—I’ll look for her, Ruben said, but then came a tread on the stairs. They waited awkwardly, silently, standing in the hallway and looking up as her feet and then the rest of Berry slowly appeared. Her feet and legs were bare. She was not otherwise bare; she wore the pink housedress, though the day was cold, and the three of them looking up at her were in coats. Berry had more of a humpback than Ruben had noticed before. Her face, with its bulging eyes, was stubborn and passionate. The face was deeply lined, covered with creases and tiny wrinkles. The hair stuck out, as always. More white hairs grew from the moles on Berry’s face. The housedress had a food stain on the front.
—I’m busy, said Berry. She stood on the bottommost step with her hand on the newel post.
—Remember me, Berry? said Mary Grace. I’m Peter’s girl-friend.
—Did you bring back my car?
—No, the car’s not working so well.
—Who is this man, a veterinarian? said Berry.
Ruben introduced Jeremiah. He said, It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Cooper. I’ve been wanting to meet you for many years.
—My dog died, Berry said.
—I’m sorry to hear that, said Jeremiah.
It was stuffy in the hallway. Ruben looked around for a window. Her feet hurt. Can we come in? she said. I want you to talk to Jeremiah. He’s a lawyer, not a vet.
—Oh, yes, so you said. Well, if this young woman will bring back the car, I don’t need to sue anybody.
—You need a will, said Jeremiah.
—A will? I’m an anarchist. Anarchists don’t have wills.
—I would imagine, Jeremiah said, leaning back on his heels, which put the back of his head, Ruben saw, against the dusty wall, I would imagine that anarchists have more wills than other people. If you don’t have a will, your possessions could end up going to the state. Do you want to support our nefarious government? Help Toby’s husband put tennis courts in the park for vandals to destroy? Jeremiah was having a good time. Berry said, I suppose you want me to leave you my money, Toby Ruben.
—Of course not!
—That would be a conflict of interest. I would be unable to represent you in that situation, Jeremiah said. Do you know to whom you want to leave your money? And could I ask you another question, maybe more important? Do you have a living will?
—A paper that gives you the right to put me to death if I’m troublesome. The big square grin.
—Not at all. A paper that protects you from idiot doctors who want to torture you with futile medicine to drive up your hospital bill, said Jeremiah promptly.
—Oh, I do see what you mean. Berry loved that. She said, Let’s talk about my death, shall we? Can you get me a good death? Do you know there was talk of putting me to death in the electric chair at one time?
Jeremiah stepped sideways and bumped into Ruben. I do know that. I do know. I’ve read the book. The book your sister wrote.
—She has a copy.
—Who does?
—Jeremiah, I do, Ruben said. I have your copy.
—Didn’t we figure out years ago that you didn’t? Jeremiah said.
—But I do. Berry, could we please sit down someplace?
Berry ignored her. She seemed to like receiving them from the first step, one hand on the newel post. I may have a copy myself, she said. My sister sent me a signed copy when it was published.
—Berry, said Ruben, did you ever call her?
—It was her place to call me.
—But Berry, said Ruben. Berry.
—She called me Jessie. My name was Gussie. She got many things wrong.
—But she was remembering, forty years later. Books like that are always wrong.
—Then why pay attention to them? said Berry.
They couldn’t get out of the corridor. They didn’t run out of topics, though it took Jeremiah a long time to bring out a legal pad and start leaning on the wall and taking notes for Berry’s living will, her last will and testament, and her power of attorney. Mary Grace, in the end, received Berry’s power of attorney. Berry insisted.
Jeremiah got tired of leaning on the wall. Now he lifted one foot to the step where Berry stood and leaned on his knee to write. He looked like a fat suitor paying court to her.
—I leave my money and my furniture and my house and my works of art, Berry suddenly dictated, slowly and loudly, to Peter.
—To Peter? Are you sure? said Jeremiah. You mean Peter Ruben? Toby’s son?
—To Peter. But not my car. He owes me for the car.
Jeremiah wrote it all down. I’ll call an associate in on this, he said. He asked many questions. Ruben was impressed. Berry said Peter appreciated her work. He had cleaned it, arranged it, and talked to her about it. He would come back. Berry said, Peter is my final boyfriend. You think he is your boyfriend, she said to Mary Grace, but he’s mine. I’m too used to being selfish, at my age, to be nice to you about it. She laughed her horrible braying, raucous laugh at them all.
Ruben could smell something terrible. Berry obviously didn’t bathe. She remembered the dog, but it couldn’t be the dog. It was a scorched smell. Then came a bad, sudden noise. They were released. They ran up the stairs past Berry, who was making her way hand over hand. She had been boiling an egg and it had finally exploded. It was smeared on the wall. The saucepan was scorched. Now, released from the corridor at last, they bumped into one another, opening windows, carrying the pot outdoors. Berry was still coming upstairs, protesting and being important. She said, You owe me a pot and an egg.
—Definitely, said Jeremiah.
By now it was late. The single lightbulb in the kitchen made it seem later than it had seemed in that corridor. Ruben didn’t want to look at her watch. She said, Was that your supper? Was that egg going to be your whole supper?
—Looks that way, doesn’t it? Berry said.
At last they got her into a sweater and shoes, then out of the house, and they all drove to the International House of Pan-cakes, where they bought her an omelet and everybody had something. They sat in the warmth like four happy friends. Berry said, Toby, will you help me wash my hair?
—I will, said Toby gladly, and it seemed like the end of a story, but wasn’t, for Jeremiah, who was drinking cup after cup of coffee from the Never Empty pot, said in a voice that irked Ruben, Deborah and I used to come here with the kids all the time. It was a lot cheaper then. And they ate so little! They ate so little!
—Well, we were babies, said Mary Grace.
—That’s right.
—I remember wanting my own dinner and always having to share with Rose, she said.
—Oh, no, said Jeremiah. You hardly ate anything. We’d give you one pancake and you’d sit there delicately eating around the edges.
—But later. Later I wanted my own. Maybe even earlier I wanted my own, to feel big. You could have bought me my own!
And Jeremiah gave way instantly. Oh, I should have, I should have. Everything would be different now.
—It’s okay, Pop. Now Mary Grace sounded embarrassed.
—No, I should have. If I’d known what would happen.
—If you’d known Mama would die, you’d have bought me my own dinner? That doesn’t make sense.
Berry seemed to be ignoring them, vigorously eating a big cheese omelet with potatoes and toast, while Mary Grace, who hadn’t eaten much dinner, had pancakes with strawberries and fake whipped cream, and Ruben drank tea.
Jeremiah poured himself more coffee, and Ruben wanted to stop him, as if he were drunk. He went to the men’s room, and shuffled back. Why do we make so many mistakes? he said in a quavering voice and Ruben found that she hated him, though she and Jeremiah had certainly both made plenty of mistakes.
But she argued herself into politeness. She said, Oh, I know. I wake up thinking of Deborah. Every day I revise time I spent with her. Every day.
—Boy, I don’t do that, Mary Grace said. I try to remember everything exactly the way it was.
—I’m alwa
ys changing things, said Ruben.
—Changing the past, Berry said with her mouth full. Now that’s a human failing!
Feeling criticized, Ruben got angry. Do you want something else to eat, Berry? she said—to make Berry feel like a child being taken by parents for a treat.
—I’m buying all of you dinner tonight, Berry said. I have a credit card. You can pay for this, and I’ll pay next time.
As if they’d be together, this bad group of four, forever. As if this were breakfast, instead of a late-night snack, or Berry’s dinner. Was it after midnight? Ruben wouldn’t look.
—Now, your sort of work, Jeremiah said to Berry. It must have kept you up late very often. Am I right? Don’t artists work in the night? Poking holes in pieces of stone in the middle of the night? Eh?
—When a sculpture of mine fell through the floor, said Berry, it killed a man and his lover making love in his bed. It wasn’t that late, not later than twelve or one. They hadn’t stayed up all night, you see. Neither had I. I was on top of the sculpture. I suppose it was my weight plus its weight that broke through the floor. Beautiful Italian marble. Didn’t often get that. I’d won something, to get it. We were able to salvage it. It was cracked, but I worked that in. I sprained my ankle.
—They died? They really died? said Jeremiah, though Ruben was certain she’d made it up.
—Death is a fact of life, Berry said.
—Tell me about it, Jeremiah said bitterly, pouring himself more coffee from the new pot the waitress had brought. He spilled it over his hand. Then he sat back in his chair, wiping his hand on a napkin and shaking his head back and forth.
—Daddy, said Mary Grace, as if to stop something. She was sitting next to her father. Berry was across from her, next to Ruben.
—Well, Mrs. Cooper, said Jeremiah wearily. I suppose you’ve seen many people die in your lifetime. But for me, my wife Deborah . . .
—I haven’t killed many, she said, but I’ve seen many die.
—You were married several times, I think? I should have asked you this before. He patted his pockets for paper and pen. Are all your husbands dead?
—Now they are, she said. I divorced two of them. The last one died. He was the one I wanted to keep.
—I’m sorry.
Ruben was terribly tired. Her head ached. She would never reach her own bed. If allowed, she’d have lain down and fallen asleep in the aisle of the International House of Pancakes.
—I’ve known about you for such a long time, Jeremiah was saying. It’s strange to know that you’re really you.
—I’m me, Berry said.
—I don’t even remember that book very well, he went on, but I remember some things. About the trolleys. I’m extremely interested in trolleys.
—Oh, the trolleys, said Berry. The streetcars. Quaint things.
—But the strike—Jeremiah said.
—The strike. We supported the strikers. The company wanted them to work for nothing.
—Surely not for nothing, he said. But what did you do to support the strike?
—Well, I was a fine speechwriter, she said, to Ruben’s surprise. The main thing I did was write speeches for some of the men in our group. They were better at delivering them, but I was better at writing them. She grinned her wild, untrustworthy grin.
—That’s not what it says in Miriam’s book, Ruben murmured. Not exactly.
—Oh, she didn’t know much.
—But what about the wreck? said Jeremiah. What about the wreck where your sister died?
—Miriam made that up to sell copies. There was no wreck.
—Of course there was, Jeremiah said. It was in the news-papers. There are scholarly articles. You’re rather famous, Berry Cooper. You were a famous Jewish anarchist. You went to trial. Have you forgotten?
—I remember everything, Berry said. I remember all of my life. Many lovers. But I don’t think I remember a trial.
—Oh, come now, said Jeremiah, and Ruben reached to put her hand on his arm. Oh, come now, he went on. Mrs. Cooper. You were acquitted of murder.
—Of murder? My goodness, Berry said, and she looked sly and wide awake, quite unlike Ruben, who wanted all these people to stop talking and take her home to bed. Berry was still, slowly, eating her toast and her omelet.
—But you did it, Berry, didn’t you? said Jeremiah. Didn’t you flip the switch and cause the wreck? Didn’t you do it? You can tell me. I won’t call the cops or anything. But I’ve always known you did it. The excuse was that sketchbook, but you never sketched scenes in the country like that. I took a drawing course once, just to find out about sketching. I thought about it for years. Berry Cooper, he said madly, I know you did it.
—What was it I did? The grin again.
—You tampered with the signals. You caused the wreck that killed your sister. I think you’d be a nicer person, even now, if you admitted it, Berry.
—And Mr. Laidlaw, Berry said, wiping the last of her egg with a piece of toast and eating it. Mr. Laidlaw. Where was your wife going at the time of her death? Where was she driving?
—What has that got to do with anything? said Jeremiah. She was going to visit her mother.
—But she died on Route 6, Mr. Laidlaw. Her mother didn’t live on Route 6.
—She’d taken a wrong turn, said Jeremiah, and Ruben realized she had never known exactly where Deborah’s accident had taken place.
—She was going to see her lover, Mr. Laidlaw, Berry said firmly, balling up her napkin and looking around, as if she was the one who’d pay the check.
—Oh, don’t be silly, said Jeremiah.
—She told your daughter, who’s sitting right beside you, though she never told this supposed friend of hers. She was going to see her lover. She had a lover. Didn’t you know? She was going to see her lover, and she told your daughter, and your daughter told Petey, and Petey told me one night, as a bedtime story, to quiet me down. Sometimes I’m hard to quiet down.
—Where’s the check here? Jeremiah said. Suddenly he, too, was in a hurry. What kind of nonsense? Of course you’re making that up. Mary Grace, tell her to stop it.
—Stop it! said Mary Grace. Of course it’s not true! She got up and pushed past him and ran to the women’s room, while Jeremiah was suddenly standing and shouting angrily for the check. You killed her! he screamed back at the table, at Berry presumably, but now the waitress was bringing the check and smiling tightly as he took it and threw some bills on the table. You killed my wife! he shouted at the little old lady he’d taken out to dinner. You killed my wife! I mean your sister, he said. I mean your sister.
Mary Grace joined them and said nothing as they drove home. Ruben wanted only silence from Jeremiah and Berry. If she talked all the way home, it might be possible to keep them silent, but she could think of nothing to say. And if she spoke, Berry might reply. What would Berry say to her, if provoked? Oh. She’d say Peter was gone for good. She’d say he was dead.
They drove down the empty street and Berry said, I didn’t kill your wife and I didn’t kill my sister. It’s always love. I was walking out there on the tracks to meet my lover, to try to persuade him to take me back. He’d gone back to his wife. He’s the one who flipped the switch. They never even thought of him.
Nobody answered her. Now Ruben knew that nobody wanted anyone to speak. Even Berry, she thought, didn’t want anyone to speak. It was always hard to guess what Berry was thinking or what Berry wanted, but Ruben thought that now even she had had enough. Maybe even Berry just wanted to go to bed.
Jeremiah stopped first at Berry’s house, and waited while Berry let herself out. Ruben didn’t follow her to make sure she’d be all right, but Jeremiah waited until Berry had walked slowly up the walk and onto the porch steps. There was an interminable wait while the lonely old woman stood in front of her own door, and Ruben was afraid she’d have to go and help, but then the door opened, a light even went on inside, and the door closed. Jeremiah drove away. In silence, they continued to
drive. Ruben considered saying, I’m sure there was nobody. Could there have been someone in Deborah’s life whom Ruben didn’t know existed? For her own sake, never mind Jeremiah’s, she couldn’t endure it.
They reached Ruben’s house. She wondered what Mary Grace would do, but the girl got out of the backseat while Ruben got out of the front. As she was about to open the door, Ruben touched her old friend’s arm. Good night, Jeremiah, she said. She didn’t expect to say anything more, but then she mumbled, Don’t worry too much, dear.
As she closed the car door she heard him say, What? What?
She and Mary Grace went into the house together. Inside the door, with the door closed behind them, Mary Grace kissed Ruben’s cheek and went silently ahead of her up the stairs and into Peter’s room. And that door closed.
Ruben used the bathroom on the first floor, not to awaken Harry. She climbed the stairs. In her bedroom, Harry was asleep, his arms and legs flung out all over the bed. Next to him was a note. Message on machine, it said. Wake me up. I’ll go. Ruben went down the stairs. The answering machine was in the kitchen. She turned it on. There were two messages. The first was from Stevie. Mom. Dad. I’ve got him. He turned up. He’s on his way home. I’ve got him right here. Fm putting him on a bus. It gets in at one-thirty. Go and get him.
Ruben started to cry. Then she looked at the clock. It was two a.m. Harry had meant to awaken, but hadn’t. He’d been sure she’d get in before one-thirty, but she hadn’t. The second message was Peter’s voice. Hey, Mom. Dad. I’m here. I’m at the bus station. I think they’ll let me sleep here all night. Maybe you’re out of town.
Ruben hurried back upstairs. Harry was fast asleep. She picked up the pencil lying near the note, and wrote, I went. Then she reached past the phone and took the copy of Trolley Girl lying there. She went downstairs and ate a cookie, for alertness while driving. Her car was in the driveway. As she walked toward it, she saw in the broken light from a streetlamp that Deborah, her blond hair tumbling out of the red-and-yellow woolen hat, was waiting in the front passenger seat, with her frayed gloves in her hands.
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