The woman raced her son toward nicotine addiction. It began like a game.
She had told him not to smoke. He nodded, but kept smoking. Ashtrays appeared in the kitchen and living room and accumulated soft black anthill piles. She said, Don’t you bring those things into my house. He took them out to his car. You still smell like cigarettes, she said. My friends, he said. He began having to rest after long runs for high school track, hands heavy on his knees and face brutally cheerful in case she might be looking. She said, Those friends of yours won’t stop you from hurting yourself? They’re my friends, he said; they let me make my own choices.
If they won’t — she said. And the game began.
He had several months’ advantage, and smoked extra to spite her at first, but with perseverance she gained quickly. She read up on her options and chose Parliaments, for maximum corrosiveness (cloves seemed too indulgent). The living room ashtrays, scrupulously cleaned out by her a month earlier, filled again. Sometimes they spilled over, scattering their waste on the good blue carpet.
I love you, she said, coming in to kiss him goodnight, fiercely.
To begin with she set herself to a strict regimen, one pack a day. For the first week at least, it was difficult not to be overcome with dizziness from the fourth cigarette on; but she reminded herself that that was all right, that was good, and made sure her son was nearby when she had to lean against the wall for support. She stopped lecturing him, did not even glance in his direction when she would start to cough. Did not speak about it. Just let the coughs, sorry and explosive, shake her frame.
This is ridiculous, he said.
He was worse off, still. His coughing was less frequent but stretched on, thick and gray and dry, and he leaned against the same wall outside his room (my wall, he thought) and considered breaking the habit.
Eventually her equilibrium was restored and she could function on a pack a day, rarely coughing. This would not do. She bought a carton and determined to make it disappear as fast as possible.
He bit his lip. You’ve made your point, he said, and threw his half-finished cigarette down on the porch, crushing it under his heel in a smear of ground black guts.
Not yet I haven’t, she said.
She held his face, I love you, and kissed him goodnight, and her fingertips smelled like ash against his cheeks.
He went to the store for a nicotine patch and stopped outside the door. Decided not to bother with halfways. Turned around, came back, flushed his last pack down the drain one by one till the toilet clogged and they had to call the plumber.
She stopped running. She left the meeting for a cigarette break. Her lipsticks all smelled like Reds. He went through withdrawal and hated her, first for making him and second for having cigarettes when he couldn’t. He shivered.
He came out of his room, not shaking, finally, and spread his hands wide. That’s it, he said. I’m done. And his tired face cracked for a moment into an incredulous smile.
She hugged him. Baby, she said. Baby, baby, baby.
That means you can stop now, he said. She nodded.
He went downstairs in the middle of the night and she was flicking ash off her cigarette. Are you kidding me? He said. She coughed in a long low stretch into her hand. I’m not — she said — I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet. I want to make sure.
Oh my god, he said. I love you, she said, not fierce anymore.
A month later the ashtrays were still full. For Christ’s sake, he said, don’t bring those things into the house. So the car’s glove compartment started wafting tobacco. Her coughs thickened into monsters that wracked her body. He would wake up nights and hear it.
I can’t believe you, he said, and moved out.
She kissed him goodbye, I love you, and he turned his head aside to avoid the stench of her breath and her stained teeth.
When she died in the cancer ward — much later — they took her ashes out to sea and scattered them among the waves. At the sight of the ashes he vomited — ran out into the ocean, kicking up sand — went under — searched — found nothing — and resurfaced choking on the water and ash in his lungs, and coughed and coughed.
Nora Offen is a creative writing major at Bard College, New York.
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14 Responses to “LESSONS LEARNED • by Nora Offen”
Comments
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November 22nd, 2009 at 7:16 am
A truly horrible story. Given the choice, I would not publish this in any print or on-line media.
On the other hand, if we could require that it be printed on every pack and carton of cigarettes sold …
November 22nd, 2009 at 7:52 am
This syory was excellent and poignent. I can definitly see a mother’s love for her child doing this to her. The fact thsat she died in the end was tragic but the last scene wuth the son scattering her ashes at sea was excellent.
November 22nd, 2009 at 8:52 am
Wow! This was a horrible commentary on the addiction of smoking! Hopefully, it will make a good wake-up call to a whle new generation of young smokers.
I smoked for more than 20 years and was finally able to quit, but, it took me several tries to succeed. I am so very glad that I did.
November 22nd, 2009 at 9:20 am
As a thirty plus year smoker, I can say I understand everything about the emotion of this story. I haven’t smoked a cigarette since `02. Quitting cigarettes is the hardest thing I have ever done… bar none!
This story is tragic.
November 22nd, 2009 at 9:48 am
I’m not sure what to say about this piece. Apparently it speaks loudly to some former smokers, but its message is lost on me. I agree with Jim that it would make a disturbing and effective Public Service Announcement, but as a piece of fiction – well, I’m just not sure how I feel about it.
The wordsmithing aspect was fabulous, however.
November 22nd, 2009 at 9:59 am
Very good. The woman’s intense love of her son seemed itself almost an addiction.
November 22nd, 2009 at 10:14 am
Nora, I had to rush back here and comment again. There was something very familiar about the style of your story, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. Then while I was doing some chores a moment ago, it dawned on me: Kafka!
This story is extremely Kafka-esque. People either love Kafka or hate him, but no one can deny that he was an immensely talented writer. I dislike reading his stories; they are far too bleak and, frankly, far too existential for me. But that certainly doesn’t make Kafka any less than one of the greatest influences on modern Western literature.
So, to clarify my first comment: As a piece of short fiction read for entertainment, I don’t like this story. As an example of excellent creative writing, it’s marvelous.
November 22nd, 2009 at 10:38 am
As both a former smoker and someone who watched a mom smoke herself to death, was very moved your story. The bleak and downbeat tone is perfect for the subject matter – great job. Congrats to you from a ‘79 Bard alum!
November 22nd, 2009 at 12:56 pm
Ah well, I don’t like cigarettes and I don’t care for polemic disguised as fiction. I also wonder what kind of weird mother kisses her grown son goodnight like that…and what kind of son allows it. Obviously there’s more to this than meets the smoke-clouded eye.
That said, it was extraordinarily well written.
November 22nd, 2009 at 5:37 pm
I thought this was well written, and also an entertaining piece of fiction. I didn’t consider it to be a “soapbox” piece – I don’t think we can assume that the views and emotions in the story are those of the author (though the likelihood is hight). The characters behave in believable and interesting ways.
November 23rd, 2009 at 6:29 pm
Happily, I took time to peruse the others comments before adding my own, otherwise I would have said things unbearably foolish. This one wasn’t for me. Haven’t read Kafka since college and for good reason: I didn’t care for him much then. So if this is an homage or replication of that style, that’s probably why it rings a bit dissonant in my ears.
–John
November 24th, 2009 at 3:04 pm
The writing strikes me as trying to hard. I found I was making myself finish it rather than being taken along by it.
November 25th, 2009 at 12:24 am
This one didn’t do much for me, sorry.
November 28th, 2009 at 4:41 pm
But one thing this story did do for me … it reminded me that I had, a number of years ago, started but never finished a story that was very definitely anti-smoking (the smoker gets his comeuppance in the end!). Had to hunt all over my old files to find it, but maybe I can finish it and do something with it. (Sorry, you won’t see it here, it’s already way over 1000 words.)
If I can finish it, it will definitely be unique among my writing … I think if you read every other story I’ve written, you would never get a clue that any such thing as :smiking” ever existed.