The Done Thing

by Tracy Manaster

  Hector must be at a pay phone. At least they were being careful.

  “I’ve missed you too,” said Pam.

  She sent us two letters in her two weeks at the camp. Just the two and they’d been meal tickets. No admission to the mess hall without a quick note home.

  “No, you first. How are you holding up?”

  A tenor fuzzed from the receiver. Not Blue, who could’ve sung Escamillo in another life. I drew my knees to my chest.

  “Well, I was worried,” said Pam, and then, “Yes. I know it’s out of your hands.”

  My own hands felt jittery but at least it didn’t show. I pressed my palms against the floor. They could stand to vacuum more thoroughly. Long strands clung to the rug. For Christmas, I would get them a cleaning service. Frank and I had always had one; it was easily the best way to avoid spats about chores. I should’ve thought of it sooner. More of the burden had to fall to Pam in this marriage; picture Blue wrangling a vacuum. No wonder she’d started looking elsewhere. She was due a bit of glamour.

  “Here?” she said. “Not all that much really. The center’s a circus. The new puppies finally came.”

  I knew all about the puppies. Born two weeks ago. My stomach roiled for Pam. Hector wasn’t even making her a priority; if she was telling him now, she must not have heard from him in a long time.

  If it was him. Cement grouted my ribs. The collect call. I knew and Maisie knew: they hadn’t let you near the phone in a long while either.

  Pamela wouldn’t.

  Only, when I called last Thursday she answered on the first ring. Like she’d been waiting by the phone.

  Hector. What on earth had I been thinking? Hector.

  Pamela said, “My boss wanted to name them all after all the Star Trek captains. Last time around it was kinds of red wine. And he was on a world mythology kick for a while.”

  Pamela would never.

  “No, no. We always do the naming at the center. Lucky for the dogs it was my turn this time.”

  Never, ever.

  But she was writing you. You had no reason to lie to Maisie about that.

  “No, not really. They say it’s to simplify our records, but I think it’s to make things easier on the puppy raisers. When they have to give them back. Yeah, that’s right. If you don’t name a dog it’s never really going to be yours.”

  You were the one who called the day Pam was born. Mother and daughter healthy. We’re calling her Pamela Clare. I could hear you glow at the middle name. Clare from Clarence. I tried not to use it.

  “Otto, Asa, Emme, Nan, and Bob.”

  Barbra collected palindromes. You were the one who talked her out of Anna or Eve.

  “I know, I know she did. You told me before. That’s why I chose them.”

  Ice all through me. I hadn’t accidentally spoken aloud; Pam’s voice was light, no hint of exasperation. And there was one other soul on earth who could’ve known to say those things to her. That was your voice in her ear.

  In my lap my winter hands were pale as chicken cutlets. For weeks I’d worn gloves. As if they could protect. Pam or me or anyone. I had goose bumps. I gagged. Pam didn’t hear. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Its bumps were impossibly distinct. Skin and tongue. The whole of me was sandpaper.

  “I guess you’re right,” Pam was saying. “Blue thinks so too.”

  A feebler woman than I would wait wet-eyed till her niece hung up. If she tried to stand her knees would rap together and she wouldn’t know, as I did, to press them together and draw strength from that buttressing. She’d lack the will to even think of leaving. Or she’d look back at her niece and freeze. She’d see Pam only as the series of moments that led to this one: Pamela’s fat tongue worming out of a baby tooth gap, Pam’s ten-year-old panda eyes after a botched mascara experiment, Pam’s painted toes at the edge of the diving block, chlorine reflecting the streamlined blade of her body. But I was strong—not so strong I didn’t see small Pam inside the grown one—but strong enough.

  I saw Pamela; she stood like a stork in her kitchen, exposing the dirty underside of her sock. Pammie could never stay still on the phone. She was like Frank, who paced and spun. She’d bound herself up tight in phone cord. It crisscrossed her chest, half pinning her arms. It was either great strength or great weakness that let me leave her alone in that apartment, your voice in her ear, her voice so trusting, her body so trussed.

  22.

  I went to Riverview. I brought Pamela’s teeth. I signed the book and the weekend desk man waved me down the hall. The door turkeys looked rumpled and droopy. Your mother’s room smelled of cleaning solvents and stewed carrots.

  She hadn’t moved much since my last visit. They had her in the lavender shift and she lolled a touch less than before. The staff had tucked her blankets taut, but her legs looked alive and willful. Only the bedding batted them down. A bit of top sheet sag and those legs might walk Marjorie clean out of Riverview. Your mother stared intently at her own hands. The paralyzed right one lay in her lap. The mobile left hovered above it, circling and buzzard deliberate. It darted down. It curled its crippled partner finger by finger into a fist. Fingers kept unfurling. She tried again. Her fist never quite set.

  “Hello again, Marjorie.”

  Her right flop fist opened out, another failed attempt. She looked at me then. Energy had come to her trailing down mouth. No longer a comma. A comet.

  “You look better.”

  She snuffed. No snot on her lip, needing to be sniffed up. I sniffled back at her in case that was her attempt at greeting. “I’ve brought Pam’s teeth. Remember? I told you about those.” The only smiles I was likely to get these days. I didn’t say it aloud. Like Ma always said: pity’s a coin that earns no interest.

  Her left hand reached out for me. Her right made a sorry little half-twitch.

  “Can you talk yet? I want you to try.”

  She blinked. She made no sound.

  “I need you to tell me what you know about his calling Pam.”

  Both hands flopped about. She wanted the teeth.

  “No. Not until you tell me. How long has this been going on?” Once she hit middle school, Pam was the one to bring in the mail. She’d had a very influential Earth Sciences teacher and wanted to make sure we recycled the junk. The bus dropped her home an hour before the workday’s end. Plenty of time for a private penpal. Daddy, I’m worried about my history grade. Daddy, I want a dog and Lida says no. Daddy, I’m lonely and I don’t think Lida will ever understand.

  A rasp came from your mother, followed by a series of vowels.

  “What does he want from her?”

  Grunt. A low, sad sound, nothing vulgar about it. The effort brought a flush to her cheeks. Either that or she was blushing, ashamed of her disobliging tongue. Imagine that. She hadn’t had feelings enough to color at the funeral.

  She had small hands. Stubby fingers, inelegant, not like yours or Pamela’s.

  “Please, Marjorie. I don’t know what to do.” Hearing that had to make her happy. After all this time. I watched her face. It strained redder than ever. Her head bobbled with an attempted word. Her left hand reached out.

  “I’ll let you hold Pam’s teeth, but only if you promise to try. I need you to talk.” I pressed a plaster crescent into each hand. “I need you to tell me some things.” Her left hand wrapped greedy around Pam’s Afters. The fingers of her right twitched toward the Befores as if drawn by a magnet. “Don’t just squeeze. Look at them. See how pretty? That’s her now. Perfectly even. Careful. They’re breakable.”

  She kept good focus once I asked her to. Her eyes drifted from left to right and back again. Saliva ballooned from between her lips. The room was quiet; I heard the bubble pop. The spit didn’t go far, just a blot on her lip. A second bubble budded.

  “Marjorie. Pay attention. Those teeth are Pam’s. Now can you try and talk to me? What do you know about the phone calls?”

  A third bubble came and some kind of chortle.
/>   In a baby, maybe, it would be endearing.

  A fourth bubble.

  Your mother was old and twisted as a root. “Marjorie. Not while you’re holding Pam’s teeth.”

  A fifth bubble. No wonder she always needed ChapStick. Marjorie made a smacking sound and moved her left hand in a gleeful jiggle.

  “If you can’t listen and not spit . . . I didn’t have to come and you know it. I didn’t have to share.” I snatched back Pam’s smiles. There was no help for me here. I’d have to make do on my own. Marjorie’s fingers jittered. I wrapped the teeth in tissues and tucked them into my purse. Her left hand rose in my direction. I took it and laid it down on her blanket. She hadn’t got sun in an age. Her skin had paled to the point of glowing. Green veins forked. Not long ago they must have put her on an IV. It had left her badly bruised.

  “Frank said IVs don’t hurt as much as they look. When he was in the hospital.” Everyone made soap-eating faces when I spoke of it. His sickbed was beside the window. Sun or storms made no difference. Nothing changed wan hospital light. “He died. Almost three years now. I don’t know if you knew that.”

  Irregular wheezes rose from her chest.

  “I’m all alone.”

  A grunt. Easier to bear in its way than generic, social sympathy.

  “Except for Pam.” The ugliness in the apartment wasn’t any of Marjorie’s business.

  Her good hand flipped back and forth, dead white. That really was a terrible bruise.

  “Frank could have been lying about the IV. For Pam. She hates needles. Even sewing needles make her green. She still needs me to re-attach her buttons.” Though she hadn’t asked in months. Maybe she’d learned to be less rough on her clothes. Or she turned to Kath now. Kath who wouldn’t know Ma’s secret: strong coat thread with the first pass, then delicate to cover.

  Your mother’s chest crested and caved. Another hiss. We both knew why needles threw Pam. Marjorie’s left cheek dimpled slightly as she molared at the slick inside.

  “Pammie does that too. It’s not good for her cheeks.”

  Marjorie turned her palm back up, a little cup to catch my words. Her eyes—your eyes, Pam’s—were very wide. The black beads of her pupils spread out, doing their best to draw in light. She didn’t have any right to know anything about Pam. We had a deal, fair’s fair. She gave up the right and so you got your letters. And you were getting more than that. Much more. Calls on Thursdays. The funny little lilt when Pam’s words ended in O.

  “All you Lusks are getting more of her than you deserve,” I said.

  Marjorie flipped her hand bruise side down, then bruise side up. She did it again, fascinated. Bruise down. Bruise up. No one ever listened to me. My bones felt brittle and I sank to my knees. They really needed to put in a chair. Marjorie made a fist with her left hand and released.

  “There’s nothing in that hand, stop it. I’m talking.”

  Her hand stilled. My fingers itched to trace the bruise.

  “With Frank gone, I thought I’d have to watch out for the Claveries,” I said. “There are so many of them and you should see these people, Marjorie, they’re just like you were, so grabby for her. I never thought to watch out for Clarence. I thought he was locked properly away.” Marjorie’s hand rose. It carved the air in fantastic swirls. “We were good to Pam. She always came first. I didn’t think he had a chance over me. But he thinks it. He’s trying to take her.” Hairs spiked the caverns of your mother’s inner ear. There was no help for me in Riverview. My legs ached from kneeling. “I don’t want him loving her. He was meant to love my sister.” Maisie Keller was twenty-three and just ripe. If you had to love let it fall to her, Clarence. Twenty-three years old. I hadn’t even heard of you then. I’d only barely met Frank. I broke poor Martin Dorsey’s heart. See me now and you wouldn’t believe it. But I had purpose now and a keen memory; I still knew how it was done.

  Your mother sputtered. I stood. She pressed her thumb to her index finger. It rested there, brief as a kiss, and rose again. Her thumb moved and met with her middle finger, then ring, then pinkie. Along the row and back. Something like a smile came to her mouth and I turned away. I couldn’t talk to Pam about the phone calls; she was smart; she would work out how I knew and what I’d done. I couldn’t confront Pam, but I could be Maisie and distract you. We could protect Pam, Maisie and I. I turned from your mother, whose thumb and fingers were still touching then parting, touching then parting. The last thing I needed was the sight of Lusk fingers at that kind of work. Not when plenty of smart folks believe it’s opposable thumbs and not our language or love or souls that makes us human.

  23.

  Pamela didn’t call and didn’t call and didn’t call and didn’t call. I returned from Riverview and hunkered down by the phone. The weekend passed and then the week. I told Kath not to expect me at linner. I invented a Saturday bird-watching society. I bookmarked an Internet list of credible birds to cite when we went for our walks. Pam didn’t call. I feigned another bout of flu at Thanksgiving. Kath brought a cooler of leftovers the next Monday, foil-wrapped and Tupperwared. Pam and Blue phoned and Blue carried the narrow conversation: the state of my gastrointestinal system, the anise Pamela’d added to the cranberries instead of cloves. At Riverview, paper Christmas trees replaced the door turkeys and Pam didn’t call. I bought another round of organic oranges and Pam didn’t call. I did my Christmas shopping: a weekly cleaning service for Pam and Blue, though Frank and I’d only had a girl in every other week. Pam didn’t call. A two-tone, modern brooch for Kath that evoked the shape of a crane. Pam didn’t call and didn’t call. For the Claverie children, sundry Legos. Every afternoon I went to the post office. I took my time walking. Pam wasn’t calling and it would serve her right if she got the machine.

  A letter waited in the post box. I didn’t bother with gloves anymore.

  My fat lawyer was here last week. No news. Do people still say “no news is good news?” In here no news is just normal. What’s not normal is a lawyer driving three hours to Stemble just to say “no news.” Something’s up. I see it in his face. Fat should wobble, right? When he lies his rolls kind of gel. His whole face goes stiff. I know they’ll read him easy in court.

  Maisie, don’t let yourself beef up. It isn’t healthy for one thing. They feed us grease in here. We don’t get space to move. Most men pack it on pretty quick (no point staying healthy with what we’ve got ahead). And weight’s more than weight. You could get so tired carrying yourself around.

  And don’t forget you’re a woman. Things go much harder in the world for a woman the more space she takes up.

  The things I could have told you, Clarence, about the world and the hard ways it goes. But Maisie Keller knew nothing. I keep fit, I had her gush, I walk and walk. The sky is beautiful. I think of you.

  I told Kath that I had spied a Horned grebe. I told Kath I’d spied a King rail. I did not ask after Pam; I did not want it to seem as though we weren’t in steady contact.

  I went to Marjorie plenty. My mother would’ve had a pat, pithy saying to sum up why; I’ll simply admit that I was lonesome and that it was a balm knowing your mother would be there, stable and waiting, exactly where I left her last. One afternoon she kept fidgeting her palm. For an elated moment or so I thought she was trying for hand-signs. Does palm up mean yes? I asked. She palmed up. Does palm down mean no? Palm up. Do you want me to leave? Palm down. No. I was sure she meant no. She wanted me; someone did. And then: Are you Marjorie Lusk? Palm down—no. Are you healthy? Palm up—yes. Are you happy? Palm up; so much nonsense.

  The Tuesday before Christmas, Pam finally called again. I decided to be blunt. That saying of Ma’s: blunt blades slice sharpest. “Pammie, who was that on the phone in your apartment?”

  “What? Oh, that. Just Trish.” Her college roommate. Telling, how she didn’t ask in my apartment when?

  “She’s a sweet girl. I hope she’s doing all right.”

  “Fine. Great. She’s great.”

&n
bsp; “Not in any trouble?”

  “Trish? No. Never.”

  “But she called you collect.”

  A long pause. “I didn’t call to talk about that. It’s in the rearview.”

  “You turned me out of your house.”

  “And the Oscar for drama goes to Lida. It was the middle of the day and I was unfit for human company.”

  “Are you sure Trish is doing okay?”

  “No. She went back in time and accidentally stopped her parents from meeting. It’s a whole space-time mess.”

  “You don’t have to be so smart.”

  “Can you once in your life just relax? We’ll see you at Kath’s for Christmas.”

  I spent an hour at Papyrus, choosing Maisie’s Christmas card for you. It had patches you could scratch for the scents of pine and ginger, pungent and patently false. The sense of smell is tethered strongest to our actual sense. I hoped the card cut deep.

  On Christmas Eve, I joined the Claveries for seven fishes. Everyone was issued a new pair of pajamas. After presents the next morning they had pancakes. Frank and I always broke out the waffle iron, let the contraption earn its annual keep.

  Cutout champagne flutes and then early Valentines replaced the trees on Riverview’s doors and your letters came and came. For a man so shut away from the world you had a preposterous number of opinions about it.

  Whenever I wish I could see you, Maisie, I remember my daughter’s husband is blind and you can care so much for a person and never ever see her. It’s good her husband’s blind, I think, even though my daughter’s plenty pretty. I’ve been a husband. It’s better to go in knowing you’re blind than to wake up and find out you are.

  The closest you ever came to telling Maisie what you did, and why.

  You ignored it, mostly, and dreamed.

  Best job in the world has to be trucker. They get to always be on the move. Miles and miles of country to cover. Maybe I’d pick up a hitchhiker. Maybe she would be a lot like you. My daughter and I had a bit of a car trip that last day I had her. I didn’t have a plan. I never exactly thought I’d be in that situation. My head was full up of all those other plans I’d had, before, with my wife. I didn’t know where I should run to. Thing is, with all the planning the wife and I did, all the places we were going to get to someday, we never actually got around to getting the kid a passport. I wish I’d thought straighter. Still, I’d have to have been an idiot not to know there was a good chance I’d wind up in a place like Stemble. You can bet I paid attention. I remember the moon over the highway. Forget the pyramids. Highways are the most beautiful things man has ever built.