Sourland by Joyce Carol Oates

recently—what was required was a table for four, that we would not be “cramped.” With an expression of strained courtesy the maître d’ showed my mother to a table for four, also at the rear of the restaurant, but this table too had something fatally wrong with it, or by now the attention of the other diners had become offensive to Adelina, who seized my hand and huffily pulled me away. In a voice heavy with sarcasm she said, “We will go elsewhere, monsieur ! Merci beaucoup!”
    Outside on Fifth Avenue, traffic was thunderous. My indignant mother pulled me to the curb, to wait for a break in the stream of vehicles before crossing over into the park. She was too impatient to walkto the intersection, to cross at the light. When a taxi passed too slowly, blocking our way, Adelina struck its yellow hood with her fist. “Go on! Allez!”
    In the park, Adelina lit a cigarette and exhaled bluish smoke in luxurious sighs as if only now could she breathe deeply. Her mood was incensed, invigorated. Her wide dark nostrils widened further, with feeling. Snugly she linked her arm through mine. I was having trouble keeping pace with her but I managed not to wince in pain for I knew how it would annoy her. On the catwalk— catwalk had been a word in my vocabulary for as long as I could remember—Adelina had learned to walk in a brisk assured stride no matter how exquisitely impractical her shoes.
    â€œLift your head, cherie. Your chin. You are a pretty girl. Ignore if they stare. Who are they !”
    With singular contempt Adelina murmured they . I had no idea what she was talking about but was eager to agree.
    It was a sunny April day. We were headed for the Boathouse Restaurant to which Adelina had taken me in the past. On the paved walk beside a lagoon excited geese and mallards rushed to peck at pieces of bread tossed in their direction, squawking at one another and flapping their wings with murderous intent. Adelina crinkled her nose. “Such a clatter ! I hate noisy birds.”
    It was upsetting to Adelina, too, that the waterfowl droppings were everywhere underfoot. How careful one had to be, walking beside the lagoon in such beautiful shoes.
    â€œNot good to feed wild creatures! And not good for the environment. You would think, any idiot would know.”
    Adelina spoke loudly, to be overheard by individuals tossing bread at the waterfowl.
    I was hoping that she wouldn’t confront anyone. There was a fiery sort of anger in my mother, that was fearful to me, yet fascinating.
    â€œExcuse me, cherie : turn here.”
    With no warning Adelina gripped my arm tighter, pivoting me toascend a hilly incline. When I asked Adelina what was wrong she hissed in my ear, “Eyes straight ahead. Ignore if they stare.”
    I dared not glance back over my shoulder to see who or what was there.
    Because of her enormously busy professional life that involved frequent travel to Europe, Adelina had relinquished custody of me to my father at the time of their divorce. It had been a “tortured” decision, she’d said. But “for the best, for all.” She had never heard of the private girl’s school in Manhattan to which my father was sending me and alluded to it with an air of reproach and suspicion for everyone knew, as Adelina said, that my father was “stingy— perfide .” Now when she questioned me about the school—teachers, courses, classmates—I sensed that she wasn’t really listening as she responded with murmurs of Eh? Yes? Go on! Several times she turned to glare at someone who’d passed us saying sharply, “Yes? Is there some problem? Do I know you?”
    To me she said, frowning, “Just look straight ahead, darling! Ignore them.”
    Truly I did not know if people were watching us—either my mother or me—but it would not have surprised me. Adelina dressed like one who expects attention, yet seemed sincere in