Olive Kitteridge

by Elizabeth Strout

  On the third morning, when Ann returned from taking Theodore to school, and Christopher was off at work, the baby splashed in the pool out back while Olive sat in the beach chair. “Can you watch her, Mom, while I collect some laundry?” Ann asked, and Olive said, “Of course.”

  Annabelle fretted, but Olive tossed her a twig from nearby, and Annabelle slapped it against the water. Olive gazed up at the deck, looking for any sign of the parrot, who would sometimes say, unprovoked, God is king. “Hells bells,” Olive said, then said it again, louder, and Praise God came from upstairs. She slipped off her sandals, scratched her feet, settled back in her chair, pleased to have maneuvered the response. It did sound just like her Aunt Ora. She got up, went into the kitchen to get a doughnut, and as she stood munching it by the sink, she suddenly remembered the baby.

  “Oh, good God,” she whispered, and hurried outside. Annabelle was trying to stand up. Olive bent to steady the toddler, and Annabelle slipped; Olive moved around the edge of the pool, attempting to lift the child and keep her face out of the water. Annabelle got more and more agitated, slipping and crying, turning away from Olive. “For the love of God, stop it now!” Olive said, and the baby stared at her, and then cried again.

  Our father who art in heaven, shrieked the parrot.

  “That’s a new one,” said Ann, stepping into the backyard with a dish towel.

  “She’s trying to stand up,” Olive explained. “And I couldn’t quite get hold of her.”

  “Yeah, she’s about ready to walk any day now.” Ann, in spite of her large belly, picked the child up easily.

  Olive returned to her chair, shaken with the effort of grappling with the baby. Her panty hose were shredded from running around on this cement.

  “Today’s our wedding anniversary,” Ann said, putting the dish towel around the shoulders of the baby.

  “It is?”

  “It is.” Ann smiled, as though remembering something private. “Let’s warm you up, little goose.” Annabelle had spread her small legs on each side of Ann’s bulbous belly, laid her wet head across Ann’s big chest, and was sucking her thumb, shivering.

  So easily, Olive could have said: “Well, it’d have been nice of you to tell me you were getting married, to begin with. It’s a ghastly thing for a mother to find out later.” But she only said, “Happy anniversary, then.” That the baby had not drowned while she ate a doughnut had left her so relieved, that the anniversary seemed—while a painful reminder of how left out she had been—nothing to quibble about.

  “Did Chris tell you how we met?”

  “Not exactly. Not specifically.” He had told her nothing.

  “In a singles group for divorced people. I’d just found out I was pregnant with Annabelle—you know how when you get divorced, you do crazy things—and Annabelle was the result of a crazy thing—weren’t you, chicken pie?” She kissed the top of the child’s head.

  This was the twenty-first century, thought Olive. It’s not as though one had to rely on foam for birth control. But the still-relieved Olive said, with feigned generosity, “That’s a nice idea, a singles group for divorced people.” She nodded. “You all have that experience in common.” She herself had gone to one meeting of a “support group” at the nursing home, and found it absolutely foolish, with foolish people saying foolish things—including the social worker who ran it, and said repeatedly in a sweet, calm voice, “To be angry about the event is normal.” Olive never went back. Angry, she thought with disdain. Why be angry about a natural event, for God’s sake? She couldn’t stand the stupid social worker, or the grown man who sat next to her and wept openly for his stroked-out mother. Absolutely foolish. “Bad things happen,” she wanted to say. “Where have you been?”

  “It was a therapy group,” Ann said. “So we could learn our own responsibility, accept our accountability, you know.”

  Olive didn’t know. She said, “Christopher married the wrong woman, is what he did.”

  “But the question is why,” Ann said in a solicitous way, shifting the baby. “If we learn why we do things, we won’t make the same mistakes.”

  “I see,” said Olive. She stretched her feet and felt the soft opening of another big run in her panty hose. She needed to go to a drugstore.

  “It was just wonderful. Chris and I became very committed to the process, and committed to each other.”

  “That’s nice,” Olive finally said.

  “The therapist is this amazing guy, Arthur. You just wouldn’t believe how much we’ve learned.” Ann rubbed the dish towel against the baby’s back, looked over at Olive. She said, “Anxiety is anger, Mom.”

  “Is it?” Olive thought of the girl’s cigarettes.

  “Uh-huh. Almost always. When Arthur moved to New York, we did, too.”

  “You moved here because of a therapist?” Olive sat up straight in her beach chair. “Is this a cult?”

  “No, no. We wanted to move here anyway, but it’s great—because we still get to work with Arthur. Always plenty of issues to work on, you know.”

  “I bet.”

  Olive made, right then, a decision to accept all this. The first time around, Christopher married someone mean and pushy, and now he’d married someone dumb and nice. Well, it was none of her business. It was his life.

  Olive went down into the basement and dialed the white telephone. Cindy said, “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Different country down here. Can you put him on?” She held the phone between her neck and shoulder, started to peel her panty hose off, and remembered she had no other. “Henry,” she said. “Today’s their wedding anniversary. They’re okay, but she’s dumb, just like I thought. They’re in therapy.” She hesitated, looked around. “You’re not to worry about that, Henry. In therapy they go straight after the mother. You come out smelling like a rose, I’m sure.” Olive drummed her fingers on the washing machine. “I have to go, she’s doing some laundry down here. I’m fine, Henry. I’ll be back in a week.”

  Upstairs, Ann was feeding the baby part of a baked sweet potato. Olive sat and watched her, remembering how one year for their anniversary, Henry gave her a key chain with a four-leaf clover pressed inside a piece of thick clear plastic. “I called Henry and told him it was your anniversary.”

  “Oh, sweet,” said Ann. Adding, “Anniversaries are nice. A little moment to reflect.”

  “I liked getting the presents,” Olive said.

  Walking behind her son and his large wife, and the big double stroller pushed ahead of them, Olive thought of her husband, in bed already perhaps; they tried putting them to bed earlier than small children were put to bed. “Spoke to your father today,” she said, but Christopher apparently did not hear her. He and Ann were speaking intently, their heads tilted toward each other as they pushed the stroller along. Oh God, yes, she was glad she’d never left Henry. She’d never had a friend as loyal, as kind, as her husband.

  And yet, standing behind her son, waiting for the traffic light to change, she remembered how in the midst of it all there had been times when she’d felt a loneliness so deep that once, not so many years ago, having a cavity filled, the dentist’s gentle turning of her chin with his soft fingers had felt to her like a tender kindness of almost excruciating depth, and she had swallowed with a groan of longing, tears springing to her eyes. (“Are you all right, Mrs. Kitteridge?” the dentist had said.)

  Her son turned to glance at her, and his lucid face was enough to keep her going, because she really was fatigued. Young people had no idea that you got to a stage where you couldn’t just gallivant around, morning, noon, and night. Seven stages of life? Is that what Shakespeare said? Why, old age alone had seven stages! In between you prayed to die in your sleep. But she was glad she had not died; here was her family—and here was the ice cream shop, with an empty booth right up front. Olive sank gratefully onto the red cushioned seat.

  “Praise God,” she said. But they didn’t hear her. They were busy unbuckling the kids, arran
ging the baby in a high chair, Theodore in his own chair pulled up to the edge. Ann’s stomach was too big to get her into the booth, so she had to trade places with Theodore, make him sit in the booth, which he did only when Christopher took the child’s small wrists in one hand, leaned forward, and said quietly, “Sit.”

  Something vaguely discomfiting moved in Olive. But the child sat. Politely, he said he wanted vanilla ice cream. “Christopher was always so polite,” she said to him. “People used to compliment me on how polite my little son was.” Did Christopher and Ann exchange a glance? No, they were just getting ready to order. It seemed impossible to Olive that Ann carried within her the grandchild of Henry, but there you were.

  She ordered a butterscotch sundae.

  “No fair,” said Theodore. “I want a sundae.”

  “Well, okay, I guess,” said Ann. “What kind?”

  The kid looked distressed, as if the answer were beyond his comprehension. Finally he said, putting his head down onto his arms, “I’ll have a vanilla cone.”

  “Your father would have ordered a root beer float,” said Olive to Christopher.

  “No,” said Christopher. “He would have ordered a dish of strawberry ice cream.”

  “Nope,” said Olive. “A root beer float.”

  “I want that—I want a root beer float,” said Theodore, picking his head up. “What is it?”

  Ann said, “They put lots of root beer in a glass, and then they float vanilla ice cream in it.”

  “I want it.”

  “He’s not going to like it,” said Christopher.

  And he didn’t. Theodore began to cry halfway through, and said it wasn’t what he thought it would be. Olive, on the other hand, enjoyed her butterscotch sundae immensely, eating every spoonful, while Ann and Christopher talked about whether Theodore should be allowed to order again. Ann was for it, Christopher against. Olive stayed out of it but noticed that Christopher won.

  Walking home, she had more energy, undoubtedly from her ice cream. And also because Chris walked with her, while Ann pushed the stroller ahead of them, the children, thank God, quiet. Chris’s podiatry practice was going well. “People in New York take their feet very seriously,” he said. Often, he saw twenty people a day.

  “Good heavens, Chris. That seems a lot.”

  “I have a lot of bills to pay,” he said. “And soon I’ll have even more.”

  “I guess. Well, your father would be proud.” It was getting dark. Through the lighted windows they passed, she could see people reading, watching television. She saw one man who appeared to be tickling his little son. A feeling of benevolence swept through her; she wished the best for everyone. In fact, saying good night once they got through the door, Olive felt she could have kissed them—her son, Ann, even the children, if she’d had to. But there was a feeling of distraction, and Chris and Ann said only, “Good night, Mom.”

  Downstairs she went, into the white basement. Stepping into the little closet of a bathroom, she flicked on the light, and saw in the mirror that across her blue cotton blouse was a long and prominent strip of sticky dark butterscotch sauce. A small feeling of distress took hold. They had seen this and not told her. She had become the old lady her Aunt Ora had been, when years ago she and Henry would take the old lady out for a drive, stopping some nights to get an ice cream, and Olive had watched as Aunt Ora had spilled melted ice cream down her front; she had felt repulsion at the sight of it. In fact, she was glad when Ora died, and Olive didn’t have to continue to witness the pathetic sight.

  And now she had become Ora. But she wasn’t Aunt Ora, and her son should have pointed this out the minute it happened, as she would have to him, had he spilled something down his front! Did they think she was just one more baby they were carting around? She took the blouse off, ran hot water in the little sink, then decided not to wash it. She wrapped it in a plastic bag and stuck it into her suitcase.

  The morning was hot. She sat in the backyard, on the beach chair. She had dressed before the sun came up, and had climbed the stairs cautiously, not daring to turn on any lights. Her panty hose had caught on something in the basement and she had felt the little series of runs in them. She crossed her legs, bobbing a foot, and as it got light, she saw the runs had spread up over her thick ankles. Ann appeared first, seen through the kitchen window, holding the baby on her hip. Christopher came up behind, touched Ann lightly on the shoulder as he reached past her. Olive heard Ann say, “Your mom’ll take Dog-Face to the park, and I’ll get Theodore ready, but I’m letting him sleep a little later.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful when he sleeps those extra minutes?” Chris had turned around and was running his fingers through Ann’s hair.

  Olive was not taking Dog-Face to the park. She waited until they were both close enough to the window, and she said, “Time for me to go.”

  Christopher ducked his head. “I didn’t know you were out there. What did you say?”

  “I said,” Olive responded loudly, “that it’s time for the damned old lady to go.”

  Praise Jesus, came from the upstairs deck.

  “What do you mean?” asked Ann, sticking her neck toward the window, at the same time the baby’s foot kicked over a carton of milk on the counter.

  “Shit,” said Christopher.

  “He said, ‘Shit’!” Olive called up to the deck, and nodded quickly when the parrot squawked, God is king. “Yes, indeed,” Olive said. “He is indeed.”

  Christopher walked out to the backyard, closing the screen door behind him carefully. “Mom, stop it. What’s happening?”

  “It’s time for me to go home. I stink like fish.”

  Christopher shook his head slowly. “I knew this was going to happen. I knew something would trigger things off.”

  “What are you talking about?” Olive said. “I’m simply telling you it’s time for me to go home.”

  “Then come inside,” Christopher said.

  “I guess I don’t need my son telling me what to do,” Olive said, but when Chris went back inside, murmuring to Ann, she got up and joined them in the kitchen. She sat in a chair by the table; she had hardly slept, and felt shaky.

  “Did something happen, Mom?” Ann asked. “You weren’t going to leave for a few more days.”

  She’d be damned if she was going to tell them how they’d let her sit there and dribble stuff down herself; they’d have treated their own kids better than that, wiped the mess off. But her they let just sit there with butterscotch sauce all down her front. “I told Christopher when he first asked me here that I’d stay for three days. After that I stink like fish.”

  Ann and Christopher looked at each other. “You said you’d stay a week,” Chris said, warily.

  “Right. Because you needed help, but you weren’t even honest enough to say that.” A fury was rumbling up through her, ignited further by their sense of conspiracy; how Chris had stroked Ann’s hair, the look they had exchanged. “God, I hate a liar. No one brought you up to lie, Christopher Kitteridge.” From Ann’s hip, the baby stared at her.

  “I asked you to come visit,” Christopher said slowly, “because I wanted to see you. Ann wanted to meet you. We were hoping we could just have a nice time. I was hoping that things had changed, that this wouldn’t happen. But, Mom, I’m not going to take responsibility for the extreme capriciousness of your moods. If something happened to upset you, you should tell me. That way we can talk.”

  “You’ve never talked your whole damn life. Why are you starting now?” It was the therapist, she realized suddenly. Of course. That foolish Arthur fellow. She ought to be careful, this would get repeated in a therapy group. Extreme capriciousness of your moods. That was not Christopher’s voice. Good God, they’d discussed her to pieces already. The thought caused her whole body to shudder. “And what are you talking about, the capriciousness of my moods? What in hell is that all about?”

  Ann was mopping at the milk with a sponge, still holding the baby. Christopher stood cal
mly in front of her. “You kind of behave like a paranoid, Mom,” he said. “You always have. At least a lot, anyway. And I never see you taking any responsibility for it. One minute you’re one way, the next—you’re furious. It’s tiring, very wearing for those around you.”

  Beneath the table, Olive’s foot bounced like the devil. Quietly, she said, “I don’t need to sit here and be called a schizoid. I’ve never heard of such a thing in all my life. A son turning around and calling his mother schizoid. God knows, I didn’t like my mother, but I never—”

  “Olive,” said Ann. “Please, please stay calm. No one called you any names. Chris was only trying to tell you that your moods change kind of fast sometimes, and it’s been hard. For him growing up, you know. Never knowing.”

  “What in God’s name would you know about it? Were you there?” Olive’s head was all twirly inside. Her eyesight didn’t seem right. “I suppose both of you now have degrees in family psychology.”

  “Olive,” Ann said.

  “No, let her go. Go, Mom. That’s fine. I’ll call you a car service to get you to the airport.”

  “You’re going to send me out there alone? For God’s sake!”

  “In one hour I have to go to work, and Ann has the kids to take care of. We can’t drive you to the airport. The car service will be fine. Ann, why don’t you call them? You’ll have to go to the ticket counter, Mom, to get your ticket changed. But there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Amazingly, her son started to collect dirty dishes from the counter and load the dishwasher.

  “You’re kicking me out, just like that?” Olive said, her heart pumping ferociously.