You Are Having a Good Time

by Amie Barrodale

  “Sir, would you like to taste?”

  “I just ate.”

  “It is from the mountains.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry—I just ate.”

  He put it on my saucer.

  “Business,” he said, “is very bad.”

  His eyes misted over, reddened, and became impenetrable. His son, he explained, his leg—the medicine—because of the tango. Something else; then, “The suit.”

  “All right,” I said. “Make me the suit.”

  His eyes cleared. He became light. He efficiently put his things around himself and was out. A minute passed, and I stood and opened the houseboat door. Salama was there on my porch. He was smoking.

  “Sir, you smoke? You like to have a cigarette?”

  * * *

  Salama was still there when I was dressed to leave for town. I had to go to the Kingfisher office in Srinagar to buy tickets to New Delhi. I had decided to leave Kashmir. Salama was leaning against the opened door of my car, talking to my driver. When I got into the front seat, Salama slid into the back and leaned forward.

  “Sir, it is okay I ride with you? Just to the city.”

  Finally I was angry. My driver had three teeth. He held his mouth open. When it started to rain, we had to roll up the windows, and then I could smell his breath. I haven’t ever smelled anything as bad as that. We drove for an hour. Salama sat in the backseat smoking and complaining.

  “These roads are awful,” he said. “Just mud. The country has gone to pot since the British left. Everything has gone to ruin. Indians can’t run things. Have you seen an Indian bathroom, sir? And the workers who defecate in the street.”

  When Mr. Butt came to my room that afternoon, I told him I was going to be leaving early. I blamed the tailor—it was all so minor—and I started to cry. It seemed okay to me, because Mr. Butt had cried in front of me several times by then, but he was uncomfortable and confused. He said, “If you don’t want the suits, just tell him you don’t want them, he made you the wrong one.”

  “I don’t want the suits. But how can I say that? I ordered them.”

  “He did make you the wrong one?”

  “I don’t know. Please, make him leave me alone.”

  Mr. Butt looked around anxiously. Then he cried. He wiped his tears and said, “He is not my usual tailor.”

  We cried together for a little while. Then Mr. Butt said, “Come to dinner at my house.”

  * * *

  Mr. Butt’s house was perfectly elegant—the sort of elegance one rarely sees anywhere, and while I had known Mr. Butt was wealthy like this, the house surprised me. It reminded me of the house in Fanny and Alexander—it had that kind of charm touched by family magic.

  In the family room, Mr. Butt’s wife lay bedridden, with a feeding tube in her nose. Her hand was taken from between the sheets and placed into mine. I realized that I was expected to talk to her.

  I said, “I’m staying at the houseboats.”

  She said something and I leaned forward.

  “She doesn’t speak English,” Mr. Butt said.

  “What did she say?”

  “We can’t understand her.”

  “I’m here until tomorrow,” I said. “The houseboats are very nice. Thank you. I’ve enjoyed my time as a guest.” I held her hand a little longer.

  Mr. Butt and I sat on the floor, leaned against pillows. One of his servants left the room and returned with Salama and a fierce-looking young woman in a T-shirt, sneakers, and jeans. Salama began to lay out clothes—the brown suit, the shirts, and the white suit.

  “Sir, you see, we have been working many hours.”

  “The shirts are fine,” I said. “I don’t want the suit.”

  Mr. Butt winced.

  “Please, sir.” Salama held out the white suit. “I have made it you. Please try.”

  The young woman looked into my eyes. “You have ordered this suit, and my father has made it you.” She was trying to bully me, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  I took the suit from Mr. Salama. One of Butt’s sons took me to a bedroom where I could change. I noticed a plate tipped against an old-fashioned, high-end hi-fi. He saw me looking and took a long time explaining where it had come from. For him the plate had magic.

  The suit was the kind I had often seen on other men. It fit me. It drew me together. I felt different inside it. Young. I wanted to stay alone in the room, in the suit, but I would have to come out.

  Servants brought a cloth, bowls, rice, several dishes. Silverware and china were brought for me. Salama and his daughter sat cross-legged and ate off silver plates, using their hands. Mr. Butt ate out of a silver trophy. He sat on his knees, with his shoulders stooped. He stared at the floor and put one and then another fistful of food into his mouth.

  After we had eaten, Mr. Salama said, “Now, if it is all right, you could walk for us.”

  I walked around Mr. Butt’s living room, back and forth in front of the cot and his wife, Salama and his daughter, until they were satisfied. Then I sat cross-legged in my exquisite suit, and we drank tea. This is the way it is for me. This is the way it is for the people I love. My dad had a plastic basin in his closet full of $600 shoes, but he wore Tiddies—those rubber-soled flip-flops—and had his hair cut at a gay men’s salon. We are people who never get it right.

  Frank Advice for Fat Women

  A woman who was lonely and depressed should begin by getting on some medication. She should clean her house and throw away clutter. After that, Dr. Sheppard told his patients to lose weight and wear dresses.

  He and his wife had shared a practice for twenty years, and so they had—after some initial attempts to carry on as usual—made a short-term arrangement: he saw his patients in the mornings, and Isabel saw hers in the afternoons. She would not speak to him. Together they had agreed on a clean break.

  His new academic appointment filled the downtime. He kept to his schedule. He meditated in the mornings, jogged three afternoons a week. When he noticed an uptick in his night eating, he hired a nutritionist. He was eating better than he had in years.

  Then Catherine Summer called. His secretary told him that Mrs. Summer had been referred by Columbia’s dean and wanted to see him, or something. “She has anxiety.” When Dr. Sheppard finally spoke with Mrs. Summer on the telephone, she explained that her daughter had suffered a panic attack at Morts Restaurant in St. Louis.

  “Debbie’s been in New York five years. She hasn’t done anything. She interned at Town & Country and she volunteered at the Morgan, but from what I can gather, all she does is eat and drink. We pay her expenses—we always have—but of course that is with the expectation that eventually she will find her way. Now it seems like she’s developing these disorders.”

  “I’m sorry to say I’ve recently accepted a position at Columbia University, in addition to my private practice, so as you can imagine—”

  “How nice. Debbie’s almost twenty-eight years old, and she has no plans for a career, no boyfriend. Dr. Angel said you were the right one for us.”

  “Oh, you know Don? That’s interesting, Mrs. Summer. You’ll have to tell him I said hello.”

  “Debbie didn’t use to have a weight problem, or any problem, but her last boyfriend was overweight, and some of his eating habits rubbed off on her. Over Christmas she’d sit in front of the television with a sleeve of crackers and a block of cheese, and I’d say, ‘Go out! Do something!’ I know she could lose the weight easily, if she’d simply do something, but she won’t listen to my suggestions, and I’m worried, with her father’s metabolism, if she lets herself reach thirty without losing the weight, it’ll just stay on her. After a certain age, a woman’s body just won’t respond to diet or exercise—our estrogen levels change—and of course there are procedures, but why go down that road? She’s just a girl! Of course I’m happy to pay for liposuction if she’ll take it, but I tell her it’s simple: don’t eat. All the diet gurus in the world are peddling the same line of bullshit, e
xcuse me, but if you want to lose weight, stop eating.”

  Dr. Sheppard looked at the nineteenth-century Satsuma vase on the corner of his desk. It was one of two, about the size of a lamp, and had been commissioned for a Russian general, to resemble a lighthouse. It had been a gift from Isabel’s mother to the couple when they married.

  “Hello? Dr. Sheppard? The sooner the better, honestly. We need your help. I’m asking as a mother.”

  “Yes, sorry, I’m here.” He asked if Debbie would be free to meet at lunchtime.

  “Of course—she doesn’t have a job. I believe I mentioned that.”

  He began to take notes.

  * * *

  Debbie threw herself into the armchair opposite his desk. His first impression was that she was remarkably pretty. Her hair was almost blond, and it was long and straight. She dressed mannishly—in jeans, a wool crewneck sweater, a worn-out blue oxford shirt, and high-quality, unpolished loafers—but she couldn’t hide her looks. Her diamond earrings caught his eye throughout the conversation.

  Debbie was slightly overweight, and her posture was bad, but her manners were good. She looked Dr. Sheppard directly in the eye when she said, “Thank you for meeting me. My mother told me you made an exception for her. She’s very happy that I’m here.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “I’m doing my best to humor everybody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean my mom wants me here, and so fuck it. No offense.”

  Dr. Sheppard nodded. He glanced over the intake questionnaire. No health problems, no smoking, no problems with alcohol. Asked to list her number of drinks, Debbie checked the box “four–five a night.” So, a problem with alcohol. She didn’t exercise. She slept between ten and twelve hours nightly. In answer to the question “Why did you come in today?” she wrote, “I’d like to find a solution to life’s mysteries.”

  “What about, do you have anxiety? Your mother mentioned something at Morts.”

  Debbie pressed her face into her hands and took a deep breath. “I had a panic attach, okay? I think they’re pretty normal. My mom acts like I have a gnome or something.”

  “A what?”

  “Ugh, a movie I saw. This schizo guy had a gnome that made him drink rye.”

  Dr. Sheppard didn’t press her, but he made a note. Of course she had intended to say panic attack, but the word she spoke was “attach.” He prescribed a low daily dose of Prozac, Ativan as needed for mild anxiety, and a monthly supply of ten four-milligram Xanax for severe panic. He asked Debbie to come back two days later, on Thursday, and to see him twice weekly until they were comfortable with each other. As she was leaving with the papers, he said, “Do you feel all right about that? How do you feel?”

  “Compromised,” Debbie said. “See you Thursday.”

  * * *

  He was in his school office eating a Potbelly sandwich later that afternoon—he taught Tuesdays from 4:30 to 6:20—when Mrs. Summer called and asked if he had a moment to chat.

  “Well, to be honest, Mrs. Summer, I teach in a few minutes.”

  “It’s Kitty.”

  “I generally take this time to prepare.”

  “Well, this won’t take any time at all. I’m calling to ask a favor. I understand things went well with Debbie, and I want to thank you, by the way. But the reason for my call is, my husband and I are in Stockholm just now and I wanted to have his secretary send you a check. So, just your best mailing address.”

  “Sure.” He gave his address at the office. Then he couldn’t help showing off. He said, “As it happens, I’ll be in Stockholm next month for an IHS meeting. I’ll be speaking. How’s the weather? Should I bring a coat?”

  “Oh, hooray! We can meet. Debbie said you were wonderful, but I don’t think you really know a person until you spend some time one-on-one.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear—about Debbie. My impression was that Debbie was feeling ambivalent about her treatment.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I’m sorry to run on you, that’s my other line.”

  * * *

  The IHS meeting was held at a modern conference hotel outside Stockholm. The lobby was full of excited young doctors and pharmaceutical representatives, many of whom already wore their lanyard badges.

  Dr. Sheppard made it through the lobby with a few handshakes. He had submitted a paper for presentation, but it had been accepted for the congress. What that meant was that he was not asked to speak before five hundred colleagues but to compress his research to fit a poster, which he would hang among a thousand others and present to a panel of three evaluators. Ordinarily, researchers of his stature responded to congress selection by sending a nurse or a research assistant to the meeting.

  The congress looked like a high school science fair. Cloth panels with pushpins in their upper-left-hand corners snaked through the room, and youngsters nervously hung their work. Dr. Sheppard had trouble hanging his poster. He struggled with it.

  “Need some help?”

  He looked up at the woman who had her hand on his poster.

  “Kitty. Kitty Summer. In the flesh. I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr. Sheppard.”

  Mrs. Summer was more attractive than her daughter. She was greyhound-thin, and she wore patent heels, a slim-waisted skirt suit, and a short string of extraordinarily large pearls. He pinned the corner of his poster and stepped back.

  “Oscar Sheppard.”

  “This is my husband, Stephen.” She gestured to a pudgy man in tweed. “We owe Dr. Sheppard money, Stephen. Dr. Sheppard, do you have a minute? Good. Let’s feed you. You look hungry.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Summer got the waiter with a look. She said, “Stoli, one rock, and my husband will have the chicken sandwich.”

  “And a side of mayo?” Stephen said.

  “And a side of mayo—please bring it in a ramekin.”

  Dr. Sheppard ordered a white wine spritzer and the raw vegetable appetizer. Over their drinks, the Summers asked Dr. Sheppard questions about his flight, his wife, his books, and his appointment at Columbia. He told them about Isabel and their shared practice. He explained that she didn’t like the big meetings or travel, and he praised Debbie’s intelligence.

  “I think our sessions are going very well.”

  “Oh, she says you’re marvelous. Of course, she doesn’t show any improvement, as far as I can tell, but these things take time, one supposes.”

  “Yes, she’s just barely started on the medication.”

  “Barely started.” Kitty snorted.

  “Generally speaking, it takes a month for the brain to—”

  “Ah.”

  The waiter put Stephen’s sandwich and mayonnaise in front of him. Mrs. Summer took two Ziploc bags out of her purse. She put the bread in one, and the lettuce and tomato in the other. She put both bags back into her purse, picked up a knife, dipped the tip of it into the mayonnaise, dotted the chicken, and put the knife back down precisely.

  “How long are you in town?” she asked.

  “Till Sunday.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. We could have had you over for dinner, but at least you’ll have time to go to the baths. Have you been yet? I don’t really go in for museums. Do you? What do you go in for?”

  Dr. Sheppard told Mrs. Summer about some of his hobbies. He worked out three times a week, he explained, and he was devoted to daily meditation. Kitty loved horses. While they talked about her prize-winning dressage, her husband ate. When he choked on a bit of his chicken, Mrs. Summer gave him a glass of water. “It’s the mayonnaise,” she explained to Dr. Sheppard.

  “At home, I have my riding. But this year, during Stephen’s appointment, I’ve decided I’m taking time off. So today, for example, I did a little shopping.”

  “Appointment?”

  “Stephen is a diplomat,” Mrs. Summer said.

  “Ambassador Summer?”

  “Head ass-kisser Summer,” Stephen said. “My wife fundraised for the
last campaign, and this is the reward.”

  “Well, it must be nice.”

  “Hmph. I spend half my day managing the Dunleavys.”

  “Stephen is talking about our caretakers in St. Louis. They’re a charming couple, but they’ve never really been in service. I called last week asking them to take a bag of mine out of storage and mail it to Debbie, and they behaved as if it was a great inconvenience.”

  “They haven’t met Kitty yet,” Stephen said to Dr. Sheppard, and raised his eyebrows. It seemed like he was issuing a friendly warning.

  Dr. Sheppard changed the subject. “Does your daughter mind you being away for a year?”

  “Are you putting us on the couch, Dr. Sheppard?” Mrs. Summer laughed. Stephen smiled politely. Mrs. Summer said, “I think she’s glad. She has the opinion that I control her life.”

  “She never mentioned that.”

  “She wouldn’t. She’s too cunning.” She stopped herself and then said, “When Debbie moved to New York, I came up and helped her get settled. We looked at apartments together, and when we found one she liked—emphasis on she liked, that girl, well, we’re the ones who made her that way—we bought furniture. I didn’t think about it when she didn’t thank me because children tend to expect you to do that kind of thing, but three years later she called me blind drunk and told me that I was crazy and I’d ruined her life because I bought her three sets of kitchenware. Of course, the parents are always to blame. I’m boring you?”

  “No.”

  “You think it’s odd that Stephen is eating boiled chicken. I’m sorry, it’s his diet.”

  “No, I understand. But can I ask, why do you have the bags?”

  “My baggies? You pay for the lettuce and tomato and bread whether you eat it or not, so I take it and put it in the fridge for Tove. Dr. Sheppard? While we’re on the subject of diet and exercise, I think it’s important that Debbie doesn’t know we’ve met. Stephen, you agree. She would regard it as a betrayal. I bought her kitchen supplies and she still hasn’t forgiven me.”