There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  “Yes,” Amanda said, her voice unsteady. “Thank you.”

  Bunny began babbling on again about all the difficulties: the certificates of exportation, his passport, the paparazzi outside the hotel. Janine wondered if Bunny was drunk. Not that Janine would blame her, but still. She scanned the room for another glass but didn’t see one. That her father didn’t want an autopsy confirmed Janine’s suspicions that he was still taking drugs, a fact he never would have wanted in his obituary. Bunny’s super-celebrity powers had spared him that humiliation.

  “Thank you,” Janine said. “For your help.”

  Bunny looked at Janine and smiled a little, as if saying she was sorry she hadn’t been able to do something more. Janine could feel the sharpness of Bunny’s pain. It was important to Janine that Bunny understand the depth of her gratitude.

  “You’re welcome, Janine.” Bunny leaned forward and fished a small piece of folded paper out of a bowl on the coffee table. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?” Gail asked, looking at Bunny and then Amanda.

  “It seems Martin carried it with him in his wallet. I didn’t want it to get lost.” Bunny looked at Janine, her expression unreadable.

  Janine unfolded the paper and stared. It was a typed poem and a little drawing she’d sent to her father when she was a teenager staying at McLean. Janine was struck dumb. She felt tossed back in time. It showed a cartoon of her with four figures, some of them wearing glasses, one with a guitar hanging from a strap around his neck, one with a medal in his hand. The ink on the poem was faded, the letters pecked out on an old-fashioned typewriter.

  I’m okay, Dad, things aren’t so bad, McLean is a pretty sweet place!

  I don’t feel confined, the doctors are kind and agree I’m a very mild case.

  From this cuckoo’s nest, I can say you’re the best, to visit each week like you do.

  Don’t worry at all, I promise I’ll call if I crack up and land at Bellevue.

  The figures were meant to represent the luminaries who’d frequented McLean, perhaps a stab at normalizing her stint: Ray Charles, James Taylor, John Nash, Robert Lowell. She remembered wanting desperately to draw Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton but feeling she had to be careful not to include anyone who’d committed suicide. Her job, she’d felt even then, was to amuse her father, to cheer him up and assure him that she was okay. It was a terrible poem, an even worse drawing, but that he still had it broke her fucking heart. And he had visited her in Massachusetts, every single weekend, from Los Angeles. She’d forgotten that or hadn’t realized how hard it must have been for him. Despite all the time that had passed, he’d kept that stupid poem and drawing in his wallet. Her father had loved her and he’d known how much she loved him—and he’d carried a reminder of both facts around with him, folded and safe, for all these years.

  “God,” she mewled, losing the battle with her emotions, “I was a better artist as a teenager than I am now.”

  A strangled sob distorted Bunny’s attempt at laughter.

  Janine held the drawing to her stomach, close to the baby her dad would never meet. She felt inexplicably allied with Bunny. She wanted to comfort her however she could. “He was excited about this trip,” she said. “And he sounded happy on the phone. He would have said that there were worse ways to go than having a heart attack in bed in a five-star hotel room in Rome.”

  Amanda let out a queer little chirp and smiled at Bunny, acknowledging the truth of what Janine had said. Bunny nodded, wiping away her tears. She laughed, uncomfortable in the joint stifled sobbing that followed. “Thank you, Janine. That’s true. Yes. He would have.”

  “Well,” Gail said, contributing nothing. Her lips were a thin line. She really had no place here.

  “Can I ask what you guys did on Monday?” Janine asked, eager for anything solid to lean on. She knew this might be her last chance to talk about him at length, to learn how he’d spent his final days. Bunny might forget the details or not want to talk about it later.

  “Not very much,” Bunny said, almost apologetically. “I wish I could say we danced on Caesar’s grave or at the very least met the pope, but we just went to the Borghese museum and gardens. He wanted to see the Berninis.”

  “That sounds like a perfect Dad day,” Amanda said. Janine nodded.

  Ian cleared his throat and began picking up the tissues. He was obviously done with this morbid, if mandatory, little meeting. “Anything else?” Janine asked, trying to prolong the conversation. She wondered where the ashes were, knowing it was time to go now. She tried to get herself together as she folded the drawing into her purse.

  “But what did he have for dinner?” Gail asked, as if the explanation for his death lay in the rich Italian cuisine Bunny had force-fed him.

  “Fish,” Bunny said, blowing her nose. “And gelato. He had another gelato after dinner.”

  “Another?” Gail asked. “Two gelatos?”

  “He had one after lunch. He was mad for it.”

  “He was,” Janine said. She remembered eating lots of gelato when they’d visited Rome together. The craze hadn’t hit the States yet. His freezer in LA was still filled with half-eaten cartons of gelato. She felt some small consolation that at least he’d had two gelatos that day.

  Despite Ian’s impatience, Bunny settled into her seat and lit another cigarette, seemingly not wanting them to leave just yet. She told Janine all about the gelato process in Italy, how it was made fresh, in small batches, with butterfat and less air churned in than ice cream. That’s why it tasted so good. Amanda asked about the Borghese gardens and Bunny laughed and told them how Marty had compared it to Central Park with its carousel for the kids, the artificial lake, the replica of the Globe theater. She was telling them about a miniature monkey they’d both liked in the Bioparco whom Martin had quickly named Luigi Baby Shanks when Gail stood up and interrupted Bunny to ask for the ashes.

  Ian hustled to the other room, eager, Janine suspected, to move them all along. He returned with a cardboard box and handed it to Bunny. Janine felt a swell of queasiness; she was unsure if it was morning sickness or seeing her dad’s remains in what looked like a to-go box from a restaurant. Bunny apologized for the container and explained that stone and metal weren’t allowed through X-ray at the airport. She held on to it for a moment before standing up and offering the box to Janine. That Bunny seemed to feel Janine was the rightful carrier, and that Amanda nodded as if she agreed, was more than Janine could handle. She didn’t move.

  “Do you want me to take him?” Amanda asked, putting her arm around Janine’s shoulder.

  Gail stepped forward and reached for the box. Bunny straightened up and pulled it back. Then she gave it to Amanda, who gently placed it in Janine’s hands. Janine shook her head and held tight. Even though it was too late, she wasn’t letting go.

  Bunny

  Ian was looking out the window of Bunny’s bedroom, past the courtyard, at the distant Trellick Tower. His hands were pushed into his pockets. His slacks were wildly unflattering; they made his bottom look enormous. She thought of telling him that but decided not to. For better or worse, having a joke at his expense had lost its luster. The cigarette smoke burned her eyes as she watched him from her bed.

  She’d considered telling Bettina not to let Ian up, but what would be the point? He’d just come back later. That’s what agents did. As grateful as she was for his help in Italy, she didn’t want to see him. The idea of everything just returning to normal was unbearable. She didn’t give a fig about her book or getting back to it. She was preoccupied with what had happened in Italy, revisiting her many conversations with Martin and, finally, that last day with his family.

  If only she’d had a chance to talk to Janine privately, to tell her how sorry she was about the baby. “She isn’t pregnant, Mother,” Henry had told her over the phone before she’d left for Italy. Bunny could only assume the poor girl had miscarried sometime after their conversation. Perhaps it was for the best, but how awf
ul to suffer two losses in such short order. She’d even thought of calling Janine, but what on earth would she say?

  “You look like hell, Bun,” Ian said. “You need a vacation.”

  “I’ve just had one.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one. Bettina had lingered for a moment after showing Ian in, scanning the room and then making a somewhat frantic dash to empty ashtrays and collect old cups of coffee. She pulled a spray bottle out of her apron pocket and spritzed at a water ring on Bunny’s side table.

  “That’s enough,” Bunny said, not unkindly. “Thank you, Bettina.”

  A little smile worked the corners of Bettina’s mouth as she disappeared from the room.

  Ian waited until Bettina shut the door to turn around. He leaned back against the windowsill with his arms folded across his chest. “It’s been two weeks. You’ve got to snap out of it. And the smoking. Since when do you smoke so much?”

  “Since I quit drinking.”

  “Can I open the window? It smells like Keith Richards died in here.”

  Bunny shrugged, a gesture she’d picked up from Henry in Los Angeles. She hoped it conveyed indifference but suspected it suggested despair. She’d been surprised she hadn’t wanted a drink. In fact, the very thought was repellent, as if drinking would nullify the time she’d spent at Directions with Martin, with Henry. She also knew being drunk wouldn’t make her feel any better, only worse.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Bunny had been crying for days. She couldn’t stop. It was a mammoth effort to pull herself together for Ian. Even the sight of Bettina depressed her, which was why she’d given her so little access to her bedroom. The poor woman was desperate to tidy up. Bunny was lonely, but not for Ian or Sam or Bettina’s company. She didn’t want to see anyone in London. She missed the past few weeks of her life. She’d felt like a different person in California, felt like she’d been inserted into an interesting play and had grown fond of her fellow actors, and she’d been happy enough to step out of the spotlight (for a change) and watch their narrative unfold. But she hated the ending. How very unjust to drop the curtain like that.

  “That obviously didn’t turn out to be a vacation,” Ian said. He made an unsuccessful attempt to furrow his brow and sat down on the edge of her bed. “Why don’t you go to Fiji or Tahiti? Somewhere you can just, you know, relax.”

  “Relax? That’s the last thing I want to do.” She looked at Ian as if he were a stranger. “Did you have Botox put in?” she asked.

  Ian’s hands flew to his forehead. “No,” he said. “No!”

  Bunny shrugged again. “Anyway, what on earth would I do in Fiji?”

  “Swim, lie on the beach, read. Smoke.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “There’s a wonderful place in Spain,” he said. “Ian McEwan goes.”

  “Is that supposed to be a selling point?”

  “There are no paparazzi. You’d be left all alone.”

  “I don’t want to be left all alone,” she cried, upset that her voice exposed her sadness.

  “Right. Sorry.” He fiddled with his cuff link.

  Bunny took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. “Why can’t you just let me be? I’m not causing any trouble. I’m not drinking, if that’s your concern.”

  “You’re not writing either.”

  Her anger, something she’d hoped she’d let go of, came back like a fire cloud. “Are you really so worried about your paycheck, Ian? I’ve just had a man I was very fond of die on my watch. Can you please just give me a minute? I’m blue. I keep thinking there’s something I could have done to prevent it.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s nothing you could have done, Bun. He was a seventy-five-year-old man with a drug problem. And look what he did to his girls.”

  “Don’t,” Bunny said, shooting him a warning glare. “Don’t talk about him. You didn’t know him.” Her eyes were full of tears again. The well was infinite. Henry had told her about the will. She couldn’t believe that Martin had left his daughters high and dry—that he’d given it all to that harpy of a woman—but she wouldn’t have his name disparaged either. She believed, in her heart, that Martin hadn’t really understood the consequences of what he’d done. He was like a child, Bunny thought, a very foolish child. His vulnerability both touched and disgusted her. It was so important to do the right thing. Why didn’t Martin know that at his age? That was all anyone could do.

  “I’m feeling very mortal. It’s terrifying. Just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers, “and it’s over.”

  “But you are immortal,” Ian said. “Don’t you see? That’s the beauty of your work. It lives on even after you die.”

  “Is that supposed to be helpful? What good does that do me?” she asked. “I know it does you good. But it doesn’t do much for me, Ian. Life doesn’t add up to much. One day you’re eating a pistachio gelato, the next you’re a pile of ashes in a takeaway box. I see no logic.”

  “You’re stewing. How long have we known each other?”

  “Please,” Bunny said. She was opening another box of Parliaments.

  “You keep smoking like that, you’ll be dead soon enough.”

  She lit a cigarette.

  “This ruminating is beastly,” he said. “You ought to distract yourself. Why not start working? Carry on with your old routine?”

  “Brilliant. Why don’t you drizzle some gin on the laptop keyboard and see if I mate with it?” Couldn’t he see the old routine was the very last thing she was interested in? She felt different. She knew it was absurd, but nothing that mattered was in the room anymore.

  Just then the phone rang. Bunny didn’t move to answer it. A minute later Bettina knocked on the door and poked her neatly coiffed head into the room. “Mrs. Bunny?”

  “What?” Bunny asked, irritated at the way Bettina always said her name as if it were a question.

  “Mr. Henry’s on the phone.”

  “Ah. Thank you, Bettina.”

  “I suppose that’s my cue,” Ian said, collecting his coat.

  “If you don’t mind? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” he said.

  Bunny wasn’t listening. “Hello, darling,” she said, finding a false cheer as she waved Ian off.

  “Hi, Mum. How are you holding up?”

  “You know. Same as yesterday. And the day before. Sad, really. I don’t know why I’m so sad but…” She stopped herself, feeling her throat tighten. “I miss him,” she said, laughing. “Did you see the obituary in the New York Times?”

  “Mm,” Henry said. “He was a very impressive man.”

  “You know, Henry, part of me wishes I hadn’t run into him again. I’d forgotten how wonderfully demented he was. Time has a way of collapsing in on itself. I felt less blurry with him. Now I feel so old all of a sudden.”

  “But you’re not turning up your toes just yet, are you?”

  “No,” she said. “I suppose not just yet.” For some inexplicable reason this thought cheered her up. “How are the girls?” Bunny asked. “How’s Janine?”

  “Not too well but it’s hard to say. She won’t stay at her father’s now and the house is being prepped for the sale anyway. She still sleeps in my extra bedroom some nights.” He laughed self-consciously. “I suspect it’s only because it’s more comfortable than her sister’s sofa.”

  “So he really left them nothing?” Bunny asked for what must have been the sixth time in the past seven days. When she wasn’t talking to Ian, she found focusing on Martin’s stupidity rather than his finer qualities comforting.

  “Not much other than the house, which is valuable, but they’ll have to sell that in order to pay the estate taxes, including the taxes on Gail’s bequests.”

  “Beastly.”

  “Oh,” he added, almost an afterthought. “They also have to pay a neat sum to the gardener, and there seems to be an elephant in Georgia expecting something.”


  Bunny felt the talons of a headache taking hold.

  “It’s certainly a blow,” Henry went on. “But nothing very unusual about these stories. My sense is Janine’s okay, just sad, a bit adrift.” He paused. “Can’t say the same about Amanda. She’s furious. Wanted to fight it.”

  “As she should!”

  “A no-contest clause was written in.” He lowered his voice. “Just before Italy.”

  “How disgusting!”

  “Apparently it’s all Amanda talks about. She’s gone a bit off the rails from the sound of it.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Bunny said. “What a first-rate ass Martin was.”

  “I thought you missed him.”

  “That’s beside the point. What will Janine do now, Henry?” Bunny asked.

  “She’s talking about going back to New York after she helps Amanda sort his affairs out.”

  “New York?” Bunny was stunned. “What tosh! There’s nothing in New York for her! What about the movie? That’s an opportunity. It’s a job.”

  “She’s concerned about putting herself out in the public eye again. And it pays surprisingly little. Either way, I suspect she’ll go back,” he said, sounding sadder than Bunny had ever heard him. “It is her home. She has a flat there. A cat.”

  “A cat?” Bunny asked, as if that were the most appalling thing about all of this. “Who’s had the cat all this time?”

  “Her ex-boyfriend and his wife.”

  “Try with her again, Henry,” Bunny said, suddenly exhausted. She could practically taste her frustration that life was so altogether disappointing. “Try.”

  “Mm,” he said noncommittally. “Are you taking care of yourself, Mother?”

  “I’m not drinking, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “But I’m not writing either. They may go together. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Neither of them spoke for a minute, withdrawn into their private sorrows. Bunny chewed the inside of her cheek, not wanting to ask her next question but not really caring about anything other than the answer. “Will you come for the holidays?” she asked, hating herself for sounding needy.