—You’re leaving?
—It’s time, I think.
—You’re not sure?
—It’s time.
—Have a good life. Life’s fascinating. Just let go every once in a while.
—Thank you, and you, too.
—Violet’s play boosted me way up. I’m thinking of becoming an actor. It’s never too late.
—That’s great, I said. I wish you success.
IT’S NEVER TOO LATE, I considered, good-humoredly, unless it is, I also thought, as I left the library, when, on the path to my residence, I realized that I’d never see the odd inquisitive woman again, that this person whose characteristic impertinence annoyed me would disappear from my life, as I would hers, that we had met, sniffed each other’s ass more than once, or labored in an army of ants building anthills, and even though I didn’t especially like her, I’d probably remember her for a while, until I never thought of her again, and might even miss her, though I might not know what it was that was missed. The head cook was also leaving, that had been made public weeks ago, and there was a party planned to be held in the main house, to which all of the residents were invited, and most decided to attend, even though her cooking in her last weeks had become more than lackadaisical, and, if I hadn’t had to eat it, I might have called whimsical. Some residents stayed in their rooms during dinner, preferring to starve, as they put it, but I never did, I needed dinner, which marked the end of a day during which I had or hadn’t accomplished anything, along with the others, and also a bad dinner was preferable to none. I’m not sure about the head cook, but I left the morning after her farewell party, and, as I waited for the taxicab to take me to the train, the Turkish poet showed up unexpectedly, carrying a gallon bottle of water. My luggage was placed, or thrown, into the trunk by the overweight driver, whose clothes smelled of cigarette smoke, and the Turkish poet kissed me goodbye on my forehead. I took my place on a backseat, strapped myself in, hoped my driver wouldn’t speed or brake sharply, causing me to become nauseated, and worried if the trunk had been shut properly. When the car started to pull away, the Turkish poet ran up to my door and exclaimed, “This brings good luck. Remember me, you.” Then, trotting behind the car, he sprinkled water onto the path, the water cascading from the gallon bottle until it was gone.
I ARRIVED IN THE PLACE I call home late that night, it appeared to be the start of a hot summer, and, early the next morning, because the air would be cooler than later in the day, and cleaner, the streets quieter, I walked to my mother’s house to retrieve my young, wild cat from her indifferent care, but when I arrived and opened the door using my key, because her companion was in the shower, she was fast asleep in her own world. Her unconsciousness gave me the chance to study her unabashedly without her asking questions, which I often have to answer many times, unless it’s a day when she’s lucid, which also happens, fortunately. My mother had aged, the skin on her neck was looser and fleshier, her nose thicker, since, at her age, the aging process gallops to the finish line, but still no wrinkles creased her cheeks, no fine lines radiated from her shut eyes. My mother’s mouth twitched from time to time. Yet sleeping offered her a serenity she lacked even at her advanced age, when age is meant to carry with it at least that compensation, because when awake, she insisted adamantly she was half her age. Her skin, normally glossy and pink, had maintained its usual high color, and I thought, She’s not dead yet, maybe she can live forever.
Coincidentally, just after I had these thoughts, my mother tossed, unsettled by my attention or, more likely, rocked in the arms of a dream lover who caressed her, who stirred her the way she wanted to be stirred again, since she missed sex, she’d told me, but she didn’t speak aloud to her husband, my father. When she rolled over and faced the wall, I left her bedroom to talk with her companion, who brewed coffee in the kitchen where I asked how she was doing, what her troubles were, if any, how my mother’s doctors’ visits had gone, what new bills needed payment, what my mother’s complaints were, and, most important, how they were getting along, if any immediate issues required my daughterly attention. For months, I’d been spared most of this. All the while, my young, wild cat, technically no longer a kitten, stared at his cat carrier, which my mother’s companion had removed from a shelf in the hallway closet and set on the floor by the door, so he knew something was up, or he was going home. I grabbed him when he turned away from us and, before he knew it, my cat was in the carrier he hated, so he cried pitifully, and, not saying hello or goodbye to my mother, who still slept, I rushed out the door to the elevator, to the street, where I hailed a taxi. Soon we arrived at my apartment house, and, quickly, in my apartment, I released him. He jumped out, walked the length of my place, and settled on a yellowish white naugahyde Thonet chair, where he remained for the day, keeping his distance from me, even when I dished out his favorite food. My young, wild cat didn’t know me, though I knew and loved him, but also, in a sense, I didn’t know him, because he’d changed in his manner to me, yet that also would change, an experienced cat lover explained, and you must give it time, she cautioned. Several days later, I awakened with my bottom lip split and telephoned the beauty salon to set up an appointment for a facial. It was a Saturday, so the pleasant boss answered my call, and I arranged an appointment for a facial on Tuesday at 11 a.m.
Tuesday comes, and my cat is somewhat more responsive, though he still behaves as if he doesn’t know me, which may be an act, indifference, annoyance, or an actuality, he may not know me. I dress in lightweight, loose all-cotton gray clothes, and take a route I know like the back of my hand, but also don’t really see, to the beauty salon for my regular treatment, since my skin is perniciously dry, I need treatment, a collagen mask is advisable, but, ominously, the salon owner greets me at the door, and it’s no longer the weekend. She tells me, her eyes darting quickly away from mine, that my Polish cosmetician has left, that she is no longer working for her, she has taken another job for more money, and then the salon owner’s eyes leave mine again, as she explains that there is a new cosmetician, a Polish woman, also, who is excellent, better than mine was, much better, and who will care for me very well. The salon owner graciously draws open a curtain to one of the two small rooms, and, uneasy, my skin itching, I enter the cramped space, which is, in all other ways, the way it was when I last visited, and then the new cosmetician enters, tells me her name and to undress, please, that she will be right back, and leaves the room. I hang my all-cotton, lightweight clothes on a hook and change into a long-sleeved, plain blue wrapper, a twenty percent polyester, eighty percent cotton blend that feels slightly rough against my skin, but it’s durable and serviceable, and then I lie down upon the chaise lounge and cover myself with a soft, nubby pink blanket, and soon the new Polish woman enters again, but I hardly see her, since she turns the light low for my greater relaxation, and, when she walks toward me, her face is hidden in shadow. She takes her place behind me and, tenderly, ties a ribbon around my head at the hairline to keep loose strands off my forehead and temples, to avoid impeding her work, and lightly and gently she pats my cheeks twice. Speaking in a calm, accented voice, she says, “Pardon me,” as my former Polish facialist would have, comes forward, switches a harsh light on, to examine my skin closely, and bends close, to study it with concern, screwing up her face, which produces creases or wrinkles on her forehead and at the bridge of her nose, and only after this, she touches my face again. With the help of a mild, hypoallergenic cream on a cotton pad, she moves her dancing fingers in an upward fashion, careful not to create new creases on my skin but to smooth and lessen old ones and remove surface impurities, inaugurating the facial. Soon the Polish woman says with professional certainty, “You have very sensitive skin,” and I close my eyes, and she goes on.
Acknowledgments
I thank Dr. George Lipkin for his skin genius and giving me an informal education in dermatology; Dakis Iannou, for lending me a house to write in, and Katerina Gregos, for facilitating it; Lydia Davis, fo
r helping me get me started on this book; Geoffrey Cruickshank Hagenbuckle, for his understanding of the tarot; and Robert Gober, for the perfect cover image. David Rattray, who hovers always in memory, is the novel’s touchstone, and Carol Mahoney, recently gone, is, even if such things can’t happen, its guardian angel. And always, thanks to David Hofstra, the bass player in my life.
© Craig Mod
LYNNE TILLMAN is a novelist, short story writer, and cultural critic. Her novels are Haunted Houses; Motion Sickness; Cast in Doubt; No Lease on Life, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; American Genius, A Comedy; and Men and Apparitions. Her nonfiction books include The Velvet Years: Warhol’s Factory 1965–1967, with photographs by Stephen Shore; Bookstore: The Life and Times of Jeannette Watson and Books & Co.; and What Would Lynne Tillman Do?, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in Criticism. Her most recent short story collections are Someday This Will Be Funny and The Complete Madame Realism. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship and an Andy Warhol/Creative Capital Arts Writing Fellowship. Tillman is Professor/Writer-in-Residence in the Department of English at the University of Albany and teaches at the School of Visual Arts’ Art Criticism and Writing MFA Program in New York. She lives in Manhattan with bass player David Hofstra.
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