How to Forget

by Kate Mulgrew

  That had been ten years ago. Now, months had passed since Lucy had first entered the back door at Derby Grange, months during which she was required to familiarize herself with the habits of not just my mother, but my father, too, and this proved to be by far the greater test. From the moment my father had decided that he would turn his face away from the truth of my mother’s affliction, he had developed a detachment that was extremely difficult to penetrate. When he met Lucy for the first time, my father had acknowledged the small Mexican woman with nothing more than a curt nod, and this is how things stood for many weeks. Lucy had never learned the value of self-pity, however, and had been enculturated to keep her distance from alpha males, so that it was natural for her to assume her duties without undue sensitivity toward my father. She went about the business of tending to my mother, cooking and cleaning and ironing my father’s boxer shorts, and all of this she did with grace and efficiency. At night she climbed the back stairs to the small room just off the stairwell, lit a candle for her children and her mother, made the sign of the cross, and crawled into bed.

  Although not characteristically given to divulgences of a personal nature, Lucy one day told me that she thought Javier could be quite useful around the property, cutting wood and mowing the broad lawn, cleaning the gutters in the spring and, in winter, salting and shoveling the driveway.

  “Javier really keep the place good, señora,” she told me, and then added, smiling, “and you know he don’t talk too much.”

  By this time, my father had grown accustomed to laundry impeccably done, a soft-boiled egg and strong coffee served to him in the morning, a cup of soup and a dish of tapioca presented on a tray at night. His mood had softened as he observed Lucy’s expert ministrations, the bright sounds that now attended my mother’s rising, the soft cajoling in the late afternoon, when it was time for my mother’s bath, the undisturbed calm after my mother had been put to bed.

  When I approached my father and asked if he would consider allowing Javier to move in and help around the house, and after assuring him that no task was too much for Javier and that his presence would hardly be felt, my father looked at me and said, “Okay, okay, knock it off. If she wants the guy to come that badly, what the hell. Give it a go.”

  A month later, Javier arrived, and it was just as Lucy had predicted. Neither seen nor heard, the man moved mysteriously around the property, clearing timber from the glen, mowing the lawn, stacking wood, cleaning out the hedges, reinforcing the fence, washing my father’s car, bringing in the groceries, taking out the garbage. On my visits home, I would occasionally observe my father standing at the door of the TV Room, shaking his head as he appraised the firewood stacked neatly on the well-swept side porch.

  In time, my father would address both Lucy and Javier by their Christian names and, while he never inquired into their pasts or made any attempt at conversation, he could sometimes be heard saying, “Lucy, how are you?” or “Nice to see you, Javier,” which, for my father, was tantamount to a confession of love. Increasingly, the door leading from the TV Room into the kitchen was intentionally propped open, and while a small group sat eating and drinking at the kitchen table, my father could eavesdrop while pretending complete indifference, ensconced on the couch in the TV Room, his crossword puzzle laid out before him.

  The dinner ritual gave Lucy great satisfaction, and on my visits home, hours went into the preparation and execution of the perfect meal. Sam would be invited well in advance, and my mother, standing at the back door, would wait for him. When his truck pulled into the driveway, and Sam leapt from the driver’s seat shouting, “Hello, sweetheart!” my mother would inhale sharply and clasp her hands to her chest. Coming through the door, Sam would draw my mother into an embrace and say, “You look so pretty tonight, sweetheart.” Peering into the kitchen, he would add, “And you other broads aren’t so bad, either, especially the one making chicken and rice.”

  When we were all seated, beers would be popped open, wine would be poured, and Lucy would place in the center of the table a platter of guacamole and tortilla chips and a plate of cheese and crackers. If my mother regarded these hors d’oeuvres with indifference, Lucy would insert a plate into the microwave and within seconds present to my mother a dish of saltines topped with melted cheddar and drizzled with Worcestershire sauce, the sight of which invariably elicited a smile of satisfaction.

  In the middle of high-spirited teasing, the wine and beer flowing freely, the back door would suddenly swing open and bang shut, and Joe would be standing there, stamping his feet on the welcome mat, presenting himself with a diffidence that concealed his awkwardness at having interrupted the festive gathering. Immediately, I would rise and go to him, saying, “Bobo, I’m so glad you’re here! Join us! Come on, please.” Joe, after accepting my kiss, would move to the refrigerator and extract a Bud Light, which he popped open as he crossed into the kitchen. When he reached my mother, he would lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “How are you doing today, Mom?” he’d ask.

  My mother would hum for a moment, playing with a saltine.

  “Sit down, Bo,” I’d urge, pulling out a chair for him.

  “Maybe later. I’m going to check in on Dad,” Joe would answer, already moving away.

  When the meal was ready, and the table had been cleared so that places could be properly set with wineglasses, silverware, and my mother’s homemade cotton napkins, I noticed a figure hovering in the shadows, just inside the dining room.

  “Javier, what are you doing lurking in the dining room? Come in here and sit down!” I ordered, moving toward him. Instinctively, he demurred, but Lucy faced him from across the room and said authoritatively, “Javier, you better do what Señora says or you gonna be in big trouble.”

  This was the first time Javier had ever joined us at the dinner table. Ordinarily, he’d finish his work around six o’clock, wash up in the bathroom in the back of the house, fix a plate with whatever Lucy had prepared, and disappear upstairs for the rest of the night. Tonight, as we added a chair to the table and quickly assembled a place setting, we took voluble pleasure in Javier’s presence, and it was only Lucy who said nothing as she circled the table, positioning platters of arroz con pollo, tomato and avocado salad, thin slices of cantaloupe garnished with mint.

  Before she sat, Lucy and I shared a look, and within seconds two plates had been arranged on a tray, complete with cold beers and a small dish of guacamole. As I entered the TV Room, I was met with predictable resistance, which expressed itself in a short volley of dissent.

  “Not hungry,” my father flatly stated, raising his hands.

  “Can’t eat it,” Joe said, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “Okay, I get it, but try to remember your manners. You’ll hurt Lucy’s feelings, so I’m just going to leave it here,” I whispered, making room on the coffee table for the tray.

  When I returned to the table, Lucy and Sam were attempting to seduce my mother with small tidbits of food. My mother declined the slice of avocado offered by Lucy but greedily ate the rice from Sam’s spoon, after which Sam said, “Isn’t that delicious, sweetheart? Wait till you try this!” In this manner, my mother managed to consume what amounted to a balanced meal, an accomplishment that pleased all of us.

  Sated, she sat next to Sam, appearing fully content. Her eyes were bright with interest whenever he spoke, and when he laughed, she laughed with him. Javier, too, regarded my brother with an open, guileless expression, one that suggested respect as well as affection. In the short time Javier had been living at Derby Grange, it had been Sam who had shown him around and helped him to understand how things were done. This was no mean feat, as Javier did not speak a word of English and Sam’s Spanish was, by his own admission, “entertaining.” Nevertheless, a bond had developed between them, and as I listened to their banter, I observed Lucy out of the corner of my eye. She was in her element, sitting at that table, the ubiquitous red apron wrapped around her sturdy bo
dy, the impeccably prepared feast reduced to scraps, her eyes shining with satisfaction.

  Leaning into my brother, I whispered, “Lucy and Javier are living in sin, you know. And they call themselves Catholics.”

  Sam looked first at Javier, then Lucy, before he pronounced judgment.

  “That is a holy bed you two are defiling, you know that, don’t you?”

  Lucy started to giggle, but Sam cut her off.

  “I don’t think God would find this very amusing, do you, Luce? I think it would really piss Him off.”

  With astounding speed and economy, Lucy translated Sam’s words for Javier who, looking genuinely abashed, lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands. Lucy laughed until she wiped tears from the corners of her eyes, imploring, “Stop now, Sam, you really bad. You the one going to piss God!”

  “No, no, don’t change the subject, Luce,” my brother interrupted, wiping his mouth with his napkin and throwing it into the air so that it landed in the middle of what had once been a pretty knoll of guacamole.

  “I think this shocking behavior has been going on for quite long enough,” I declared, sitting back in my chair and folding my arms.

  “Javier, don’t you think it’s time you made an honest woman out of her?” Sam asked, shaking his head in puzzlement.

  “Translate, please, Lucy,” I demanded.

  “Oh, señora, I no say that to Javi! You crazy?”

  “Never saner,” I responded.

  “Don’t make me do it myself, Luce, ’cause it won’t be pretty,” Sam warned.

  Suddenly Lucy rose from the table and, as she began busily clearing plates and dishes, sliding and scraping with a terrible clatter, she whispered something to Javier that sounded to my ears like a fierce repudiation of love but was, in fact, a fairly direct translation of what Sam and I had said. She then gathered a pile of dirty dishes in her arms and moved abruptly away from the table. An awkward, attenuated silence followed, until, finally, Javier lifted his head and said, “Sí.”

  “Sí?” I asked, mouth agape.

  “Was that a sí, Javier?” Sam pressed, grinning.

  “De verdad,” Javier answered, softly.

  Lucy, her pink-gloved hands plunged in dirty sink water, whirled around and stared at Javier.

  Sam, putting his arm around our mother’s shoulder, pulled her into him and said, “Well, what do you know, sweetheart? There’s going to be a wedding!”

  My mother suddenly looked away, as if struck, but when she turned back and lifted her eyes to her son’s face, the perplexity that usually masked her features had been wiped away, revealing a girl transfigured by ardor.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The limo rolled slowly through the stone gates, navigating the high banks of snow on either side of the driveway. I watched from the Good Living Room window as the driver opened the passenger door, out of which immediately tumbled my older son, Ian. As he attempted to find his legs, my friend Mary Kay appeared from the other side of the car and extended her hand to him, laughing.

  “Oh, God,” I mumbled, “they’ve been drinking.”

  Jenny looked up from the table we were in the process of setting and cried, “Oh, let me see!”

  We studied the tableau for a moment before Jenny speculated that Mary Kay, held captive inside the car, had bravely maintained sobriety while Ian gleefully ravaged the contents of the limousine bar.

  “She should have joined him, it would have eased the pain,” I said, stepping over the chairs arranged around the table and making my way to the front door.

  “At last!” I cried, pulling Mary Kay into an embrace and shouldering her overnight bag. I was delighted that my old friend had made the journey from Los Angeles to share Thanksgiving with my family and had been game enough to find Ian in the chaos of O’Hare, locate the limousine I had ordered, and endure the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Chicago to Dubuque. Weather, in snowstorms so prodigious that the mere thought of flying in one rendered one speechless with panic, often dictated the cancellation of the commuter flight from Chicago to Dubuque. Under these circumstances, a hired limousine seemed less an extravagance than a reasonable compromise.

  Ian, wearing a quilted jacket and sporting a beanie, stumbled up the path and, stopped by my hand, submitted to a kiss. The stubble of his beard scratched my cheek and I thought, When did that happen?

  “Did you enjoy that little drive from O’Hare with Mary Kay?” I asked, with a wry smile.

  “I did,” Ian replied. “I find Mary Kay very good company.”

  As we entered the house, Mary Kay laughed lightly and said, “I don’t think he required any company, he seemed perfectly happy with his own.”

  Voices rose in greeting as the last two stragglers, for whom we had been waiting since morning, walked into the TV Room and were swamped by members of my clan, all of whom had assembled to celebrate the holiday. Alec, my younger son, who had traveled with me from Los Angeles to Dubuque, sprang to his feet and shouted, “Where the fuck have you been, bro?” Everyone had come with the implicit understanding that this would be a Thanksgiving to remember, and to cherish. Our father would be seated in his customary place at the head of the table, and our mother would be seated in hers, facing him from the opposite end. Tradition dictated that I would sit at my father’s right, and Sam at my mother’s. All of my siblings would be gathered around this table, causing a number of the spouses to vie for a seat, bony and big bottoms alike pressed cheek to cheek on the same worn cushion. Most of the kids were relegated to the Good Living Room or the kitchen, depending on age and disposition. Lucy and I would shuttle between the rooms, arms laden with dishes, subduing arguments and herding recalcitrant teenagers into their appointed chairs.

  With my sisters and sisters-in-law assisting us in the kitchen, the buffet was organized quickly. Eased in between generous platters of turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and green beans, there would be additional items less easy to identify. Sam’s wife, Wendy, would have prepared a mysterious pasta dish and baked loaves of bread, all shapes and sizes, artfully presented in a wire basket of her creation. Something odd but chutney-like might assert itself next to the butter dish, and the gravy bowl was a perpetual disappointment, appearing in its tiny white cradle under the shadow of the huge turkey platter. Dessert was understood to be outside of our habit, so anything that looked even remotely sweet would be immediately greeted with skepticism. Store-bought pies could be found the next day, sunken and sodden in their aluminum tins, excavated as if by a raccoon.

  The wine, my brother Tom’s domain, was good and plentiful. Bottles of pinot noir and sauvignon blanc shared the counter with china plates, silverware wrapped in cloth napkins, and glasses. On the table stood two antique silver candelabras, each sprouting six candles, secured in their tiny basins by bits of paper towel. Mismatched pitchers of ice water, a heatedly debated nod to convention, were grudgingly placed next to the bottles of wine. Sprigs of rosemary and evergreen were put in small vases and placed under the candelabras.

  When everything was in order, it was announced that dinner was served, and a line quickly formed in the dining room. First, the small children were served by their mothers, followed by the teenagers who, over the years, had learned prudence in helping themselves to portions sufficient to quell their hunger, but never to sate it. The adults came last, and it was an unspoken rule that I would fix a plate for our father, and that Sam would do the same for our mother. When I placed the modest repast in front of my father, he invariably raised his hands in alarm and the time-honored exchange would follow:

  “Too much!”

  “Dad, it’s nothing. Please, just eat it.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Well, then, pretend you’re eating it.”

  Mother, on a typical Thanksgiving, would receive her plate with delight, making the appropriate sounds of pleasure. A light, quick smacking of her lips, a coo of surprise, and a fork plunged immediately into the pat of butter smoothed onto the side of th
e plate, which she would pop into her mouth with the deftness of a baby bird.

  This Thanksgiving, my mother regarded her plate with indifference, studying the items on it with bemused detachment. Sam, sitting beside her, leaned over and cut her turkey into small bites, then forked a piece and brought it to our mother’s lips. Her attention could be won, now, only by certain people, people sensitive to my mother’s deliquescence. Lucy’s kindness and efficiency could motivate my mother to react, but only Sam seemed to possess the ability to move her. As the forkful of meat reached our mother’s lips, she would gaze into Sam’s eyes as if willing him to show her the way, and this is what he did. With infinite patience and indicating with his own mouth what he wanted her to do, Sam would say, “This is delicious, sweetheart. You need to open up.” Mesmerized, my mother would part her lips, Sam would slip the bit of turkey into her mouth, she would begin to chew, and everyone at the table would sigh with relief.

  As the meal unfolded, laughter erupted from time to time, and the teasing, which had for so long defined our communication, revealed itself in short, colorful bursts. In spite of this, we were all waiting. Acutely sensitive to our mother’s every utterance and gesture, each of us hung suspended in limbo. Would today be the day when our mother would look at us and say, as she so often had in years past, “How much do you think this meal would cost in New York?”