“I’m sure. I just don’t have time. I’m sorry.”
As she reached into her coat pocket for her keys she felt a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Last night when her mother was rushing out with Baba, she mistook Scotti’s black parka for the navy one Scotti’d bought for her. Scott had been a chain-smoker until he’d decided on transitioning. Now Scotti was tempted. She took out a cigarette, fumbling for matches as Delroy followed her out the door.
“I don’t have a light,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just as well.” She put the cigarette back. Her black Saturn was
parked in front of the white Jeep he had been driving on Thanksgiving. She hurried toward the Saturn while he skipped to keep in step with her.
He said, “Somewhere I have a Ronson lighter which belonged to my aunt. Would you like it?”
She shook her head.
“What brand of cigarettes do you smoke?” he persisted.
“I don’t have one,” she said, walking faster.
“I never heard of a smoker who didn’t have a particular brand.”
She had her car key out when he said, “I saw in the phone book there’s an S. House on Tulip Path. That’s near the cemetery, isn’t it?”
“What do you want?” she said. She’d stopped, and she looked direcdy at him. He actually flinched. He made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, looking away from her eyes.
“I just thought ... I don’t know what.”
“Good-bye,” she said firmly. She went around to the driver’s seat of die Saturn.
He stood on the curb a moment before he called out, “Until we meet again!”
She couldn’t decide if he was just a poor schmuck or some dislodged personality who could become a serious menace.
She was perspiring as she drove home. She wondered if she should have made an attempt to befriend him, or at least to behave in a more friendly way.
What she hated about all of it was not knowing what had happened during that drive from Hampton Bays. What had she said to him? What had she told him about herself? Did it really matter that he knew about her? Who could he tell that she knew?
She thought of Mario. If by some chance her name did come up between them, it would be embarrassing if he was told, but Scotti sensed that Mario was a compassionate man. She thought of the underlined passage in Lord Jim. She had given up trying to read The Muster Key, dropped it off in Mario’s mailbox with a note saying “In the spirit of Christmas and recycling from Scotti.”
Maybe Mario hadn’t even done the underlining, and whether or not someone was compassionate, it didn’t necessarily follow that transsexuality would be acceptable to him. He might be revolted by it. He might resent the lies she’d had to tell him, identifying her ex as a male, for example. But those were risks that went with the territory. Those were the subjects always brought up in the Metamorphs support group.
Clearly Mario was taken with Nell Slack. Scotti’s friendship, such as it was with him, was just that: nothing romantic there, nothing promised or hoped for.
But if word got out about her, it would not be easy in a small town like East Hampton. It would not be easy to continue at the library, or at the Ashawagh Hall Writers’ Workshop. Scotti had never planned to announce the truth about herself locally. What was the point? She had no plans to stay in the Hamptons. Her mother had made it clear that she hoped Scotti wouldn’t “tell your business” to anyone here. Okay with Scotti.
When she got home Baba was not at the door to greet her, which meant he was up sleeping with her mother.
The light on the answering machine was blinking.
Scotti got out of her coat, slipped off her Merrell boots and went into the kitchen. There was a half bottle of ’88 Lynch-Bages which she’d opened Christmas Eve while she’d exchanged gifts with her mother. She poured herself a glass, went in and punched the Play button for the messages.
One was from Jessica. “Merry Christmas, darling. There’s good news concerning Emma. She’d like to see you. She just blurted it out last night after she’d said her prayers. No coaching from me. I couldn’t be more delighted. How’s New Year’s Eve?”
Then Max’s voice: “Can we have lunch or dinner very soon, Scotti? I have some surprising news. I’d meet you halfway. Southampton? And our tickets for Tristan came today for the twenty-third of January. Put it on your dance card.”
News of the merger between Lasher Communications and Standard Broadcasting had appeared in the New York Times two days before Christmas. Now Lara was calling close friends of Len’s to tell them that he was seriously ill.
Lara was a brick until she had to get on the phone and discuss Len’s prognosis. Then her voice trembled and tears flowed, so Jack Burlingame (Uncle Jack to Deanie) put the child in his Porsche and drove her up toward Northwest Woods. After his wife’s death, he’d talked of moving to East Hampton. He told Deanie he was house hunting, though he still did not have back the interest in his future that Delia’s cancer had taken from him.
Even though Lara had tried not to break down until her daughter left the house, Deanie knew what was up, the way Deanie always knew things.
“Will Daddy meet Jesus, Uncle Jack?”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
He wanted to say, “In a pig’s eye, darling,” but he was already in hot water for changing the ending of Ralph S. Mouse so that Ralph crashed his sports car into a garbage truck.
Deanie had told him, “I know how that story ends and that’s not it.”
“If you knew how it ended, why did you want me to read it?”
“Because,” she’d said, then she’d jumped down off his lap and run to tell Lara.
And of course Lara’d said Jack was hostile, and suggested that Jack was in denial, that he was deeply angry because Delia had left him, and now Len would, too.
Jack hated psychoanalytic gobbledygook. He refused to discuss things with people who analyzed the hell out of everything, as Lara was apt to do since becoming an analysand.
He was glad to get out of Le Reve.
He made his mind up to keep his big mouth shut about what he thought Len’s chances were of running into Jesus in the hereafter.
Jack believed it was wrong to feed these myths like pablum to die young, encouraging ignorance of that sort. Len used to feel the same way, even more than Lara, in the old days. Now that he was confronted with the truest truth: you died and didn’t have a clue what, if anything, came next, the tight little truths that once were his creed were no longer important. Go with the flow.
“Where?” asked Deanie.
“Where what?”
“Where will Daddy meet Jesus?”
“In heaven. Isn’t that what they told you in your Sunday school?”
“Catholics don’t have Sunday school. . . where in heaven will he meet Jesus?”
“At the library,” Jack said. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t get past the idea somehow the kid knew she was driving him up the wall and was enjoying it.
“What library?”
Then Burlingame was saved by the sight of Mario Rome waving him down near Nick and Tony’s restaurant on North Main.
“It looks like Mario wants a ride,” Jack said.
“There’s a library in heaven?”
“Not now, Deanie.” He pushed the button letting the window down as he slowed up. “Hey, Mario! What’s up?”
Mario said he’d had to leave his van at the service station down the street. He was on his way to check out a club for rent on Three Mile Harbor Road.
“You could save me a hike, Mr. Burlingame.”
“Hop in.”
Mario’s voice changed abrupdy as he said to Deanie, “Sweetheart, would you get in the back? I can’t squeeze myself in back there.”
“You’re not Barney. That’s his voice, but you’re Mario.”
“It’s not easy being green.”
“And you’re not Kermit, Mario! Be Mario!” She was scrambling into the backseat.
“You do impressions well,” Jack told Mario.
“He can imitate anyone, Uncle Jack. Even Daddy . . . Mario? Did you know there’s a library in heaven?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The nuns never said it, either.”
“Pretend you’re a nun, Deanie,” said Burlingame.
“How do I do that?”
“Nuns are very quiet. They take vows of silence. See how long you can go before you say anything. I bet you can’t go long.”
“Nuns can talk to themselves because their lips move when they pray.” “You can’t hear them, diough.”
“You won’t be able to hear me, either,” Deanie said.
Mario asked, “How are things at Le Reve?”
“The same.” Now that Lara was telling the truth about Len’s illness to special friends, Jack supposed that soon everyone would know. The help at Le Reve might have already guessed. Anyone who hadn’t seen Len lately only had to look at Delroy. Jack had seen him in the driveway as they were leaving. Delroy’s face was grim and gray. Jack had told him he ought to get out more, exercise. Delroy’d answered that it would be nice to have a new Mercedes mountain bike like the one “the Mister” had given Jack for Christmas.
“Take mine,” Jack told him. “I’ll never ride it. I couldn’t bear to tell Len that I just don’t like bicycling.”
Delroy said, “But why would you give it to me?”
“Because if you don’t have any use for a possession it weighs you down.”
“Well, I could use it, all right,” said Delroy.
“It’s yours.”
It was worth it to see Delroy’s face. Jack bet no one had ever made such a beau geste in Delroy’s direction. It was the sort of thing Delia used to do all the time. She’d say it was the only fun she got from having money: being able to give something to someone who never got a break. She was right. Giving Delroy the bicycle was the biggest high Jack had this gloomy Sunday.
Jack had spent time on the Internet reading about Lou Gehrig’s disease, the popular name for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Hell of a thing, too, for a great Hall of Fame ballplayer to be remembered for something that had destroyed his body, left him paralyzed and speechless before it killed him.
In the back seat of the Porsche, Deanie had picked up Radar, The Talk ’N Listen Robot, from the floor where Jack had tossed it.
“Hi! I’m Radar.”
“Hi, Radar,” she whispered.
“Do you want to play a guessing game?”
“Yes, please, Radar.”
Deanie jiggled her knee elatedly, then held the telephone attached to the robot, to her ear, listening.
Mario looked across at Jack and said, “Mr. Burlingame? Can she hear me now?”
“She’s busy with Radar.”
“What’s going on up at Green River Cemetery, Mr. Burlingame?” “Call me Jack. What do you mean, Mario?”
“Why is everything ready? The half acre Mr. Lasher bought is being landscaped. They’re even digging a hole.”
“What half acre? What are you talking about?” Jack asked.
Mario began whispering as Deanie was doing behind him. He asked Jack, “Is Mrs. Lasher’s mother sick? Is someone in the family very sick?” “He didn’t buy space up there,” Jack said. “He didn’t buy any at all. He wants to be c-r-e-m-a-t-e-d.”
“I just drove by there before my muffler dropped off, Mr. Burlingame. Jack. You should see the place.”
Jack thought that he probably should, even though he was sure Mario was mistaken. A while ago Lara had nagged Jack about never visiting Delia’s grave. She’d called it “closure,” as though Jack’s going back to where Delia’d been buried would be like rounding off a real estate deal. Closure, for Christ’s sake!
Jack supposed it was time to do it, whatever you named it. And he’d see what Mario was talking about. Later. When neither of them was with him.
NINETEEN
“It isn’t because you left the front door unlocked on Christmas,” Mrs. Perry said the morning of New Year’s Eve. “That was very careless of you, Scotti, but we wouldn’t let you go for that. We just have to cut back. We’ll keep our trained help, but the new addition is costing more than we thought it would.”
Scotti answered that she understood, and apologized again for not locking the library door.
It was unsettling news, but Scotti was determined not to let it ruin the evening at Jessica’s. She would see Emma again for the first time in six months.
“We’ll give you a good recommendation,” said Mrs. Perry, “but if you’re serious about working in a library you need a degree, sweetie.”
“Thanks,” said Scotti.
Back to business immediately.
“This shopping bag from Book Hampton is still here,” Mrs. Perry said. “Someone named Nell Slack left it here. Do you know someone named that?”
“I know who she is, but I don’t know her.”
“Information has a listing for an N. Slack on Newtown Lane. I called there and got a machine. A woman’s voice announced that I’d reached
Nell, and also Liam of Homesafe. I left a message that the books were here. I was afraid they were Christmas presents. But no one called back.” Mrs. Perry had the books on the counter. The Girl Who Loved Wild Horses. The Black Stallion. King of the Wind. She said, “I remember her vaguely. She came by one day to ask about children’s books with stories about horses. We had some, but she isn’t a member. She said she didn’t want to check them out, anyway; she just wanted the names. She’d buy some. Then she left these, which she’d already bought.”
“I could drop them off on my way home.”
“You don’t have to do that, Scotti.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I saw an ad in the Star for Homesafe. They’re next to the middle school. Classified doesn’t list them, so they must be new.”
Scotti put the books back in the bag.
“I hope they weren’t Christmas presents,” Mrs. Perry said.
“They aren’t gift-wrapped.”
“I hate to put you to this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
It wasn’t. Scotti was curious about Nell Slack.
After she said her good-byes to everyone at the library, Scotti drove up Newtown Lane and stopped at the brown shingled house next to the school. A small sign in the front window announced homesafe. A large, green stone cat sat on the front steps. There was no outside doorbell, but the curtained glass door opened onto a vestibule with a small table, mailboxes, and bells above each box.
1G, apparently die ground floor apartment, listed two occupants: Nell Slack, Liam Yeats.
Scotti rang the bell, waited for an answer, then gave up and left the bag full of books on the table.
She walked back to her Saturn thinking of another Yeats: William Butler Yeats, remembering a favorite toast her father liked to make at the dinner table. Borrowed from Yeats.
Wine comes in at the mouth,
And love comes in at the eye,
That’s all we shall know for truth,
Before we grow old and die.
Scotti thought of how often his references were passionate and playful, in contrast to her mother, who was frigid and stern, unlike the pretty, smiling girl in old photographs.
If Scott hadn’t had such a compelling agenda all through his youth, maybe he would have discovered someone/something hidden in Bolton House’s life. Some secret lover as Robert Frost had Kay Morrison—an affair Scotti’s father described in loving detail for The American Scholar.
Sometimes Scotti felt that for all the time she’d spent with him when she was a boy, she’d hardly known Bolton House. He must have felt that way himself, once she announced she was transgendered and about to take care of it.
She’d been sure she would be omitted from his will, after the vindictive letter he’d written her, rejecting her as son or daughter. But he had left $10,000 . . . “for my son, Scott House, now i
n the process of becoming a female calling herself Scotti House.”
As grateful as she was for the money, Scotti would rather have had some reconciling conversation with him before his death.
That night she would see Emma, and she was torn about which was the wiser way: for a child to really know a parent, or for the adult to remain distanced.
Myrna House had told Scotti, “The less your daughter sees of you from now on, the better!”
But Scotti wanted Emma in her life.
Late that afternoon, Myrna House thought of how much she hated the Coach bag Scotti had given her for Christmas. She should have exchanged it for one with an outside pocket. Scotti knew very well that her mother kept Baba’s treats within easy reach for after one of Baba’s BMs. First the little one, and then a short walk before the big one. After that, good-bye Green River Cemetery and hello, Home!
Now she had to unzip this new, fancy bag and dig around for his treat while Baba pulled on his lead impatiently. She supposed she would have to start wearing the L.L. Bean parka with all the pockets, and leave the bag home altogether.
“Wait, Baba! Wait!” and she managed to get the zipper down on the bag, find the first treat, and give it to him. Next she would have to pull out her cigarettes.
She’d never wanted a new' bag or a parka! She didn’t like Coach bags. They were too heavy! She would have taken it back the very next shopping day, but out of consideration to Scotti she’d kept it. Now look at the trouble she was in because of it! Baba, knowing this was not the routine, gave her an angry backward look, to which she said, “I know, Baba! But do your second BM and I’ll have your second treat right away for you! . . . Where are my cigarettes? Oh, dear God, this is the difference between him and her! Scott would have seen to it that the pocketbook had a side pocket!”
Now Mrs. House dropped the bag. Everything spilled out. Next, the leash slipped from her hand and Baba ran. He looked back at her gleefully and charged ahead; never mind the second doo-doo, he was on a frolic.
“Baba! No!” And what was she to do? Leave her compact, her comb, her lipstick, cigarettes, keys all on the ground, while she ran after him? She could never catch him, anyway.
“Baba! Baba!”
Then a man’s voice said, “I can get him for you.”
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