later, he closed his phone and we were disconnected. Kids. There was no point in calling him back. I supposed then that his acceptances to Colgate, Brown, and Penn were now a thing of the past. My basic missionwas accomplished. He would be close to home and to me. When I got back from the trial of my life, that is.
    I left him a note on his pillow, along with the acceptance letter, that said I was meeting two guys, McGrath and Pinkham, from ARC senior management for dinner at Del Frisco’s. They had said they wanted to discuss business, but I knew their wives were out in the Hamptons and they were bored.
    I told Adrian in my note that I expected to be home by ten. Funny, I never worried about him navigating the city. Ever since he was old enough to push a turnstile, Adrian had been using the subway like the map of it was imprinted in his genetic code. And he was with his friends, so he was doubly safe. They were all good guys who liked baseball, comic books, and electronic games. One of the many things I admired about my son was his innate practical sense about the world around him. Adrian was cautious but unafraid of almost everything. He reminded me so much of J.D. that sometimes, when we were together, I would think J.D. was in the room with us. Well, part of him actually was, and that gave me enormous solace.
    I felt a little deflated that Adrian wasn’t home just then so we could have shared a moment of celebration, but there would be time for that. He was out running around in the heat and having fun, as he should have been. Manhattan in late summer can be oppressive, with hot winds gusting on the cross streets. But at Adrian’s age? Who cared?
    McGrath told me to pick the spot. I had chosen Del Frisco’s because besides the