Vivian In Red

by Kristina Riggle

  Now I look back at Vivian’s writing again, really look carefully, and then I bring the notebook closer to my face.

  I can remember so clearly her brown curls swinging down over her cheeks, her teeth bit into her pale lips, without makeup, as she wrote, and crossed out, and wrote some more, smearing ink on her pretty, pale hands.

  I sink back on the pillow and let the notebook drop from my hand. I turn my head away from the desperate curiosity in the faces of my granddaughter and the long-haired stranger, and in so doing I see her. Vivian crosses the room in her long negligee. I hear rain outside, loudly, like the windows are open. The bitter tickle of cigarettes weaves through the room, and pricks my chest like in the old days with that first deep drag, and that reek of wet summer garbage is a sour note underneath the smoke and roses that seems to be Vivian’s signature scent. The sour tang of lemonade and sharpness of gin mingle on my tongue.

  There you are, Milo.

  I’ve been here all along, kid.

  Not really, not the Milo I knew.

  I guess I thought it didn’t matter anymore.

  But it did.

  Why does it matter to you, even now? You’re not even really here.

  Whoever said it mattered to me?

  I’m sorry, kid. I truly am.

  Without her makeup on, Vivian looks so young. Her green eyes seem softer, less glaring, her pink cheeks glowing softly like my little Rebekah’s on the rare chance I’d get to tuck her into bed. Vivian now leans over me, lets her manicured nails trail gently along my chin before she bends down and kisses me, more gently and delicately than she ever did when she was real, as if she’s saying goodbye, though I’m not sure which of us is leaving.

  New York, 1936

  Milo regarded the envelope held in Bee’s outstretched gloved hand. Bee was explaining how it had come to her, from Vivian, but it was meant for him. Milo could only picture Vivian raving that night in the park, running in front of that truck, all the times she seemed wild and her mind careening around from emotion to emotion, reaction to reaction.

  “Milo,” Bee said softly, her voice firm and kind. She shook the envelope lightly.

  “Thanks, Bee,” he said, finally closing his hand around it. She’d come all this way to deliver the letter, the least he could do was take it. “Will you come in? I could make some coffee.”

  She only shook her head and smiled in that small charming way she had, and turned to go, leaving Milo alone to read.

  October 17, 1936

  Dear Milo,

  Have settled in here in Michigan. I’m told they sent you a telegram. Good, I’m glad to know someone thought of letting you know. My sister has forbidden me from ever writing to you, or to Mark, so I’m enclosing this in a letter to Beatrice, ostensibly a much belated thank-you note for her help. I plan to mail it myself because I don’t trust Estelle not to open it and read it. As it is, she might snatch this next letter right out of my hands, or maybe get someone at the post office to show it to her. These small towns, people just know everything about you.

  I spent most of the train ride assuming I would come back to Manhattan. I could rest a spell and then pick back up where I left off. But now that I’ve been back a while, I have come to understand that there’s no point in thinking like that. I have no money of my own, and no way to find work here. There are no secretarial positions for the likes of me. It seems it is believed I am some kind of “fallen woman.” Estelle takes care of me just fine, though, and gives me a little spending money so that I don’t rot away entirely. And all she expects in return is my slavish devotion and undying gratitude, constantly repeated. You will not be surprised to know I am failing her in this.

  Have not been feeling well. Headaches have been plaguing me since the train trip, along with my old friend exhaustion and a new friend, nausea. The girls who want to reduce should just get whatever I’ve got and they’d be slender in no time. Estelle lets me sleep as much as I need, however, and for this much I am glad.

  I’ve been reading Gone with the Wind. Thank you for sending it with me. It takes me out of myself, and I like knowing that you had this book in your hands. I’m still confused about what happened with us and the song, but my memory plays tricks.

  For example, Estelle swears I screamed at her when I left for New York that I wanted her to drop dead and rot in hell, but I don’t remember it being that bad. Funny how two people can live through the exact same thing, and yet have two entirely different memories, each believing his own version is exactly correct. Are we telling ourselves lies and stories all the time? But if that’s so, why don’t we tell happier stories?

  Will you write me back, Milo? Send it to the address below, care of Mr. Joshua DeVries. He runs the store in town, and I bet he’d hold onto a letter for me, seeing as he’s no great friend of my sister. I could run an errand at the store, pick up your letter and Estelle will never have to know. And if she did find out, so what? She might tear it up, but either way I’d be no worse off than I am now. It’s just that I’m a bit lonely, you see. I do so miss the music.

  Now you’ll think I’m trying to make you pity me. I’m not, I just have little news to report. I sleep, I read, I embroider and knit, and go for walks along the lake. Lake Michigan is pretty, and my favorite way to watch it is during bad weather. It’s thrilling to witness all that power, with the waves smashing up against the pier, and roaring away on the sand. Something about that angry lake is mesmerizing.

  My point is that I am fine. I thought it would kill me to come back. Yet now that I’m here, I find that I’m still here.

  Yours affectionately,

  Vivian

  New York, 1999

  Grampa Milo drops the notebook and turns his head away, and I swear he goes whiter yet before my eyes. I gasp and grab for his paralyzed hand, the closest thing I can reach. The hand is cold, and for long moments I can’t feel his pulse, nor hear him breathe.

  I hear my own sob before I feel it, because I can’t believe I’m again at a deathbed, though what do I expect? It’s going to keep happening, all the people I love until the day it’s me… Alex puts his large hand on my shoulder.

  Then Grampa Milo pulls in a shuddering gasp. I sob again, in grateful surprise that this is not the moment.

  Grampa Milo turns back to me, and he smiles and coughs. Alex lets go of me and goes searching for something down the hall, water, I assume, because that’s what I want to give him, too, but Grampa Milo squeezes my hand to draw my attention.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’m still here.”

  “Grampa! Alex, he talked! Oh my God, he’s talking!”

  Grampa Milo puts a finger to his lips to shush me, and shakes his head. I lean in to hear him better, as Alex comes back with water. “Don’t fuss…”

  I sit on the side of his bed, mustering all my will not to slam myself down on his body and squeeze him like I’m four years old again.

  “Sweetheart, I’m okay,” he says once more, having taken a good long drink of water. His voice sounds as it always did: spry, Bronx accent intact, a thread of age lending him extra dignity.

  “You don’t have to talk right now,” I manage to choke out, barely finding my own voice. “I’m just so happy you can, and that you… You scared me for a minute there.”

  “I still have a lot to say.”

  “You always did.”

  At this Grampa Milo shakes his head emphatically. “New stuff. You’ll see. But later,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “We’ll be interrupted by the stampede any minute now.”

  This is true. Esme no doubt heard our excited cries, and is probably on the phone, and I’m sure Paul’s got his driver flooring it uptown as we speak. Phone lines all over Manhattan are lighting up with the news.

  Grampa Milo looks back at me. “I know you kind of like it quiet, and though I’ve had too much lately…. I can see the appeal, kid.”

  He reaches up and chucks my chin with his thumb. I grab his hand and stare at i
t in wonder. “It’s your right hand! It works again!”

  “Oh, Mr. Short!” trills an accented voice, and all of us turn to see Esme, her warm brown eyes brimming over and her hands clasped under her chin. “Madre dio, I’ve been praying for this day.”

  Alex leans down and says in my ear, “I should go, I don’t want to be in the way. Just point me toward the subway station.”

  I look at up at him. “Actually…” I begin, thinking of advising him to borrow the town car when Uncle Paul arrives, or just take a cab to save himself the time, but before I even know what’s coming I hear myself say, “I’d rather you stayed.”

  The family isn’t there for an hour before I tug on Alex’s sleeve and tip my head toward the door to plot our escape.

  Seems like everyone has materialized, even Eva’s husband, Aaron, and he’s hardly ever around. All the grandchildren and the tiny great-grands seem to cover every square inch of carpet, and a party of sorts has sprung up, once someone decided to break out the drinks cart, and with Esme calling for Chinese delivery. Esme is also strictly regulating how many of us are upstairs with Grampa at any one time, protecting him from suffocation under the tide of our love and relief.

  When my family is not exclaiming with joy and wonder at Grampa Milo’s returned voice and hand strength, they circle around Alex in an almost choreographed set of interrogations to which he replies mildly, again and again: acquaintance from Michigan, helping with the book. I swallowed hard when I saw Naomi appear. She nodded to me coldly and fired a quick menacing glare at Alex, but did not tip our hand.

  When they all briefly give us a moment’s peace, distracted by the wailing of a great-grandchild who has bonked her head, I lead Alex out the door, down the front stoop, and onto the sidewalk.

  It’s evening now, and has grown cloudy without me noticing. With the sun veiled, the autumn chill has a bite. Alex shrugs out of his leather jacket and rests it on my shoulders like a cape. I think of putting my arms through the sleeves but know it will be hilariously large, so instead I cross my arms underneath it. It smells like pot and old records.

  “I’m glad he’s better,” Alex says, matching my slow amble. He pulls the tie out of his hair and shakes it out. This causes a couple of Upper West Siders walking their Pomeranian to double take. “I hope the results don’t do him in, when we get them.”

  “In a couple days, I’d guess. Maybe sooner if we’re lucky.”

  “Then what will happen?”

  “I don’t know. We tell him, and your mother, and see what they want to do. He can talk to us now, thank God for that. We don’t have to rely on gestures and guesswork. He’ll probably call the lawyer, Naomi will insist on it if nothing else. We’ll probably have to test again, to convince them.”

  “What about the book?”

  I hate the book now. I hate the day they ever thought of it, and hate that Uncle Paul pushed me into writing it. I’m not even a writer anymore. I don’t know what I am.

  “I suppose I’ll have to mention it.”

  “‘It’ being my mother?”

  “The situation, Alex. You know what I mean. I just don’t know… How’s that going to work? An asterisk in the 1937 chapter, oh by the way, a woman he had an affair with gave birth to his child he never raised or saw…”

  “An asterisk. Nice.”

  “This is supposed to be a book about his work, not his love affairs—”

  “Yes, speaking of that, his most famous song’s lyrics written in Vivian’s writing.”

  I can’t walk another step suddenly, and I lean against the stoop of some other townhouse, staring down at my flats. The breeze prickles the skin on my bare shins. It’s gotten so cold so quickly. I seem to forget, every single autumn, that the sun sets and it gets chilly. My dad used to say that’s a “self-correcting mistake” but clearly not for me.

  “What’s on your mind?” Alex asks. He’s stopped next to me, leaning on the adjacent side of the square post.

  “I can’t do it,” I say, almost surprising myself by saying the words aloud. “The book. I can’t.”

  “Who’s going to tell the truth, then?”

  “What truth is that exactly?”

  “About my mother, and those lyrics.”

  “We don’t know anything about lyrics.”

  “But we’re going to ask him, right? Now that he’s better? You said you would. You promised you would.”

  “He’s my grandfather.”

  “Maybe mine, too.”

  I sink down into his jacket. “Don’t be flip. You’ve just met him and you see him as a means to an end. A piece of biology.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No? Then why won’t you shut up about the notebook for a day and give me a minute with my talking, alert grandfather before you want to ride in there and give him another stroke.”

  He stands up off the stoop and I sense him coming around to face me, though my eyes are still on my shoes and all I see are his own scuffed and faded Chuck Taylors, toe to toe with me.

  “I need my keys and wallet. You can wear the jacket, though.”

  I start to take the jacket off but he stays my hand with his own, pulling the jacket closed again, under my chin. “You’re cold and I’m not. I’ll get it later.” He reaches into his own jacket pockets, taking out his wallet and keys, and walks away from me. He’s going the wrong way to the subway, but I can’t find my voice to call after him.

  New York, 1999

  I play the happiest melody that comes to my mind on the piano in the parlor, reveling in the full use of both my hands. We’re in the money, we’re in the money, we’ve got a lot of what it takes to get along!

  Did we ever love that song back then, funny enough when you think how almost no one had money to throw around, or if they did they were scared half to death to lose it, or that their parents or kids or neighbors would lose it.

  I have been prodded and measured and monitored and declared fit as I ever was, by my grandson Dr. Joel and plenty of others, too, down at Beth Israel, just making sure I was truly right as rain. Joel keeps shaking his head and muttering things like “astonishing” because stroke patients aren’t supposed to talk and move again suddenly—bam!—just like that. Esme says it’s a miracle. Our family feels a bit squirmy about religion when it comes right down to the brass tacks of it. Mostly everyone’s going around saying how happy they are and leaving it at that. I’m in no rush to clarify, and I don’t know what I’d say even if I had the notion.

  I’m stronger, too, able to get up and around pretty much like I did before I fell down in the first place, though it seems I won’t be walking any distance outside anymore. Cabs and cars for me, which really isn’t such a bad thing, though some days in this city walking is faster, even with my old-man shuffle.

  Finally the throng of family hanging around me is shrinking down a bit so maybe I can finally grab a minute alone with my granddaughter the biographer, this poor kid who thought she’d just write a nice book and ended up with a mess right in her lap.

  I also know it’s been several days, over a week, since they snuck that man in to draw some blood from me, and this is not often far from my mind, nor Eleanor’s, I can tell. And I further know that even though I’m stronger, and my voice is back, a certain visitor has not left the premises.

  I scoot over on the piano bench, just a tiny bit, this impulse irresistible even though Vivian isn’t real, and can’t possibly need the room.

  So, kid, is this your doing?

  Is what? I wish you’d keep playing. I like it. I never used to hear you play.

  I couldn’t afford my own piano until…

  Until after I was long gone.

  I meant, is my voice back because of you?

  You always did like to blame things on me.

  Who’s blaming? I’m giving you credit, if anything.

  Good to know I get credit for something.

  Aw, Vivian. I didn’t mean for all that stuff to happen. I can’t fix it
now, anyway.

  Can’t you?

  I wish you’d told me about the kid.

  A girl doesn’t know right away, you know. It’s not like we get a telegram.

  You could’ve told me when you knew. I would have…

  My brain stumbles on that “what I would have” statement. What would twenty-five-year-old Milo have done, truth be told? The same kid who banished this scary and troublesome woman far, far away from him, even when she looked him in the eye and asked to stay? The same Milo who never wrote her back, even when she recounted her loneliness, and pleaded with him?

  It feels cold next to me suddenly, and where I’d just been seeing some brown curls in my peripheral vision there is now only the indistinct blur of the parlor around me.

  I close my eyes and hold my hands over the keys. It’s been so long… And it was never my melody, anyway.

  But I let it unwind in my memory, those old notes, and my hands go where they need to, and without really meaning to, I sing it to myself, though quietly, because no great vocalist am I.

  I once was uptown, now I’m down, no more kid gloves, top hats or spats

  And yet you keep coming around, with your diamonds and fancy hats

  I don’t understand it at all, no good can come of this!

  I’m not worthy, yet you, dear, just blew me a kiss…

  You might just love me… I guess.

  Though I’m not so … well-dressed.

  I can’t guarantee that with me

  You’ll always be … impressed.

  You might just love me … I think.

  Did you just give me … a wink?

  How can we go out to a show