by Melissa Bank
"Great."
I give him a look.
He says, "Laurel and I had dinner with her Thursday."
Now he's serious, thinking about something. He says, "How's Dad?"
Barney never asks about his father. I say, "Dad?"
"Sure."
I tell him that his father's in a new gallery, a good one. I ask him if he wants to see the invitation to the opening, and Barney says, again, "Sure."
I get Ben's card from the mail tray. It's a beautiful invitation—three tiny reproductions of his paintings. I hand the card to Barney and say, "It's next Friday."
Barney glances at the invitation and says, "Now there's a must-miss."
He sits opposite me while I finish my shopping list.
"I can get this stuff," he says.
I say, "What have you done with my son?"
He smiles. "I don't know what you mean."
—•—
P. K. is the first to arrive. She comes straight from work, so she's got on a suit and is carrying a big briefcase. P. K. is a little plump, but on her it's pretty, childlike, and soft. Her face is flushed from climbing the stairs, and her eyes are expectant. She kisses me and whispers, "Is Julie here?"
I say no and she sighs. "It was the way he said 'we.' I don't know." She thinks a minute. "It's dumb."
"He's brought Laurel," I say. "She's very nice."
"Great," she says with zero enthusiasm. "Where is he?"
"Liquor store."
Laurel comes out of the bedroom. She's just gotten up. "Hi," she says.
A few minutes later, P. K. follows me into the kitchen; she's taken off her stockings and shoes and put on my black T-shirt over her pleated skirt. "This one is no bimbo," she says softly.
I put her to work on the salad.
Laurel joins us. Now she's awake, and her hair is loose and curly to her shoulders. "How can I help?" she asks, and P. K. hands her the lettuce.
Barney comes back from the liquor store. When he sees P. K. he puts the bags down right where he is, which happens to be on the living-room floor, and hugs her. "Well, Counselor," he says, rubbing her back.
He sets up the dining room, and turns on the radio. Gladys Knight's version of "Heard It Through the Grapevine" is on. We're all dancing and singing, "Guess you wonder how I knew," when Isabelle and Giancarlo arrive.
Isabelle is the great beauty of the family. Tonight she's wearing motorcycle boots that make her look like she's nine feet tall. "Hey, you," she says, hugging Barney. She introduces Giancarlo all around. He's got a square jaw and long dark hair, and he is very handsome, very Italian.
When Barney introduces Laurel, Isabelle is breezy. She plays the glamour-puss, but that's not who she really is.
There's no room for her and Giancarlo in the kitchen, so they take drinks to the living room. I tell P. K. to go keep them company, but she says, "You go, Barney."
We all settle into the living room for cocktails. I'm on the footstool, and Barney leans all the way down to me and says in my ear, "They're bonding," meaning P. K. and Laurel. He kisses my head and stands up.
"Hey you guys," Isabelle says. "I've got a surprise." She turns to Laurel. "Has Barney told you anything about Water Mill?"
"A little."
"That's where Barney and I spent our formative years. It was a cooperative farm." To Giancarlo, she says, "Comunista." She describes the apple orchards, the other families, and how we used to cross the river to hear folk concerts.
P. K. is riveted. She feels she missed out on the good ol' days, and she isn't wrong.
Giancarlo is gazing at Isabelle, studying her face; I can't tell if he's madly in love or doesn't understand English.
"Cut to the chase, Iz," Barney says.
"No," P. K. says. "Go on."
Isabelle looks away from me, to Barney and then to P. K. and says, "Dad and I went up there last weekend." She pauses. "Remember we heard it was leveled?"
Barney nods.
"It was," she says. "Except for one thing." She takes photographs out of her bag. "Voila!" She passes them out.
They are pictures of the tiny village Barney built behind our house. We had the gardener's cottage, and Barney took over the huge flower bed at the end of the lawn. There was construction going on all over the estate, and Barney endeared himself to anyone who'd give him anything for his village. He got slate for the roofs, metal for his bridges, and blue glass for the swimming pools. He made hills and valleys, even a river, and dozens of brick-size houses out of his "secret formula"—a cement-and-stone mixture.
Now he gives Laurel a tour, pointing at the photograph. "Baseball diamond, drive-in movie theater ..."
P. K. says, "It looks so real."
Isabelle says, "Because everything's gone. There's no scale."
Which stops me. I look at the picture. The place where our house once stood is smooth orange dirt, crisscrossed with bulldozer tracks. "It's a ghost town," I say.
Barney nods. "Yup," he says.
Isabelle says, "Your Topia."
Barney's expression is dreamy, and I can tell he is remembering.
Isabelle says to Laurel, "Barney overheard the grownups talking about Utopia."
I remember Ben's speeches about creating our own world, and for a second I am myself at thirty-four, sitting Indian-style, Barney's head in my lap; we're in a big circle with all the families, at the clearing in the apple orchard. It's a spring evening, and I can smell the blossoms. "We should question everything," Ben says. "Money, religion. Monogamy." I look over at my husband: You don't mean us, do you, sweetheart?
Now Laurel asks Barney, "How old were you?"
He looks at me. "Eight?"
"That's about right," I say.
"How long did it take you?" P. K. asks.
"The whole summer," Isabelle says.
P. K. says, "I love that they left it standing."
I go to the kitchen to check on dinner, and I overhear Barney say, "You see Dad a lot, Isabella?"
We sit down to dinner. I've overcooked the pasta, but no one seems to notice. We're all talking and laughing, drinking wine, and I get this good feeling. We're all here.
Giancarlo, on my right, says, "Why did you leave the farm?" His English is perfect.
I tell him that the schools weren't great, and we were losing money on the apples. "It wasn't realistic."
Isabelle says, "Plus, it turned into a big orgy."
"Isabelle," I say.
"That's what Dad said."
"So," Laurel says, "you moved to Rome."
I tell her we meant to stay only a year but I found good work, and she says, "Doing what?"
"Dubbing," I say. "My voice is immortalized on dozens of spaghetti Westerns. Barney's, too."
"Pa!" Barney shouts. "Injuns!"
"How do you do it?" Laurel asks.
"You're adapting," I say. "You fit words into an actor's mouth."
Barney says, "It's hard, because Italian words usually end in vowels—openmouthed." He smiles at Giancarlo.
I say, "If the actor says, 'Prego,' you can't dub, 'You're welcome.' "
Barney and I act it out: I mouth "Prego" at the same time Barney says, "You're welcome."
Barney becomes instructor-like: "Regard the subtle differences between u and i." He leads us all through the consonants and vowels, and we watch one another's mouths. We are a tableful of sounds.
P. K. says, "I feel like I'm in first grade."
At dessert, I bring out champagne. P. K. makes the first toast: "To our honored guests from the Windy City!" and everyone clinks glasses.
Giancarlo stands up and says, "To our masterful chef!"
I tell Isabelle, "I like this one."
P. K. is describing her last case and why she didn't put the alleged drug dealer on the stand. "He was innocent," she says, "but he lied about everything." She's all animated, and I'm a little annoyed when Barney stands up and taps his spoon against his glass.
"I have something to announce," he says. "
A major announcement." He smiles all around, and then pulls Laurel to her feet. "We're pregnant," he says.
They sit down. It takes a second for it to sink in, and then Isabelle jumps up and hugs them. "That's great," she says. "This is so great." Then we're all hugging one another and talking, a jangle of conversation.
Laurel half rises again, and says, "We're also getting married."
Everyone laughs; I have to admit, I'm relieved. The details circle the table—she saw the doctor last week, the wedding will be very soon, she's due in April.
"I'm going to be a grandmother," I say to myself.
Giancarlo squeezes my hand.
Then Barney stands again, still beaming.
Everyone thinks he's joking. "Sit down, you ham!" P. K. calls out.
Isabelle says, "Give me a break!" She and Giancarlo are laughing, and he kisses her.
Barney says, "There's something else."
I happen to look over at Laurel. She's pale and perspiring; strands of her hair are sticking to her neck.
I say, "Sh."
Very slowly, Barney says, "Julie is pregnant, too."
Now we are all hushed.
Isabelle whispers to Giancarlo, "His ex-wife."
Barney's voice is steady. "I'm the father."
No one moves.
I watch my son. I don't think I've ever seen him look so serious, but it doesn't seem real; it's as though he's imitating how someone responsible speaks. He says, "We're going to help as much as we can." He seems to realize that standing up isn't right—this isn't a toast—and he abruptly sits down. "We're going to help," he says again.
P. K. is studying her brother. Out of all of us, she expects the most from him, and I can tell she wants to see this whatever way he does. She will put it in the best possible light. For a second, her face clouds over with confusion or disappointment, but then she looks at Barney, straight and clear, and her voice is earnest when she says, "Why are you doing this?"
Now Laurel speaks. She is a feat of self-possession. "We decided together," she says. "It's the only thing to do."
We're all quiet again. Giancarlo leans forward and reaches his hand out to Barney. "Congratulations."
Isabelle says, "This is a soap opera."
Then, everyone turns to me, as though I'm going to deliver some kind of pronouncement. I get these voices in my head of what The Mother is supposed to say—maybe something about how it will all work out. My own mother would say something definite, final. I remember Ben and me telling my parents we were getting married. Their real objection was that he was Jewish, and a Communist, but my father bellowed, The husband's role is to provide. Now I look up at my own children.
"Barn," I say, "what about providing for children?"
He nods; he's got an answer ready. "I've been composing music for commercials."
Isabelle says, "Jingles," as though the frivolity of the word itself proves something.
Quietly, P. K. says, "Have you had any on TV?"
Barney nods, just barely. I think he's afraid she's going to ask him to hum one.
It is time for me to say, Who wants coffee? and when I do it's like dubbing.
Giancarlo nods, P. K. waves, Barney gives me a grateful look, but I shake my head and he knows to follow me into the kitchen.
I cannot bring myself to look at him. I hand him the kettle, he asks me which cups. I pour milk into a pitcher and say, "Do you have a date for the wedding?"
He says, "I think I should bring Laurel, don't you?"
I turn and face him.
For a long moment I see this man.
I see him and I think, I am the one who taught him to regard himself as a blessing.
"Jesus," he says, "I was just kidding." He backs away from me—almost into Isabelle.
She says, "May I have a word with you?"
They go out to the terrace, and before the door closes, we can all hear Isabelle say, "What the hell are you doing?"
Laurel comes in to help. She's industrious and quiet. Then she tells me how strange it was to meet Julie. She stops. "I didn't want to feel anything." She looks at me. She wants me to understand, and with my eyes I let her know that I do.
"I'm thirty-five," she says. "You try to plan your life, but that's not how it works." I can see how tired she is right now. "I love Barney," she says.
While we finish dessert, Isabelle's voice carries through the glass doors, but only an occasional word is clear— "... bullshit . . . responsibility . . . child ..."
They walk inside. It's been raining, and Isabelle's white shirt is wet through in spots; it sticks to her skin. "Come on," she says to Giancarlo.
He shakes hands with Barney, whose hair has a wet sheen to it. Isabelle kisses everyone all around, and embraces Laurel. I see Laurel's shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. When Isabelle gets back to Barney, she says, "I'll be talking to you, bud."
"Yup," he says.
She gives him a quick hug. "Walk me to the door?" she says to me.
As soon as we're out on the landing, she says, "Don't tell me to go easy on him, Nina." She looks right at me, into my eyes. "He comes flying in here like Supersperm. And we're all supposed to congratulate him." Her voice softens. "It's not good for him."
Giancarlo stands with his hands in his jacket pockets. "Thank you for dinner," he says. He's on the top step when he turns around. "I think," he says, "you are a good family."
Isabelle is two steps below him, and she reaches out and holds on to his knees. "That's a very sentimental thing to say, you know." She laughs, and he grabs her. He picks her up and tries to carry her down the stairs. Over his shoulder, she waves to me.
Barney and Laurel are in the kitchen doing the dishes, and P. K. is rubbing Laurel's shoulders. "That feels great," Laurel says.
"We should go to bed," I say.
Barney yawns. "We're almost finished."
P. K. says good night to them, and she and I go into my bedroom. She takes off the T-shirt she borrowed from me and grabs her own blouse. She's standing in front of me in her bra, and I notice how white her skin is. She's hardly been in the sun at all this summer, she's been working so hard.
At the door, she says, "I don't think it's so bad." I nod, not exactly in agreement. Her devotion to her brother, to all of us, takes my breath away.
T H E
W O R S T T H I N G A
S U B U R B A N G I R L
C O U L D I M A G I N E
Keep a calm atmosphere and children won't worry.
—From The Sailor's Handbook,
Edited by Halsey C. Herreshoff
I
My father knew he had leukemia for years before telling my brother and me. He explained that he hadn't wanted his illness to interfere with our lives. It had barely interfered with his own, he said, until recently. "I've been very lucky," he said, and I could tell he wanted us to see it this way, too.
This was an early spring weekend in the suburbs, and the three of us sat outside on the screened-in porch. My mother was in the background that afternoon, doing the brunch dishes and offering more coffee, weeding the garden and filling the bird feeder. It was warm but not hazy the way it can be in spring; the sky was blue with hefty clouds. The dark pink and red azaleas were just beginning to bloom.
—•—
Back in New York, I called my father before I left work. He was just getting home from the office. "Hi, love," he said. I knew he was in the kitchen, sipping a gin and tonic while my mother cooked dinner. His voice was as strong and reassuring as ever.
I tried to sound normal, too. Busy. When he asked what I was doing that night, I glanced at the newspaper open on my desk—a writer I'd heard on public radio was reading at a bookstore downtown—and I decided to go, so I could say so to my father.
After we hung up, I stared out of my window into the windows of the office building across the street. This was the year everyone started saying, "Work smart instead of long," and the offices were deserted, except for the tiny shapes of cl
eaning women in their grayish-blue uniforms, one or two on every floor. The woman would go into an office and clean. A second later the light would go out, and she would go on to the next office.
I heard the cleaning woman on my own floor, emptying wastebaskets and moving her custodial cart down the hall.
Her name was Blanca, and she was my social life.
—•—
I'd been a rising star at H—— until Mimi Howlett, the new executive editor, decided I was just the lights of an airplane.
The week she arrived she took me to lunch. At the restaurant, people turned around. Some knew Mimi and waved, but others just looked at her because she was beautiful enough for them to wonder if she was famous, and she carried herself as though she was.
I couldn't help staring, either—it was like she was a different species from me. She had the lollipop proportions of a model—big head, stick figure—pale skin, wintergreen eyes, and a nose barely big enough to breathe out of. That day, she was wearing a fedora, a charcoal-colored suit with a short jacket and an ankle-length skirt, and delicate laced-up boots. She might've been a romantic heroine from a novel, The Age of Innocence maybe, except she was with me, in my sacky wool dress, a worker in a documentary about the lumpen proletariat.
Her voice now: it was soft and whispery, the sound of perfume talking, which made her very occasional use of the word fuck as striking and even beautiful as a masculine man expressing nuanced and heartfelt emotion.
She began by telling me how sorry she was about my former boss, Dorrie, who'd been fired. She did seem sorry, and I hoped she was.
Then we talked about our favorite books—not recently published ones, but what we'd grown up reading and the classics we'd loved in college.
She'd gone to Princeton, she said, and asked where I'd gone. When I told her the name of my tiny college, she said that she thought she'd heard of it, adding, "I think the sister of a friend of mine went there."
She didn't mean to be disparaging, which only made me feel worse. Sitting across from her, I remembered all the rejections I'd gotten from colleges with median SAT scores hundreds of points lower than Princetons. I remembered the thin envelopes, and how bad it felt to tell my father each night at dinner. Mimi said, "Are you okay?" "Yes," I said. "Do you mind if I smoke?"