Surrender, Dorothy: A Novel

by Meg Wolitzer

  “Tell me,” said Sheila.

  “He’s a theatrical agent,” said Natalie. “And I felt very comfortable with him; it was strange. But what does it matter now? I don’t want to be with anyone. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever want to.”

  “No, not now, but later maybe,” said Sheila. “There will always be a later.”

  “So they say,” said Natalie. “But I doubt it. The thing is, I need to be alone at night. I can’t bear the idea of someone being there with me. I get up and pace, I smoke, I walk around. I just wait for the night to be over half the time.” She paused. “Remember when we were Campfire Girls, and we used to lie outside in those smelly sleeping bags?”

  “Oh yes,” said Sheila. “I thought I’d never get to sleep, it was so cold, and I was so excited being out there in the woods. We’d always sing our little song before bed, and the next thing I knew, I was fast asleep.” She began to sing once again. “Sit around the campfire / Join the Campfire Girls / Sing wo-he-lo, sing wo-he-lo …”

  “Work … health … love,” both women sang together, in fragile, proud voices.

  “You know something?” said Natalie. “I always thought ‘wo-he-lo’ was an Indian word. I never realized it was short for work, health, love.” They both laughed lightly. “I can’t believe,” said Natalie, her voice suddenly small, “that I will never see Sara again. In fact, it’s almost as though I will see her again; I feel as though I could search the world over and eventually find her, if I try hard enough. I mean, how can someone just leave the earth?”

  Sheila looked out her window, at the careful scatter of houses below. “We just did,” she said.

  “Flying isn’t the same as dying,” said Natalie, realizing she was drunk.

  “Oh, you’re a poet,” said Sheila. “Little Natalie grew up to be a poet.

  “Actually, what I grew up to be is nothing,” Natalie said. “A goddamn travel agent. It’s not exactly curing cancer.”

  “No, I grew up to be nothing,” said Sheila. “A rich man’s wife. Someone who shops. What good is that? I’m just taking up space and spending Paul’s money, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

  Somewhere down below was the mustard-colored house on Diller Way, but Natalie had no idea which one it was. She let herself be carried through the air, swiftly, defying gravity in this deft little hummingbird. “Maybe we’ll crash,” she said to Sheila over the chopping sound of the rotors, imagining the helicopter plummeting down to the ground, depositing them there forever.

  “Oh, Scooter’s never crashed, and he never will,” said Sheila. “He’s too smooth for that. Too capable. Believe me, I know.”

  She sent Natalie a knowing glance to let her know that she had slept with the pilot. Anyone would be attracted to a man who knew how to steer a helicopter, a man whose arms were bound with muscles and whose nose was created specifically so a pair of Ray-Bans could rest upon it. Although the name, Natalie thought, would have to go. How could you lie underneath this man, raking his back and muttering, “Oh, Scooter. Oh, Scooter”? She thought of the boy Peter, and how they were practically of separate species. The young should have sex with the young, the not-so-young with the not-so-young. Cross-pollination seemed freakish now, unseemly.

  Kissing that boy, she had not had the same experience as Sara; she had come no closer to knowing what Sara had felt, for certainly Peter had looked at Sara differently than he had looked at her. What Sara had felt, Natalie tried for too. She could approximate it, but she couldn’t come close enough. Always, there was a barrier; always, a divide. She wanted to tell her old friend Sheila all about it, but Sheila couldn’t understand. She had no children, and her shackled husband lived only for leveraged buyouts; he would be unshackled soon, but she would always be adrift. Sheila responded not to the specifics of Natalie’s anguish, but to the presence of anguish itself. “You and Paul never wanted to have children?” Natalie asked.

  “Oh, briefly we did,” said Sheila. “Back when I thought my marriage was going to be something other than it really was. There was a period there in the early days, when Paul and I used to talk earnestly about our ‘feelings.’ God, we were boring. He used to lie on his back in bed and talk to me about his plans: We’d get rich, we’d have a family, we’d travel, we’d never want for anything. So he got rich, but then suddenly he had other plans. I had to appear with him at parties; it was what you did. Most companies even insisted on meeting a man’s wife to make sure she would be an asset, not a liability. We’d have to go with clients to remote tropical islands, where the wives and I would lie in the sun and read trashy novels. I thought it was great. But then I remembered that we’d wanted a family, and when I tried to broach the subject again, Paul looked at me like I was crazy. Now he didn’t want kids; he wanted to buy art. Jumbo canvases that we’d put up over the couch, so heavy that if they fell, everyone would be killed. And I stopped pining away for kids; actually, I’d never even understood what it would mean to have one.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful to have one,” said Natalie. “Sara and I were closer than close. We told each other everything.”

  “You can tell me everything. Nothing shocks me.”

  “Death is shocking,” said Natalie. “It’s the one thing.”

  “Yes, I guess it is,” said Sheila. “I still think about my father all the time. I see him in the henhouse—the eggs, the feathers in the air.” She shook her head. “But a child is a different thing, I would imagine,” she said. “No, I can’t even imagine it, I can’t begin to. But I just want to say that if you ever want to talk, or if you want a helicopter ride, or a facial, or anything at all, I am here.”

  “Thank you,” said Natalie softly. She looked out the window at the island below. When a child died there was only one truth: You could not get over it, ever, but still you had to live. Still your body needed food, warmth, distraction. Still you thought about getting a haircut; still you glanced at the TV listings. Still, somehow, you went on. Now she thought of her bed, Sara’s bed, and suddenly what she wanted was not to die, but simply to be in that narrow bed right now. “Sheila, I’d like to go home, if that’s all right,” she said, managing only a weak voice.

  “Scooter,” called Sheila. “Do you think you can take Mrs. Swerdlow directly to her house? I believe there’s a little lawn there to land on.”

  “Sure thing,” said Scooter. “What’s the address?”

  “It’s 17 Diller Way,” said Natalie. “But how can you just … take me to my house? Can this thing just land anywhere?”

  “Scooter grew up on this island,” said Sheila. “He’s a native and he knows everything. He’s amazing. I’ll have someone drive your car back tomorrow, Natalie. Just relax.” So Natalie sat back against the seat while the helicopter hovered, searching for the little house. On Diller Way, people came out on their front porches to see what was happening. The next-door neighbor peered through his screen to see what all the commotion was about. Men and women shielded their eyes to watch as the helicopter stumbled and dipped and bumped down softly.

  “Wo-he-lo,” Sheila said.

  “Wo-he-lo,” said Natalie, and she stepped out onto the grass.

  15

  Enough is Enough

  Everyone slept late the next morning, as though deeply hung over from a raucous party at which people had swung from chandeliers and windows had been broken and entire lives had been altered. There was a shocking quiet in the house now, and no one knew quite what to do. Coffee was brewed; the baby was nursed. Everyone was all talked out, and they attempted a collective mildness, an enforced civility. With only a week left on the summer lease, they knew they would all be scattering soon.

  The awkward quiet in the house was interrupted in the early afternoon by the ringing of the doorbell. Almost nobody ever rang that rusting bell. Now Adam answered the door and found a young Japanese man standing on the step; he was athletic and handsome and slight.

  “I’m looking for Shawn,” said the man. “He tell me to come
by. I teach him to surf today.”

  “Shawn is gone,” said Adam carefully, “and I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “Excuse me,” said Natalie, pushing forward from behind Adam. “You’re the surfer we met on the beach that day, aren’t you?

  “Yes, Mrs., I’m Kenji.”

  Natalie paused. “Would you do me a favor, Kenji?” She asked. “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” the surfer said. “You want to learn to surf too? All the ladies want to surf.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” she answered. “Please, come inside.”

  Adam followed, puzzled, as Natalie led the surfer up the stairs. She invited him into Sara’s room and began rummaging through the top dresser drawer, while Adam and Kenji stood stiffly in the doorway. Then Natalie pulled out Sara’s red leather notebook, which was filled with Japanese characters.

  “This is my daughter’s writing,” she said slowly to Kenji. “I believe it was her work, her dissertation, or notes for it, anyway. She has died, and these are the things of hers that I have left. I would love to know what she was writing, to be able to read her words. She wrote so beautifully. Do you think you could translate them for me?”

  “Well,” said Kenji, “I guess perhaps. I am not very good at this, but I will try.” He bowed once, lightly, then began to read in a cautious voice. “This say, ‘December 10. It is a Saturday. I am lying here alone after Sloan has gone home.’”

  “This must be a journal,” Natalie interrupted. “Sloan was that man she was seeing for a while, the forestry person. Please go on.”

  “So then it say this,” said Kenji, ‘Of course we …’ “He paused here, blushing. “Well,” he said, “it say something not very polite.”

  “It’s all right,” said Natalie. “You can tell me. I won’t be shocked.”

  “‘… we … fucked,’” he continued, painfully. “But now I am feeling alone. It’s almost as though my mother, she has not prepared me for being grown up. I cannot…” He paused, squinting over the writing. “I cannot figure out a way to live my life. My mother was always with me, wanting to know everything. And, of course, I always told her. It was our deal, our … pact. Now I want to be on my own, but something makes me still need to call her and tell her intimate things. I wish she would let me live my life. I love her, but sometimes I want her to leave me the hell alone. I mean, enough is enough.’”

  Kenji looked up into Natalie’s startled face, and then he said softly, “Mrs., I cannot read any more. Please do not ask me.”

  LATER, FOR lack of anything else to do, Adam forlornly walked to a nearby vegetable stand to buy some ears of corn, and he was standing with his hands buried in cornsilk, when he saw a familiar pink and owlish face on the other side of the bin. He stared for a moment, and the man seemed to stare right back. Who was he? Adam was reminded of a kind uncle, now dead, who had always showed an interest in Adam’s schoolwork. The man was looking through the ears of corn too, and in silence the two of them worked, like quilters at a bee. Most of the corn was imperfect—the season was virtually over, and what remained mostly had tiny, baby-teeth kernels. “It’s not great,” said the man.

  “No,” said Adam. “It’s too late.” Then, with a start, he realized who he was talking to: Neil Simon. He gasped lightly, then said, “Mr. Simon, I’m Adam Langer.”

  Neil Simon registered no surprise, but merely peeled back the silk on an ear of corn and examined it closer. “I know who you are,” he said calmly. “You’re the gay version of me, isn’t that what they said in the paper?”

  “Yes!” said Adam, thrilled. “That’s exactly what they said.” He paused, suddenly horrified. “Oh, I hope you didn’t mind too much,” he added. “I mean, it’s hardly true or anything.”

  “I think I can take it,” said Neil Simon. “So, how’s your work going? You writing something new?”

  “Well,” said Adam, “You probably just meant that in a perfunctory way, but the real answer is that I’m trying to write another comedy, but I’ve had something happen in my life this summer, a tragedy, and the two don’t seem to go very well together.”

  “You’ve had a tragedy in your life,” said Neil Simon. “I’m sorry. No doubt there will be more. But what’s tragedy got to do with it? My wife died; what do you think, I suddenly turned into Sophocles?”

  “Aristophanes, maybe,” said Adam softly.

  “So who did you lose, if I may ask?”

  “A friend,” said Adam.

  “AIDS?” Neil Simon asked, shaking his head in sympathy.

  “No,” said Adam, and he remembered that “friend” had become the vague, catchall word that gay people used to describe people they lived with, slept with, exchanged rings with, grew old with. It was difficult to exactly describe who someone was in relation to yourself. If Adam had had a serious lover who had died, he would still say “friend.” Sara had been his friend too, but now, given that he was a gay man, the word carried improbable weight. Gay men and straight women made for amazing, complicated couplings. They both felt slightly out of the loop, out of the epicenter of the world. They could form their own small band, they could talk about men, they could hold hands as innocently as Hansel and Gretel. Eventually it would cease to be enough; they would want different things that one could not give the other, and they would have to find other people who could give them those things.

  But Sara and Adam hadn’t reached that point by the time she was killed. She was his friend; they were not a couple, but he had loved her. They had insulated themselves from the outside, but didn’t all friends do that? It was true that his world could use more light, more politics, a wider aperture. And certainly, if Adam were to find a man he could love, then his world would begin to widen. He realized how much he wanted this expansion, was suddenly impatient for it. He would never have had that with Shawn, even if they had stayed together. Before Sara’s death, Adam had been in no hurry for change. He and Sara had hung out endlessly in her small, overheated apartment, and he had loved it when she laughed at something he had said or written. Now, staring into the face of Neil Simon, Adam was determined to find some way to make his new play funny, if he possibly could.

  THEY WERE ALL home when Mrs. Hope Moyles unexpectedly arrived that evening. She pulled her clanking Chevrolet into the driveway, let herself into the house, and stood in the living room. She wore a wrinkled housedress and slippers; she had driven the entire way here from Virginia with big pink slippers on her feet. Peter walked into the room, saw the landlady, and almost jumped. “Oh, Mrs. Moyles, you surprised me! What are you doing here? I mean, it’s nice to see you and everything, but don’t we have another week left?”

  The others came into the room then too. “What’s happening?” Adam said when he saw her.

  Mrs. Moyles took a look at them and said in a sharp voice, “I heard you trashed the place.” But as she looked around she appeared bewildered. In fact, the house was surprisingly much cleaner than she had left it. All the dirt in corners and dust bunnies under the beds, all the sand in crevices and dampness on surfaces, all the gumminess that had been a part of the Moyles home for many, many years, was clearly, oddly, gone. The place had been sponged, mopped, vacuumed into submission. She couldn’t have known that a grieving mother had put all her energy into cleaning; anyway, she didn’t want to know. Mrs. Moyles seemed confused. She had come here on a mission, had driven for hours to do this, and she couldn’t stop now. “I want all of you out by tonight,” she said without much conviction. “This is a decent house I run. I don’t want any trouble. I’d appreciate it if you’d all pack up and leave by nightfall.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Maddy. “What have we done?”

  “What haven’t you done?” spat Mrs. Moyles. “Just tell me that.”

  “But we have another week,” said Adam. “This is insane.”

  “I don’t care,” said Mrs. Moyles. “I’ve heard things about you people. I have my sources. I don’t car
e what you say, I want you out.

  Her voice was threatening and effective. They thought of the helicopter prints that had been left on the lawn; was that what had done it? They went upstairs and huddled in Natalie’s room to discuss what they should do. “Frankly,” said Peter, “I guess I’m ready to leave.”

  They all looked at one another. “Me too,” said Adam in a quiet voice.

  And then they looked at Natalie.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s not the worst idea.”

  They hadn’t exactly realized this until this very moment of expulsion, but suddenly the thought of being away from here a week early, gone from this ugly mustard-colored house once and for all, seemed a good idea. “So this is it,” said Adam. “We’re out of here?” It was a question, but not really. They took a look around the confines of what used to be Sara’s room. The bed was small, the ceiling low. Being in this room, thought Adam, was like visiting the childhood home you haven’t lived in for many, many years, and which your parents sold long ago. But still you possess a stubborn trace of nostalgia, and so you force your way into the house. The current owners accommodate you as you lumber up the stairs to see all the places that used to be yours, and which now are irrevocably someone else’s. Suddenly, Adam wanted to be away from Sara’s room, from the house that this group of friends had lived in together. He understood that as soon as he left the house, he probably wouldn’t have his sleepwalking episodes anymore. He wouldn’t wake up at night to look for Sara.

  The irrational landlady waited downstairs. She wanted them out, and although she didn’t know it, they were glad to be expelled. They had no rage or resistance, only a mild relief that after all that had happened this summer, they would finally be going home.

  They separated to pack their things. Peter set to work taking apart the Portacrib. The life of his fragile little family was entirely portable and manageable, he thought, as the bed the baby had slept in all month was folded up and zipped into something resembling a golf bag. Across the room, Maddy packed up too, leaving behind The Upbeat Baby in a drawer for some future tenant.