Sadie nodded. “I know.”
“But I thought that couldn’t be right, because American children, I know, are off the breast before a year, usually. But he was just kind of grabbing—” She pressed her lips into a polite little smile.
“I know, I know,” said Sadie again. “It’s fine, really. He needs to drink milk. He’s not wanted to. It’s good.”
“Oh, good,” said Meera. “He actually didn’t know what to do with it when I first gave it to him. But I think he likes it.” Jack nodded, the bottle still in his mouth. “I know he’s too old for a bottle, but we don’t have any sippy cups yet.”
“It’s fine. Really, it’s fine,” Sadie told her. “He’d never take it from me. A bottle. Or milk, either. I actually lied to the doctor at his last checkup, said he drank it. So it’s good, really. He’s growing up.” She knelt beside him and gave him a kiss on the cheek—and he threw his free hand around her neck. “Good,” he said. “Good.”
“Yes, it’s good, right?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “Good.”
And so it was.
fifteen
Sadie stopped visiting the new playground after that day. Instead, she took Jack to the play area in her own building’s courtyard, which was older and smaller, but closer and, she discovered, friendlier. As such, it was more than a year before she saw Caitlin again. By that time Lil was dead and the world had, slowly and irrevocably, become a darker place than any of them could have imagined.
Each day some fresh horror arose: The train bombings in Madrid. The endless car bombings and suicide bombings in Iraq and Pakistan and Israel and Afghanistan, with their roster of civilian victims (children; always children). The Vietnam-style rapes and massacres of Iraqi families—and the accompanying photos of the sweet-faced Virginia boys who’d perpetrated them. The kidnappings, all over the Middle East and North Africa, of journalists and contractors and translators. The beheadings—videotaped, aired on television—in Iraq. Everywhere, everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.
And then the prison scandals broke, in the spring, as Sadie waddled uneasily around Grand Street, waiting for her water to break, Jack impatient with her slow gait. In the hospital—her wide window overlooking the Hudson, Mina asleep in a clear bassinet beside the bed—she flipped open The New Yorker and found a photo that made her breath stop: a man, barely recognizable as such, balanced precariously on a brown carton, his head covered with a black, conelike hood, his body draped in a black blanket, his arms spread wide, wires sprouting from his fingers. “Oh my God,” she said aloud, and slammed the magazine shut, her heart racing. But she read the article—after a bracing cup of coffee—and all those that followed, forcing herself (why? why?) not to skip over the details of the acts of torture (“sodomizing a detainee with a chemical light”) or the leering, abhorrent faces of the officers, their thumbs jubilantly raised, like frat boys after a beer run.
Back home, in their still-unrenovated apartment, lead paint chipping off the cabinets, ancient stove chugging ever on, Mina sleeping with her and Ed, Jack waking at five and crawling in with them, too, Sadie found herself unable to sleep past dawn. Each day she rose and shuffled wearily to the kitchen, put on the water for her coffee, and snapped on the news. She needed, now, to know, just as, in those first years of Jack’s life, she’d needed not to know, left the paper to yellow on the coffee table. “The world is a dark, horrifying place,” Ed told her. “You’re totally right. But you’ve got to try to filter a little. Or you’re going to go crazy.”
“I know,” she said. She had been thinking the same thing herself. “I just feel like it’s only a matter of time before something else happens.” Something big, something bad, something close. “And I just feel like I have to pay attention.”
Come August, the Republican convention arrived—and the security-alert level for the city was raised to “orange.” Ed’s offices, in Chelsea, were dangerously close to the Garden, where the convention was being held. “Stay home,” she said, the first day of the convention, trying not to let her tone belie the extent to which she truly needed him to heed her.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m swamped.” He was once again going to Toronto—with a little DV thing he’d produced, sort of postapocalyptic—and frantically making final cuts to the Bosnia film in order to make the Sundance deadline. There were a million other projects, too, so many she could no longer keep track.
“I know,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. He was no longer the skinny guy she’d met—strange to think—six years ago at Lil’s wedding. She’d thought him so old then—thirty. Younger than she was now. After they’d moved in together, she’d discovered that he primarily subsisted on breakfast cereal. “I’m sorry. I’m crazy.”
And perhaps she was: by lunchtime, the pundits had issued an all-clear. October, they said, was the time to worry about, the month when everything Sadie feared might start up: suicide bombings (why hadn’t they happened here yet, she often wondered), train and bus and car bombings, September eleventh–style attacks, the scope of which would be impossible to envision or foresee or stop.
“Why October?” she asked, the next day, as she and Ed sat on the couch, trying to wake up, Mina nursing, Jack dropping his blocks, one by one, into Sadie’s chipped Dutch oven. From the kitchen, their old radio, one of Aunt Minnie’s relics, droned. “It seems so random.”
“The elections,” said Ed. “It’s right before the elections.”
“But we’re not going to cancel the elections. And why would they care who wins? We’re all imperialist scum to them, right?”
“Yep,” said Ed, scanning the Metro section. “Godless pornographers.”
“Do you think it’s still okay for Jack to go to school?” asked Sadie. They had decided, in light of Mina’s arrival, to send him to a new preschool on Avenue A two mornings per week. Ed would drop him off on his way to the office.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” His tone annoyed her. He knew why. Of course he did.
“I don’t know. In case something happens.” She knew she sounded foolish. “Remember on September eleventh, how difficult it was for families to find each other.” She still, she suspected, harbored a bit of unfair resentment that she’d been alone on that day, alone with Jack, her friends across the river in Brooklyn, her parents uptown, all of them unreachable, that she’d been reduced to knocking on Vicky’s door and collapsing, shocked, into one of her dining room chairs, Jack in her arms.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” said Ed, smoothing the hair off her forehead.
But something had happened, she discovered when she put Mina in her crib and went back to the kitchen. In Russia, Chechen separatists—with possible links to al-Qaeda, but then they said that about shoplifters these days—had taken hold of a school. Hundreds of parents and children had been herded into a gym, tripwired with homemade bombs. Already, they’d killed twenty men—the strongest, the youngest—and thrown their bodies out the windows. It was hot and the terrorists refused to allow the hostages any water. Children, Russian authorities worried, might be dying of dehydration.
“There are babies in there,” she told Ed, her voice cracking. “Babies Mina’s age.”
“Okay, we’re going to turn off the radio now,” he said, striding into the kitchen and doing exactly that. “I’m staying home today.” He came back into the living room and took Sadie in his arms.
“No, you—”
“And we’re going to get dressed and get some breakfast and go to the park.”
“Can we go to Seward Park?” asked Jack, hugging her legs. He’d become incredibly possessive of her lately. “Don’t kiss Mommy,” he told Ed. “Don’t talk to Mommy.”
“Sure, we can go to Seward Park,” said Ed.
“Why does this keep happening? It’s going to happen here.”
“What, Mommy?” asked Jack.
“It’s not going to happen here,” said Ed, though she knew he didn’t believe that.
“
It has happened here. Columbine.”
“That was different,” said Ed. He stood and stretched, revealing the black hairs on his stomach. “You know that.” He pulled her back against him and lowered his voice, speaking into her hair. “Terrorists are not going to storm the My Little Village preschool on Avenue A.” Something prevented her from admitting that this was true. “I think you guys should come to Toronto with me.”
“Okay,” she agreed, though she didn’t want to. It would be she running around after Jack and endlessly nursing Mina, she calling strangers to see if they could babysit.
“And I’m going to put the paper on hold. I read it online anyway.”
“Okay,” she said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into her voice.
But in the end it didn’t matter. When the bad news arrived, it came the way bad news always does: with a phone call at an odd hour. It had been so long since Sadie had spoken to Emily that, for a moment, in her pleasure, she forgot that five in the morning was a bit too early for a catch-up call.
“So, I have some really strange news,” came her friend’s voice, unquavering. “It’s hard to believe.”
And somehow—in the sort of flash she’d read about in countless hackneyed novels, novels she’d rejected without a further thought—she knew that it was Lil, that something had happened to Lil, that it was over, there would be no tense reunion, there would be no triumph over Tuck, that this was the end. No, she told herself. Don’t be stupid, Sadie. “Okay,” she said, her voice still hoarse with sleep. Emily’s, she realized, was not. “What happened? What is it?”
“Lil,” said Emily, and Sadie’s heart began to thrum like a machine. She’d known, she’d known, she’d known, and this was, somehow, her fault, for she had known, even before the call came. All this worry she’d been extending toward her family, her city, the world. It should have been focused on Lil. Lil was the doomed one, the one she needed to watch. If she’d been more tolerant, more forgiving. If she’d paid more attention, if she hadn’t canceled the paper, if she’d made more allowances for Tuck and his book, if her obligation had been, first, to Lil, and second, to her company, her position, her idea of herself as an arbiter of culture, if she had been less hard, hard and unforgiving and inflexible, just like her mother. She’d missed Lil, missed her terribly—the energy and vitality she brought to even the smallest of things; her sharpness, or whatever it was, her, she’d missed her—though she wouldn’t admit it, and couldn’t reconcile with her. Why? Why? Because she had been afraid of Lil, she remembered, afraid of Lil’s capacity to swallow her friends whole, to suck them into the vortex of her life.
No, no, no—what was the truth?—that she had been increasingly vexed by the complications of Lil’s life, the endless dramas and intrigues, the scrutiny of every interaction, the constant threat of histrionics, the narcissism. At the end, the months in which their friendship faded to black, Lil had contemplated an affair with a supposed friend of Tuck’s, some guy from the neighborhood, a would-be screenwriter with a soul patch and trucker hat. It had all been too much for Sadie, all this talk of lust, “connection,” of Lil’s boredom and frustration with Tuck. Just deal with it, Sadie had longed to say, we’re all bored and frustrated. Who was Lil to think that her life could be perfect, that she was exempt from the compromises her friends—everyone in the world—had been forced to make in order to maintain some semblance of happiness, of sanity, in order to live a productive life, a meaningful life? How had Sadie been so hard? How, and why? Lil had been so unhappy. And it had—she had forced herself not to think of this—been her fault, in part. If she had said something about Caitlin and Tuck, the affair, those years ago, could she have prevented everything that ensued? No, Ed would say, had said, when she’d told him about it. But it was easy for him to say.
“This is hard to believe,” said Emily, exhaling heavily, “but Lil has”—she paused—“Lil died. This morning. Lil is dead.”
“What?” said Sadie, trying, she realized, to sound as though she were surprised. “What happened?”
“I’m not actually sure,” said Emily. “It seems like she had the flu.”
“The flu?” said Sadie. She’d expected the back-alley assault, the drunken car wreck, the hijacked plane. “She died of the flu? What happened? That seems impossible.”
“I know,” said Emily impatiently. “They’re doing an autopsy.” She paused. “Can we talk more later? We took her to the hospital and I’ve been up all night. I’ve got to call Beth and Dave. They don’t know yet.”
“I can call everyone. Go to bed.”
“I think we should really try to get in touch with Tal. He would want to know.”
“I can call Tal.”
“And Tuck.” Emily sucked in her breath, then made an odd sound, like a bark. “Oh my God, Tuck doesn’t know. Tuck.”
“I can call Tuck. Go to bed.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” admitted Emily. “I just can’t believe this.”
“Lie down,” Sadie instructed her. “I’ll call everyone.” A terrible thought struck her. “Do her parents know?”
Emily sighed. “Yeah. They’re flying in. They knew she was sick. Her dad told her to go the hospital. I thought he was overreacting.” The sound—strangled, guttural—came again and Sadie realized that Emily was crying. “Imagine how they feel. I keep looking at Sarah and thinking what it would be like to lose her.”
“Oh my God, Emily, stop,” said Sadie, though she’d certainly thought such things about Jack and Mina. “Stop thinking about it. Get into bed and try to get some sleep. I’ll call everyone.”
That afternoon Sadie met Emily and Beth—and their children—at her parents’ house, just as (they all tried not to say) they had six years earlier, before Lil and Tuck’s wedding. How long ago that seemed, how impervious they’d thought themselves to the pedestrian dangers of adult life. It had seemed a game to them, Lil’s marriage, a lark. How stupid they had been.
“Is Dave coming?” Beth asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Sadie. “He had studio time booked. You know, he’s recording this solo EP.”
“He couldn’t cancel?” asked Rose.
“He thought it might make him feel better not to miss it.”
“God,” said Beth, her face growing red. “What is wrong with him?” Her voice was rising. “He’s such an asshole. Lil is dead.”
Rose shook her head. “What about Tal?” she asked. “I always liked Tal.”
“Tal,” Emily scoffed.
“He’s flying in,” said Sadie. “He said he’ll call when he gets in.”
“Well, it’s good he’s coming,” said Rose. “Lil was so fond of him.”
“Lil was in love with him,” said Emily.
“No, she wasn’t,” said Sadie.
“I always liked Tal,” said Rose.
“No, you didn’t,” moaned Sadie. She had no patience for her mother today. Mina had been up all night, nursing every hour. She was teething, most likely, which meant that she wouldn’t sleep tonight either.
“Well,” said Rose, shooting her daughter a warning look. “I can’t imagine what her parents are going through right now.” With a sigh, she poured chamomile tea from her large white pot into the thin, flowered cups she’d laid out on the coffee table, never mind the three kids toddling along its edge, wooden peg people clutched in their hands.
“Are they here?” Beth asked.
Emily nodded. “They’re staying out on the Island. With Lil’s uncle. Remember? The religious one?” They looked round at one another, from their seats on the Peregrines’ worn brown couches, their eyes bleary and slitted with shock. Yes, they nodded, they remembered Lil’s stories about Passover at this uncle’s house, the eight-hour seders.
“We offered them a room,” Rose explained, “and said they could have the house for shiva. But they said they wanted to stay with family. She’s going to be buried on the Island.”
“They’re bitter,” said Sadie, picki
ng up her cup.
“Of course they are, dear,” Rose replied. “They just lost their only child.” But, as usual, her mother had missed her point: that the Roths thought New York had killed their daughter. If Lil had stayed home and gone to UCLA, none of this would have happened. Lil would be piddling around the kitchen of a hacienda-style ranch in the Palisades, marinating chicken for fajitas, a Honduran nanny minding her baby, while she waited for her husband to pull up in his glossy BMW, bright silk tie loosened around his neck.
“They blame us,” Sadie said to her mother, her voice rising more than she wanted it to.
“No, they don’t,” said Rose. “Trust me. They have enough on their minds. They’re not thinking about you.”
“Mom,” said Sadie, throwing her hands up in the air, causing Mina, balanced upright on her lap, to laugh, Buddha-like. She was a chubby baby, a better sleeper than Jack—until recently, at least—with thick dark hair just starting to curl. Already, Sadie could see that Rose preferred her. Rose had no use for boys. “They’re not even letting us come to the funeral.”
“What?” said Beth. “What are you talking about?”
Rose nodded. “Dr. Roth has decided the funeral is just for family.”
“You’re kidding,” said Beth. “But we loved her. We took care of her.”
“They’re letting us plan a service for her,” said Sadie, her throat tightening. “Here, in the city. For her friends. I was just about to tell you.”
“Letting us?” said Emily. In the room’s far corner, her daughter, Sarah, red hair in wispy pigtails at the top of her head, haphazardly loaded squat plastic figurines into Jack’s plastic pirate ship, which Jack then silently resituated. “Do we need their permission to have a memorial service for our friend?”
“No,” Rose told her sharply, and with a tsking sound. “But she’s their child and you need to respect their wishes. They’re devastated. You need to have some sympathy. My God.”
“We do, Mom,” said Sadie, chastened.
Rose took a loud sip of tea. “Honestly, if they blame anyone, it’s Tuck.” The girls looked at one another. They blamed Tuck, too, but they wouldn’t say so aloud. “And why shouldn’t they? A girl like Lil, with that sort of high-strung personality, should have married someone who was willing to take care of her. Someone like Will or Ed.” If only you knew, thought Sadie. “Someone solid and responsible. Tuck wasn’t that sort of person. Tuck only thinks about Tuck.”
A Fortunate Age Page 50