The poem she’d given them was “To His Coy Mistress.”
—I didn’t get it, said Deirdre.
—I think I got it, said June, who was good-natured with poems, as always, but brisk, as if she and the poems were opponents in a casual softball game.
—A masterpiece, said Frieda.
Ruben read aloud, “Had we but world enough, and time,/ This coyness, Lady, were no crime . . .”
—Love poem, somebody said.
—Yes. But Ruben was reciting for Deborah.
—Trying to seduce somebody.
—Words to get a woman into bed.
—Sneaky.
Ruben said, “But at my back I always hear / Time’s winged chariot hurrying near / And yonder all before us lie / Deserts of vast eternity . . .” and suddenly instead of emphasizing the wonderful ahs and ars, she was sitting at the teacher’s desk after all, in a chair she didn’t remember, her head down on her arms, sobbing loudly, her tears splashing the paper on which the poem had been photocopied.
Arms held Ruben. Well, it was the most embarrassing moment ever. Someone knelt and held her. She looked up: little old Lillian. She said, I forgot to tell you. I didn’t have a chance to read your paper . . .
—It doesn’t matter, said Lillian, who had graying curls all over her head. Someone offered Ruben a tissue.
—A friend is in the hospital, Ruben said. Someone I love. The group was quiet. Lynne said, I am bisexual. Whereupon everybody laughed.
—I just mean, said Lynne, it’s a love poem.
—Yes, said Ruben. Yes, it’s about a woman. Yes, my friend, who is hurt, is a woman. I don’t know how badly hurt. It just happened. Ruben stopped. But my dears, she continued, when she could next speak. I think everything is sexual, everyone is sexual. We are all—
—You’re not going to tell us that we’re all bisexual? said Norma.
—Multisexual, Ruben said, with new wisdom. We can love trees. We can love anything. Fire hydrants.
June said, At least they’re phallic.
—I don’t have a poem for next time, Ruben said.
—We’ll forgive you, June said. But what about an assignment? No assignment? June’s craggy, wide-awake face with its long nose smiled at her with astonishing sweetness.
—Shhh, said several women. Couldn’t you let her forget?
—I like the assignments, said June.
—All right, said Ruben. For next week, write whatever you want. Write something you’ve always wanted to write.
—What makes you think—?
—There must be something. Something you’ve always wanted to say but never said.
She thrust her papers into her briefcase, and the students crowded around her to hand in the papers they’d written.
—I’m sorry you have to read these when you’re worried about your friend, said Norma.
And Ruben left the room. Embarrassment caught up to her at the door but dissipated by the staircase. She went down the stairs. But she let the metal door smack her in the forehead when she left the stairwell.
She started for home. Students waved from the parking lot: offering rides. She started up the hill and along the street alone.
Someone was walking quickly toward her, and in a moment she saw from the way he sliced the air that it was Harry. He had never come to meet her before. He came quickly and looked upset. Well, she couldn’t tell how he looked. He was wearing a baseball cap. He’d been a Giants fan since childhood.
He waved as if she might miss him, although she was coming straight toward him. She waved back. She was tired. Maybe he’d take her briefcase.
—Jeremiah called, Harry said from a distance.
—What is it?
He came up to her. He gestured: both arms up, down, pushing air. Well, it’s rather bad.
She thrust her hand to her face, keening. She’s dead?
—No, no, she’s not dead.
—Then why did you say it’s bad? Never do that. Never say there’s bad news if it isn’t the worst possible news.
—In fact she’s in some danger. I hadn’t thought she might be. A crazy accident. They don’t know why it happened. A man in his forties, not drunk. Suddenly he lost control.
—But I already know she’s in danger, said Ruben. How could it be that—now—she was having an argument with Harry?
—How do you know?
He didn’t know about her conversation with Jill. She said, I broke into their house to let Mac out. I called Jill.
—You broke in?
—Yes.
—Yes, all the girls are on their way.
—Can I go to the hospital? she said.
—Jeremiah says no.
There they stood in the street. He put his hand comfortingly on her arm, and she shook it off. He says no? It’s an hour away and he says no?
—Well, it’s because it’s only an hour away. You could be summoned in a hurry, but the girls couldn’t be.
—But I have to see her. Is she conscious? What’s wrong?
—Internal bleeding. Liver damage .. . a lot of internal damage. She’s conscious. But I really don’t think you can see her. I think just family, very briefly.
—But I’m family! she shouted. They began to walk. She said, Why didn’t you bring the car? You might have missed me.
—I thought if I brought the car I’d miss you. And I wanted a walk.
—That was selfish, she said. She didn’t mean it, exactly. She meant something hard to explain. If she were really family, Harry would have brought the car whether he wanted a walk or not, because the shape of their day would be totally changed by Deborah’s accident. And if he’d brought the car though he wanted a walk, that would mean she was family after all. She couldn’t say all that, and it made no sense. She cried. They walked together. He didn’t comment on her tears or offer to take the briefcase. She could scream at him about the briefcase, and she was afraid she might. She had a kindness defect. She brushed against him and he came to life. He touched her arm, and she cried into his arms and asked him to carry the briefcase.
They walked home, stopping at the market for a sandwich to share for lunch, and agreed on chicken cutlet. At home, they unwrapped it and Harry cut it. They sat on stools at the kitchen counter and ate it. Ruben was hungry.
—It’s her liver? she said.
—Her liver, and other things.
—Did you find out the name of the hospital?
He had written it down.
—Can I call her?
—Jeremiah said to wait.
The sandwich, which they ate off the deli wrapping paper, had shreds of lettuce in it, and the lettuce was all over the table between them. Ruben played with bits of it. I cried in class, she said.
—You told them about Deborah?
—Sort of.
—Well, they’re used to you.
—Not that used to me.
She heard a key in the door. Peter came in, and someone was with him.
—Racing into the sea, said an old woman’s loud voice.
Peter and an old woman came into the kitchen. Granny got up from under the table and barked. Ruben, tears on her face, pushed back her chair and gestured to straighten the shreds of lettuce by magic, to line them up like iron filings under a magnet.
Peter and the old woman, who was Cooper, stood side by side the way he had stood with high school and college friends, waiting for the grown-ups to speak. Cooper was short, but she stood straight, so she looked less old. She moved a little stiffly. She had broad shoulders. Berry Cooper, she said. The name startled Ruben momentarily. It sounded like a name she had heard, but that was probably because it sounded like Gary Cooper.
—My parents, Peter said. Then he said, I left Cooper’s box here.
—I saw it this morning, said Ruben.
—Why don’t you sit down? Harry said. I’m making coffee. Do you drink coffee, Mrs. Cooper? Berry?
—Black, said Berry. With sugar. Her short white hair stuck
out. She wore a heavy dark green smock, a costume for Robin Hood.
—What’s in the box? said Ruben boldly. She remembered something from childhood: talking normally with undried tears still on her face.
—You didn’t look? said Berry. Fingernail parings.
—Oh, Cooper, that’s not true, said Peter, not affectionately.
—I am a liar, Berry Cooper said.
Harry made coffee.
But Ruben had believed the old woman, for a moment, and she’d thought that if she were that kind of person—by which she seemed to mean a person who dealt in tangibles—she’d have saved fingernail parings, and now she’d have some of Deborah’s.
—How’s Deborah? said Peter, suddenly murmuring, coming closer to her, putting his hands on her arms: like an adult full of compassion.
Harry said, Not good.
—Was it a drunk?
—No, Harry said.
—Was the other driver hurt? Ruben thought to say to Harry.
—Only slightly.
—My friend’s in the hospital, said Ruben to Berry. She was in a car accident last night.
—I must have put it in the hall, Peter said. He went to look for the box.
—Canine interference, said Berry. Granny had put her front paws on Berry’s lap and was sniffing her face. Berry tipped her face downward. You like paint, doggie? she said.
—I thought you were a sculptor, said Ruben.
—I am. Berry sat down on Harry’s stool and spread her knees wide and rested her arm on the counter, pushing the paper from the deli off it.
—Right now you’re painting? Ruben said, not knowing why she was persisting in this tea-partyish manner.
—This morning Peter and I painted a protest banner, Berry said. It was his idea.
—And what were you protesting? said Ruben.
—Old age.
—You don’t like being old.
—I feel the way I did when I was young, Berry said. Where is Peter?
—He went to look for your box.
—I’m decrepit, said Berry, but not that decrepit. The other day I painted a big picture. A large gray shape. If I showed it to a critic he’d say it represented my death.
—And what did it represent to you? said Ruben.
—Not my death, I can tell you that much.
—I’m afraid my friend will die, said Ruben.
—So she’ll die, Berry said. Why does that make you afraid?
Peter returned with the box and they had coffee. Berry put the box in her pocket.
—I had a husband who lost things, Berry said to Peter. You better not be somebody like that. She had round eyes that stood out from her face a little. When she talked, she had the impatient sound of a child. She didn’t fit herself into the conversation the way adults did.
—Which husband? said Peter.
—One of them.
—I’m not, said Peter with authority.
—Petey, said Berry. Carry me upstairs. I want to see the rest of the house.
—Carry you? Ruben said.
—I don’t climb steps, Berry said. May I have more sugar? She’d drunk half the coffee.
They gave her more sugar and then she walked slowly to the foot of the stairs. Peter made a chair of his arms and easily carried her up. She looked bulky. Ruben, surprised, followed: the hostess, yet with that dragging sensation inside her. It was hideous to do things unconnected to Deborah, but she didn’t seem to have the authority to clear everything else out. On the second floor, Berry walked from room to room. May I sit here a little? she said, in the bedroom, and Ruben considered that probably Berry hardly ever went visiting these days. She felt sorry for Berry.
Berry said, Go, Petey. When I’m ready, Mom will help. Or I’ll call you.
Peter nodded and withdrew, and Ruben listened to his foot-steps, oddly pleased, as if Berry had schemed to be alone with her. Berry sat down on the side of the bed. Ruben’s nightgown was bunched next to her, and the underwear she’d worn the day before was on the floor. The bed was not made. Ruben sat down on the floor and crossed her legs. She was in her dusty teaching clothes: pants and a jacket with a blouse underneath.
—I don’t pay Petey much, Berry said.
—But the job is good for him, said Ruben.
—Maybe more in a few months, said Berry sadly. I might get some money.
—He’s all right. He can’t afford to move out, but I don’t think he minds.
—Of course he minds! said Berry, slapping the mattress. I remember how I felt, living in my father’s house.
—Well, maybe he minds. But it’s all right. If Ruben had to talk, she needed to talk about Deborah.
—My second husband, said Berry, almost died twice. Now Berry spoke directly and in an almost friendly way to Ruben. Ruben felt as if after all they were the same age. But Berry was extremely old. Her skin had wrinkles upon older wrinkles, as if she’d lived many lives. Berry went on: The first time, I was afraid. He had a burst appendix and in those days people usu-ally died from that. But he didn’t. I was miffed that I’d spent all that time being afraid. The second time he almost died, I kept working. I had a WPA job painting a mural in a post office in Arkansas, and he was in New York. I didn’t go to him.
—What did he have?
—Pneumonia.
—Why didn’t you go?
—Oh, if he was going to die, it was his death, not mine. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I did love him, then. I never stopped, really. He left me, later, for a man. I loved him, but I had some respect for his death if it was going to be a death. It was none of my business. It didn’t belong to me.
—Didn’t you want to take care of him?
—Other people took care of him.
—Was he angry that you didn’t come?
—I don’t remember.
—I guess money was part of it. In those days.
—Oh, I don’t know. We always got money, one way or an-other.
—Weren’t you afraid for him? I’m afraid for my friend. I think how afraid I’d be.
—Well, stay out of her way then. She doesn’t need two people being afraid.
—And I’m afraid of losing her.
—Stay out of her way, stay out of her way, said the wicked old woman. If you’re going to lose her, you’d better find a new friend. Berry got up and looked around the room, at the book-cases and then at a couple of reproductions of paintings, at Toby’s and Harry’s dressers and a chair heaped with clothes. Then she walked to the stairs and walked down slowly on her own. Ruben walked behind her. She wanted to push her. She wanted the old woman to have a heart attack.
When they reached the bottom, there was no sign of Peter. She was angry with him for leaving her alone with Berry, as if Peter were Berry’s baby-sitter or guard. She left Berry standing in the living room and walked into the bathroom and locked the door and cried. Then she peed, but then she stayed there. She heard Peter come along. Where’s Mom? he said.
—Wouldn’t know.
—She just left you here?
—Looks that way.
—Well, I’ll take you home now.
—I’d like to make wee-wee first, if you don’t object.
—Of course not, said Peter, and Ruben heard him lead the way to the bathroom. Before he and Berry could reach the door, Ruben opened it, smiled slightly, and walked past them like a stranger. She got her coat and sat in the dining room until, after an interminable time, Berry had used the bathroom and Peter had ushered her out of the house. Then Ruben went looking for Harry. She met him on the stairs. She said, I’m going to the hospital.
—But Jeremiah said no.
—Well, I’m going anyway. Do you want to come?
—I’ll go partway, said Harry, and she remembered why she approved of him. They decided he’d come along and wait for her someplace near the hospital.
—You are kind to me, said Ruben.
Harry drove. They didn’t talk. At a traffic light Harry put a ta
pe into the tape player, and anger flashed through Ruben once more. It was an endless, stupid book about economics, read in a woman’s voice with self-conscious diction. Why are we listening to this?
—I have to give a talk on it.
—It’s stupid.
—Parts.
The highway was busy. She thought he changed lanes too much. She didn’t think it was safe to listen to a tape while changing lanes on the highway. They would have a fiery crash and end up in the hospital in the room next to Deborah. Leave me alone, Deborah would say. What are you doing, stealing my death?
She asked Harry, Do you think Deborah is going to die?
—I don’t know.
The tape went on. Certain fluctuations of this nature . . .
She said, I want you to say, No, of course not.
—I wish I could say that. He sounded like an old rabbi facing tragedy. Ruben tortured herself by deciding how she’d have spent the afternoon if Deborah had not been hurt. She’d have done the grocery shopping and maybe bought herself a sweater. She wanted another long, loose sweater, with winter coming. Maybe she’d have taken everything home and put the groceries away and cooked something, maybe a dessert. She hardly ever did that.
The hospital, an hour away, was in a town where they’d never been. Where should I wait? said Harry.
—I don’t know.
—Is there a library?
—How should I know? They got off the highway and found the hospital, a big brick building with curving paths and tame landscaping. He drove past it.
—Where are you going?
—I’ll find a place to wait and give you the car.
It made sense, though it seemed silly. They drove through a peeling downtown. There was a library. Harry kept going. I really want a coffee shop, he said, the way he said he’d wanted the walk. Harry always knew what he wanted. He drove into what was obviously the wrong kind of neighborhood—all houses. Then he turned around, but when he found a place, it had shut down. Ruben felt like a passenger trapped on the wrong bus—no, someone in a nightmare. At last they found a little old-fashioned luncheonette.
—That old place will have rice pudding, said Harry. I’m going to have rice pudding.
—Enjoy it, said Ruben bitterly. He waved, as if Deborah weren’t hurt, and got out, and she slid into the driver’s seat and drove off. At first she got lost, looking for the hospital again, but at last she remembered.
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