‘Let’s skip class,’ he said. ‘Can you? Let’s go for a coffee.’
‘Oh, yes, please. Let’s.’
They sat in the same cafe, in the same seats, and Milly could not help thinking of that song. We meet every day, in the same cafe. Me and Mrs Jones, we’ve got a thing going on. That was her, here and now. Terrifying. And, oh my, wonderful too.
‘Milly, do you mind if I ask what’s wrong with your leg?’
‘Oh, not much really. A car accident, five, no – six years ago.’
‘Bummer. What happened? Drunk driver?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. It was my fault. Hit a car head on, passing without looking.’
‘God, Milly. Was anyone else hurt?’
‘Luckily not. It wasn’t literally head on, it was more side on. I was speeding because my son had hurt himself, and I was taking him to the hospital. He’d fallen from a tree, you see. But it turned out he was hardly hurt at all, just knocked unconscious. Not a single broken bone, whereas stupid me completely wrecked herself.’ She shrugged and giggled and smacked her own forehead softly.
‘You must have been worried to death about your son. No wonder you took a chance.’
‘Oh, I was worried all right, even before he fell.’ Should she tell him about reading Sam’s diary? Would that bore a childless man? ‘But everything’s fine now. I don’t mind my leg. Well, I do mind, actually, but I’m just so lucky it’s not worse. Lucky it’s my left leg, so I can still drive. It doesn’t hurt unless I use it. Can I ask why you…?’
‘Need this chair? Multiple sclerosis.’
‘Oh, dear!’
‘Yeah. Tough, eh?’ He laughed a little, and shrugged. ‘Fuck-all anyone can do about it.’
Pause. Then he said: ‘Have you read The Joy of Sex?’
‘Of course, hasn’t everyone?’ She commanded herself not to blush, to keep her voice even. She’d been mortified when Sam found it in his dad’s dresser drawer, under some T-shirts. It’d been bookmarked on the page with the Viennese Oyster position, and Sam had laughed so hard he almost cried. Even now, if anyone in the house wanted to make everyone else laugh hysterically, all they had to say was: Viennese oysters, anyone?
‘Perfect example of a bestseller that was over rated,’ said Harold. ‘Popular because it was popular.’
‘Oh, I know. Yeah. Women’s Room, too. I hated it.’
‘So, you’re not a libber?’
‘It’s not just that. I just think it’s badly written. More propaganda, than literature.’ She was quoting Jack, which felt disloyal.
Harold was wearing brown corduroy pants and a white T-shirt. His arms were very muscular, as if the chair was not electric and he was always propelling his own body with his arms.
Why had he brought up The Joy of Sex?
That night, as soon as Jack came home from work, Milly announced:
‘I won! I won! My story won the competition!’
Her voice was soft, but Jack flinched slightly, as if she’d shouted.
‘Did you?’ His mouth formed a wide, stiff smile. ‘That’s wonderful, sweetheart! Is that the one I helped you with?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was another one.’
‘Oh.’
Two weeks later, twelve cups of coffee later, Milly and Harold admitted they didn’t really like coffee and decided to see a movie instead. Midnight Cowboy at the Tamalpais. She drove them in the family station wagon, tossing shoes, candy wrappers and dog leashes onto the back seat. The windscreen wipers beat time to her heart, as the car sluiced through puddles. Neither knew what the movie was about, only that it starred that new short guy, Dustin Hoffman. They sat near the front, where a seat had been removed to make room for Harold’s chair. Milly’s seat was much lower than his chair, and she had to reach up for the popcorn he held on his lap. The theatre was warm and full of people. It didn’t feel like the afternoon. It felt like 9:00 in the evening, and for whole minutes she couldn’t recall where she kept her maple syrup, which of Jack’s teeth was false, how old exactly her children were. All the answers existed, of course, but just beyond her ken. There they orbited, the essential minutiae of her life, about three inches from her skull.
By the time Ratso and Joe Buck were on the bus heading out of freezing New York, Harold and Milly were holding hands. Ratso coughed and grew quiet and then he died, slumped against his friend, who did not know what to do. The bus driver said nothing could be done till they got there, so it was best to just carry on. Big, dumb Joe Buck sat and looked out the bus window as Florida came into view, palm trees, oranges and tiny pastel houses. Their big dream, come true. He put his arm around Ratso who was not breathing, whose stink of urine had begun to draw disgust from fellow passengers. Joe Buck looked like a little kid trying to pretend he was brave, and Milly felt her throat tighten. Oh, why did a young man’s distress tug at her so? Boys were so stupid, so reckless, they could break your heart. Joe Buck’s arm around Ratso tightened, not confidently, but as if he couldn’t think what else to do.
Milly suddenly thought of all those children and babies in Jonestown, trustfully accepting their Kool-Aid. ‘Drink up,’ their mothers would have said, but surely some of them would not have been able to keep their voices normal. Some of those children must have sensed something, and paused a second before swallowing. And then slumped against their mothers – who, for all their wickedness, would not have been able to drink their own cyanide till their loved ones were safely dispatched. They had never been rich or lucky people. They had all been desperate, with nothing to lose. Jonestown was supposed to have been their heaven on earth. Their Florida.
The lights went on and Harold and Milly still sat. Sadness swamped her, muted her in a delicious choking wave. They didn’t look at each other, and their hands remained clasped in a sweaty embrace as the song finished and Ratso and Joe Buck rode into the glare of a Florida day.
I’m going where the sun keeps shining, through the falling rain. Going where the weather suits my clothes.
Six Years Earlier
Cleaning the House
Oct 8th, 1972, San Miguel, Marin County
11:17am
‘Ah, honey, I’m going to really miss you,’ Jack said, and instantly felt his heart lift.
‘You look like one of the dogs,’ she replied. ‘When they’ve been digging up the garden. Happy – guilty.’
He didn’t answer, but looked down to his open suitcase on the bed. After three years, they’d both become accustomed to the extra weight of the word guilt. It could never just be said any more. Billie was standing in the bedroom doorway. Willy clung to her leg, blank-faced, his nose running into his mouth. What is wrong with that boy? thought Jack, then calmly recommenced packing. He was good at travelling; in fact, it might be his finest skill. If they offered degrees in travelling, he would have a doctorate. Doctor Travel.
‘I want to come to Frankfurt,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been to a book fair. Take me with you. Take me away from this nuthouse.’
Down the hall behind her, the usual chaos of voices bickering and loud music and the dogs were barking. Truman was three months old, a golden ball of fluff with no sense at all; Ike seemed mature by comparison – even by Labrador standards. Nevertheless, Jack hated them both.
‘What’s the problem with your dogs?’
‘No problem, Jack. Your kids are just teasing them as usual.’
Suddenly Elisabeth’s treble squeal cut through the boys’ broken bass notes and the barking:
‘Mom! Tell them to leave the dogs alone!’
‘You cannot leave me with four teenagers and a puppy. It’s inhuman, Jack.’
‘Stop exaggerating.’
‘It’s probably a mortal sin.’
‘Well, I don’t know. Kill them?’ He rolled a pair of khaki pants and wedged them tightly into the case.
‘Okay.’ Frowning. ‘But then Willy would be an only child. You’d have to give me another baby.’
> Jack wondered yet again: should he tell her about August? If she knew about August, she’d never want another baby. Infant from hell, if ever there was one.
‘What’s the matter with him? He’s eating his own snot. Willy, use a Kleenex.’
‘He’s upset because the boys are calling him Penis Head again.’
‘Idiots.’
‘Maybe Willy isn’t such a good name after all. Maybe kids will bully him at school. Maybe all little boys call their penis a willy.’
‘I definitely never called mine a willy. Think it’s a British affectation. Anyway, a little late for renaming him,’ he said, choosing a paperback from his bedside table. Rabbit Redux by John Updike. He slid it into the outside pocket, along with a comb. ‘Ah Willy, cheer up, son. Anyway, nothing wrong with being called Penis. I’d be proud if Penis was my name. Penis MacAlister.’
‘How about the name…Billy?’ asked Billie.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘We could spell it different. Billy with a y. The boy way.’
‘Have you seen my cuff links?’
She sighed and Willy sniffed. Jack kept packing. His flight was a mere three hours away, but he was not panicking. He rolled four pairs of light socks into his spare shoes, then slipped them in sideways, one shoe to each side. The case was the largest size allowed in the overhead luggage rack. It was not one of those new cases with wheels. Those were for old ladies and amateur tourists. His case was soft canvas, with a leather handle that extended so he could swing it over one shoulder leaving both hands free. He zipped his case closed, and began emptying his jacket pockets of old receipts, then slipped his passport, tickets and wallet into the inside pocket. He imagined that packing minimally was paring back to his original self. The real Jack. Jacko. Get out of my way, here I come world. But then he admitted to himself, he didn’t really want to be the original Jacko again. He’d been so shy, not a born charmer. In fact, he had clear recall of loneliness. But all those years of learning how to be funny and confident had paid off. He surveyed his bag and briefcase and smiled vaguely. Well, will you look at me now!
‘Look at you – already half gone, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
He took the shortcut to the long-term parking lot, glided through the check-in process, and sat in the same seat he always sat in, with the best view in the departure lounge. He enjoyed being surrounded by people who didn’t know him and didn’t want to talk to him. He took out his book, but didn’t read it. Watched the mini-skirted stewardesses, wiggling and giggling, marching behind the two pilots. The pilots’ uniforms always reminded him of the army, in a reassuring way. The men would drive and the women would bring him his dry martinis, with those little bags of fish-shaped salty crackers.
Then he was on the plane, lighting up a cigarette, sipping gin and falling in love with Billie again. Wanted to instantly tell her so. Write a letter, phone her. The thought of their reunion in a week shimmered romantically. Jack never loved her more than when he was leaving her. But what was more curious: after a day or two in Frankfurt, she seemed to dissolve altogether. Truly, Billie began to seem like someone he made up, and all those teenagers and babies too. Even Colette. Puff! All gone. The only real people were the ones in front of him. The dark-eyed French woman who was considering buying one of Golden Gate Freight’s novels for translation – she was intensely clear. And the young man from Prague, trying to sell him the rights to a Polish novel. His own wife’s face, not so clear. Each time, each trip, he was caught by surprise. Stunned at his own shallowness. Here I am again. This place. Then his Catholic upbringing paid off, because he forgave himself this flaw, and commenced to enjoy what life was throwing in front of him. Life was good and must not be wasted.
The week passed. For Jack, it felt like a month. La vie est très, très intéressant et le monde est beau! Die Welt ist schön! No one wanted to buy the rights for their big seller, oddly, but he sold If I Touched You to seven European countries, and to Canada and Australia as well. The French buyer seemed to have triggered a landslide of popularity. In turn, he negotiated a deal with a Swedish publisher to buy and translate a literary thriller. A very good deal, if it sold at home all right. He did not phone home. He never did.
For Billie, the week had been strange because it felt both too slow and too fast. If asked, she might have said she enjoyed the break. But now she was pushing Ike off the sofa again. Damn hair everywhere. She squinted at the calendar, sucked in a horrified breath, then grabbed both morning papers to read the date. Within a minute, she rallied the children to the kitchen and commandeered her troops.
‘This is important. Listen. He’s home tonight. Elisabeth, you do the hall and bathroom, and vacuum the living room please. Donald, you help Elisabeth. Mop! Remember to mop the bathroom with disinfectant, especially around the toilet. And then mop the kitchen floor. Danny, you can go through the refrigerator. Check the dates, throw away everything out of date. Give the shelves a wipe. Make sure the oven is empty. I found the dog dishes in there yesterday, and you know plastic melts. Sam, you— you— you clean out the bedroom. And deal with the dog doo in the yard. Must be a ton.’
‘It’s dog shit, Mom. I’m not five years old.’
Sam had just turned nineteen. Remote and secretive, tall and skinny. His fair hair was pulled back in a long stringy ponytail. He looked at his mother with jaded eyes – but only half-jaded, as if he deeply aspired to the bored look but still had to practise. Even his voice had slowed and slurred recently. It drove Milly crazy to hear him sometimes, talking to his friends. His loose laugh, his drawn out Far out man! Allllllriiiight! Even so, and even though he had barely graduated from high school and hadn’t got into any college or found a job, he was currently her favourite child. All he had to do was be present and she was happier.
Eighteen-year-old Danny was the quiet one, permanent dark circles under his eyes. He was biddable, but often made her uneasy. If she’d raised him from a baby it might have been different, she told herself. As if changing a person’s diapers predisposed one to a deeper understanding of someone’s nature. But he was a darling, and that’s why she’d given him the refrigerator chore. By far the easiest and most rewarding.
At seventeen, Elisabeth puzzled her: a pretty girl, taking after Jack’s mother. If only she’d make something of her assets. But no, there she was, in her oversized pair of denim overalls again, her uncombed hair hanging limply either side of her unmade-up face. Which, in Billie’s opinion, was an over-serious face. So unflattering, her chosen style. Why? But she could and would help her clean the house today. What was the point of a daughter, if she didn’t lighten the domestic load sometimes?
Donald at sixteen, well! Trouble ahead, no doubt. The number of parent teacher conferences he’d caused. Drinking, driving before he passed his test, smoking joints in school. But who could blame him, really, considering. And strange, she thought, how she actually felt closer to the difficult ones, like Sam and Donald.
And Willy. Well, Willy was only four, bless his freckled face. He was a bit dreamy, a bit slow, a bit messy and lazy. A bit inclined to sulk when his siblings and cousins teased him, or called him Penis Head. Often he just ignored his mother’s requests, like drink your milk or brush your teeth, but somehow Billie could never get angry at Willy. All he had to do was look at her. Oh come on, Mom. I know you love me best. Actually, now she thought of it, she had two current favourites.
Billie belonged to the concealment school of housekeeping. Carpets were for sweeping under. She started shoving toys into closets, throwing dirty clothes into baskets, dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and everything else into the older boys’ bedrooms, because they never put anything away and wouldn’t notice extra mess. They seemed to possess everything under the sun, aside from bras and make-up. Three hoarders. Elisabeth’s room was neat as a pin. On her desk, her pens were in a pen holder and their caps were on. Took after her dad, thought Billie.
She caught
a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and had one of her moments. As if a Martian had suddenly materialised, tapped her on the shoulder and asked: So, is this it? This is your life? Really? One thing happening, then another thing happening, and then something that’s happened before happening again? Her life seemed to be eaten up in waves. Or contractions. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Sometimes painlessly, sometimes not, but there was always a rhythm. Some days it felt like her sprawling future was being fed into a greedy indifferent processing machine, like a meat grinder, so that second by second her lived life was turned into something uniformly grey. Dispatched to a place of cold dead minutiae. Old shopping lists, dried-up dog faeces, out-of-date television guides. The days and minutes of her one and only life amounting to not much at all. She’d never thought life would be like this, at forty-four. So bitty. So fragmented. When she was thirteen and imagining her future, she’d seen it as a whole entity. Well shaped. Not perfect, but logical and rewarding. A life worth waiting for, worth working towards. And a few times, for instance, her wedding day and the births of her children, she’d felt well and truly ensconced in that imagined future. But here she was, smack dab in the middle of her life, and she still had the sensation, deep down, that she was waiting for it to properly begin. Everyone told her time went quicker the older you got, but Billie didn’t find this to be true. Most days, she seemed mired in mud, and the clock and calendar told lies. Afternoons especially, were often drenched in disappointment. Soft, surprised, disappointment. This husband? These children?
Suddenly, still in front of the mirror, she thought of one solution. She’d been mulling this dilemma for weeks now. Wasn’t it brilliant the way problems found solutions while you were having existential thoughts? Billie, no, Milly, felt like a genius.
‘Willy, sweetie.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘You know how you hate being called Willy these days? And being called Penis Head?’
Wait For Me Jack Page 15