by Lorrie Moore
“What is beautiful is seized,” my mother said a final time, speaking of my father, whom she said had been destroyed by too many women, a heart picked over, scratched at, taken, lost. “It came to me in bulky bandages, seeming much larger, much more than it really was.”
My mother, thin and gray in a nightgown, staring off and away, not at the camera.
“You reach a point,” she wrote me once, “where you cannot cry anymore, and you look around you at people you know, at people your own age, and they’re not crying either. Something has been taken. And they are emptier. And they are grateful.”
When my mother died, her groaning woke the elderly woman in the bed next to hers who was supposed to have her pancreas operated on the next day. “What is happening?” cried the old woman, sleepless and distraught. Something had seized my mother in the back, arched it, stiffened her limbs, her mouth a gash across her face, revealing only her teeth, yellowed fine as old piano keys. An awful astonishment pervaded her features, her bones, as if she never really believed death would be like this, a bludgeoning by tubes and contractions, and by the time—only a minute—the nurses responded to my shouts and came running, the sweat and urine soaking into the sheets already seemed cool and old and my mother’s eyes were wide as eggs and she was dead. I clutched at things—her robe, a plastic pitcher, a cup—and looking around, around the room, the window, wondered where she had gone, she must still be, had to be near, somewhere, and the lady with the pancreas, beyond the screen next to the bed, had heard it all and now wept loudly, inconsolably, and they gave her a sleeping pill although she pushed it away, saying, “Oh, please, god, no.” Nothing moved. I bent over the bed. “Mom,” I whispered, kissing her lips, surgical carts rackety in the hallway, a voice in the ceiling paging Dr. Davis Dr. Davis to the nurses’ station, figures in white slowly gathering around me, hands on my shoulders, hard, false as angels. “Mom,” I breathed.
Jacob Fish came to the funeral with a pretty brunette woman who looked like a high school French teacher. He seemed somehow like a nice man. At the end of the burial, he escorted the woman back to the car and then went off by himself, over to a tree, and ran his hands through his hair. I never really got a chance to talk with him, although I’m not certain what we would have talked about. When he was through at the tree and had thrust his hands back into his pockets, he rejoined the woman in the car and drove off.
My father did not bring anyone with him. He came up to me and hugged me tightly and for a moment the red rushed to both of our eyes. “Lynnie,” he said, and I stepped to one side. I looked away from him. I looked at his shoes. I looked at the clouds. “I loved her more than you think,” he said, and I listened for the needles, the safety pins. James, home from medical school and standing next to me, shook my dad’s hand, then quickly embraced him. Everyone was dressed in black. “So much black, so much black,” I kept repeating like some nervous mynah bird.
That night James and I left all the casseroles at my mother’s apartment and went out and got drunk at a Howard Johnson’s. James made me smile reminding me of the time when I was little and insisted that if you were in the woods and had to go to the bathroom really badly, all you had to do was eat a piece of bread; it would absorb everything, and you wouldn’t have to go anymore.
“James,” I asked him, carefully. “Do you ever think about your other mother?”
“No,” he said quickly, like a doctor.
I looked at him, dismayed, confused.
“I don’t know,” he sighed and signaled the waiter. “I guess it’s not basic to me. God, I can’t get my feet all tied up in that. Why should I?”
“I’m not sure.” I looked at my lap, at my shoes. I reached under the table for my purse. “Check’s on me,” I said.
“Dear Mom. Thanks for the cookies. I got them yesterday. Was sorry to hear about the hospital thing. Hope you’re feeling better. I’ve got tests by the millions! Love, Lynnie.”
Driving back from dropping James off at the airport, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. It seems old, with too much makeup. I feel stuck, out of school, working odd jobs, like someone brooding, hat in hand in an anteroom, waiting for the future as if it were some hoop-skirted belle that must gather up its petticoats, float forward, and present itself to me. I wonder what else I could have written, those winters, looking out and seeing snow lining the elm grove like an arthritis and finding no words. I didn’t lie: there were a lot of tests; I had a lot of tests.
The roads are empty and I am driving fast. I think of my father, imagine him long ago at night casually parting my mother’s legs with the mechanical indifference of someone opening a cupboard. And I say to myself: I will leave every cold man, every man for whom music is some private physics and love some unsteppable dance. I will try to make them regret. To make them sad. I am driving back toward my tiny kitchen table and I will write this: forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.
“That’s how much it costs, Miss,” says the attendant at the gas station where I stop, looking rather numbly at the price on the pump.
“Oh,” I say and fumble for my wallet. The oil cans stacked against an old truck tire are wordless, hard, collusive. But the triangular plastic flags strung at one end of the island flutter and ripple in the wind, flapping to get my attention, my compassion, like things that seem to want to sing but can’t, things that almost tear themselves in trying to fly, like rainbow-colored birds, hung by string and their own feet.
THE KID’S GUIDE TO DIVORCE
Put extra salt on the popcorn because your mom’ll say that she needs it because the part where Inger Berman almost dies and the camera does tricks to elongate her torso sure gets her every time.
Think: Geeze, here she goes again with the Kleenexes.
She will say thanks honey when you come slowly, slowly around the corner in your slippers and robe, into the living room with Grandma’s old used-to-be-salad-bowl piled high. I made it myself, remind her, and accidentally drop a few pieces on the floor. Mittens will bat them around with his paws.
Mmmmm, good to replenish those salts, she’ll munch and smile soggily.
Tell her the school nurse said after a puberty movie once that salt is bad for people’s hearts.
Phooey, she’ll say. It just makes it thump, that’s all. Thump, thump, thump—oh look! She will talk with her mouth full of popcorn. Cary Grant is getting her out of there. Did you unplug the popper?
Pretend you don’t hear her. Watch Inger Berman look elongated; wonder what it means.
You’d better check, she’ll say.
Groan. Make a little tsk noise with your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Run as fast as you can because the next commercial’s going to be the end. Unplug the popper. Bring Mittens back in with you because he is mewing by the refrigerator. He’ll leave hair on your bathrobe. Dump him in your mom’s lap.
Hey baby, she’ll coo at the cat, scratching his ears. Cuddle close to your mom and she’ll reach around and scratch one of your ears too, kissing your cheek. Then she’ll suddenly lean forward, reaching toward the bowl on the coffee table, carefully so as not to disturb the cat. I always think he’s going to realize faster than he does, your mom will say between munches, hand to hand to mouth. Men can be so dense and frustrating. She will wink at you.
Eye the tube suspiciously. All the bad guys will let Cary Grant take Inger Berman away in the black car. There will be a lot of old-fashioned music. Stand and pull your bathrobe up on the sides. Hang your tongue out and pretend to dance like a retarded person at a ball. Roll your eyes. Waltz across the living room with exaggerated side-to-side motions, banging into furniture. Your mother will pretend not to pay attention to you. She will finally say in a flat voice: How wonderful, gee, you really send me.
When the music is over, she will ask you what you want to watch now. She’ll hand you the TV G
uide. Look at it. Say: The Late, Late Chiller. She’ll screw up one of her eyebrows at you, but say please, please in a soft voice and put your hands together like a prayer. She will smile back and sigh, okay.
Switch the channel and return to the sofa. Climb under the blue afghan with your mother. Tell her you like this beginning cartoon part best where the mummy comes out of the coffin and roars, CHILLER!! Get up on one of the arms of the sofa and do an imitation, your hands like claws, your elbows stiff, your head slumped to one side. Your mother will tell you to sit back down. Snuggle back under the blanket with her.
When she says, Which do you like better, the mummy or the werewolf, tell her the werewolf is scary because he goes out at night and does things that no one suspects because in the day he works in a bank and has no hair.
What about the mummy? she’ll ask, petting Mittens.
Shrug your shoulders. Fold in your lips. Say: The mummy’s just the mummy.
With the point of your tongue, loosen one of the chewed, pulpy kernels in your molars. Try to swallow it, but get it caught in your throat and begin to gasp and make horrible retching noises. It will scare the cat away.
Good god, be careful, your mother will say, thwacking you on the back. Here, drink this water.
Try groaning root beer, root beer, like a dying cowboy you saw on a commercial once, but drink the water anyway. When you are no longer choking, your face is less red, and you can breathe again, ask for a Coke. Your mom will say: I don’t think so; Dr. Atwood said your teeth were atrocious.
Tell her Dr. Atwood is for the birds.
What do you mean by that? she will exclaim.
Look straight ahead. Say: I dunno.
The mummy will be knocking down telephone poles, lifting them up, and hurling them around like Lincoln Logs.
Wow, all wrapped up and no place to go, your mother will say.
Cuddle close to her and let out a long, low, admiring Neato.
The police will be in the cemetery looking for a monster. They won’t know whether it’s the mummy or the werewolf, but someone will have been hanging out there leaving little smoking piles of bones and flesh that even the police dogs get upset and whine at.
Say something like gross-out, and close your eyes.
Are you sure you want to watch this?
Insist that you are not scared.
There’s a rock concert on Channel 7, you know.
Think about it. Decide to try Channel 7, just for your mom’s sake. Somebody with greasy hair who looks like Uncle Jack will be saying something boring.
Your mother will agree that he does look like Uncle Jack. A little.
A band with black eyeshadow on will begin playing their guitars. Stand and bounce up and down like you saw Julie Steinman do once.
God, why do they always play them down at their crotches? your mom will ask.
Don’t answer, simply imitate them, throwing your hair back and fiddling bizarrely with the crotch of your pajama bottoms. Your mother will slap you and tell you you’re being fresh.
Act hurt. Affect a slump. Pick up a magazine and pretend you’re reading it. The cat will rejoin you. Look at the pictures of the food.
Your mom will try to pep you up. She’ll say: Look! Pat Benatar! Let’s dance.
Tell her you think Pat Benatar is stupid and cheap. Say nothing for five whole minutes.
When the B-52’s come on, tell her you think they’re okay.
Smile sheepishly. Then the two of you will get up and dance like wild maniacs around the coffee table until you are sweating, whooping to the oo-ah-oo’s, jumping like pogo sticks, acting like space robots. Do razz-ma-tazz hands like your mom at either side of your head. During a commercial, ask for an orange soda.
Water or milk, she will say, slightly out of breath, sitting back down.
Say shit, and when she asks what did you say, sigh: Nothing.
Next is Rod Stewart singing on a roof somewhere. Your mom will say: He’s sort of cute.
Tell her Julie Steinman saw him in a store once and said he looked really old.
Hmmmm, your mother will say.
Study Rod Stewart carefully. Wonder if you could make your legs go like that. Plan an imitation for Julie Steinman.
When the popcorn is all gone, yawn. Say: I’m going to bed now.
Your mother will look disappointed, but she’ll say, okay, honey. She’ll turn the TV off. By the way, she’ll ask hesitantly like she always does. How did the last three days go?
Leave out the part about the lady and the part about the beer. Tell her they went all right, that he’s got a new silver dart-board and that you went out to dinner and this guy named Hudson told a pretty funny story about peeing in the hamper. Ask for a 7-Up.
HOW
So all things limp together
for the only possible.
—Beckett
Murphy
Begin by meeting him in a class, in a bar, at a rummage sale. Maybe he teaches sixth grade. Manages a hardware store. Foreman at a carton factory. He will be a good dancer. He will have perfectly cut hair. He will laugh at your jokes.
A week, a month, a year. Feel discovered, comforted, needed, loved, and start sometimes, somehow, to feel bored. When sad or confused, walk uptown to the movies. Buy popcorn. These things come and go. A week, a month, a year.
Make attempts at a less restrictive arrangement. Watch them sputter and deflate like balloons. He will ask you to move in. Do so hesitantly, with ambivalence. Clarify: rents are high, nothing long-range, love and all that, hon, but it’s footloose. Lay out the rules with much elocution. Stress openness, non-exclusivity. Make room in his closet, but don’t rearrange the furniture.
And yet from time to time you will gaze at his face or his hands and want nothing but him. You will feel passing waves of dependency, devotion, and sentimentality. A week, a month, a year, and he has become your family. Let’s say your real mother is a witch. Your father a warlock. Your brothers twin hunchbacks of Notre Dame. They all live in a cave together somewhere.
His name means savior. He rolls into your arms like Ozzie and Harriet, the whole Nelson genealogy. He is living rooms and turkey and mantels and Vicks, a nip at the collarbone and you do a slow syrup sink into those arms like a hearth, into those living rooms, well hello Mary Lou.
Say you work in an office but you have bigger plans. He wants to go with you. He wants to be what it is that you want to be. Say you’re an aspiring architect. Playwright. Painter. He shows you his sketches. They are awful. What do you think?
Put on some jazz. Take off your clothes. Carefully. It is a craft. He will lie on the floor naked, watching, his arms crossed behind his head. Shirt: brush on snare, steady. Skirt: the desultory talk of piano keys, rocking slow, rambling. Dance together in the dark though it is only afternoon.
Go to a wedding. His relatives. Everyone will compare weight losses and gains. Maiden cousins will be said to have fattened embarrassingly. His mother will be a bookkeeper or a dental hygienist. She will introduce you as his girl. Try not to protest. They will have heard a lot about you. Uncles will take him aside and query, What is keeping you, boy? Uncomfortable, everywhere, women in stiff blue taffeta will eye you pitifully, then look quickly away. Everyone will polka. Someone will flash a fifty to dance with the bride and she will hike up her gown and flash back: freshly shaven legs, a wide rolled-out-barrel of a grin. Feel spared. Thought you two’d be doing this by now, you will hear again. Smile. Shrug. Shuffle back for more potato salad.
It hits you more insistently. A restlessness. A virus of discontent. When you pass other men in the street, smile and stare them straight in the eye, straight in the belt buckle.
Somehow—in a restaurant or a store—meet an actor. From Vassar or Yale. He can quote Coriolanus’s mother. This will seem good. Sleep with him once and ride home at 5 a.m. crying in a taxicab. Or: don’t sleep with him. Kiss him good night at Union Square and run for your life.
Back at home, days later, feel cranky a
nd tired. Sit on the couch and tell him he’s stupid. That you bet he doesn’t know who Coriolanus is. That since you moved in you’ve noticed he rarely reads. He will give you a hurt, hungry-to-learn look, with his James Cagney eyes. He will try to kiss you. Turn your head. Feel suffocated.
When he climbs onto the covers, naked and hot for you, unleash your irritation in short staccato blasts. Show him your book. Your aspirin. Your clock on the table reading 12:45. He will flop back over to his side of the bed, exasperated. Maybe he’ll say something like: Christ, what’s wrong? Maybe he won’t. If he spends too long in the bathroom, don’t ask questions.
The touchiest point will always be this: he craves a family, a neat nest of human bowls; he wants to have your children. On the street he pats their heads. In the supermarket they gather around him by the produce. They form a tight little cluster of cheeks and smiles and hopes. They look like grapes. It will all be for you, baby; reel, sway backward into the frozen foods. An unwitting sigh will escape from your lips like gas. He will begin to talk about a movie camera and children’s encyclopedias, picking up size-one shoes in department stores and marveling in one high, amazed whistle. Avoid shopping together.
He will have a nephew named Bradley Bob. Or perhaps a niece named Emily who is always dressed in pink and smells of milk and powder and dirty diapers, although she is already three. At visits she will prance and squeal. She will grab his left leg like a tree trunk and not let go. She will call him nunko. He will know tricks: pulling dimes from her nose, quarters from her ears. She will shriek with glee, flapping her hands in front of her. Leg released, he will pick her up, carry her around like a prize. He is the best nunko in town.
Think about leaving. About packing a bag and slithering off, out the door.