Martha had come across Sherri’s name plenty of times in the writings of the others, but as Sherri doesn’t dwell in the Arroway house, she had no hope of learning enough to include her in the project except in a supporting role. She felt defeated, for she sensed that Sherri merited a larger part. (The truth is, she has grown quite fond of the girl—although she has yet to make her acquaintance.) But fate intervened; Liz had returned from lunch and was just ushering her to the door when Martha remembered her manners and thought to ask Liz about her project, namely a mattress cover which she was in the process of converting into several sets of pot-holders.
Reluctantly (Liz seemed to be in no mood to engage in pleasantries that day), Liz brought her into the living room, and there was the diary, lying open on the coffee table amid the junk mail and broken toys with which the Arroways decorate all the flat surfaces in their home. Martha recognized it at once (from Liz’s descriptions of her sister’s penmanship in her own writings) and was so immediately intoxicated by the sight that she forgot herself briefly and bent over to make a preliminary investigation. Recovering from her lapse, she was horrified to find Liz watching her with some measure of astonishment. For a moment it seemed possible that she had been found out, that she would be cast out, as had been the college girl; the whole thing would come to an end right then and there, with so many factors yet unknown and with Martha’s cronies all roused and anxious for the outcome. (Martha has been bringing her notes to their weekly teas. At first her friends were flabbergasted, but though a few still click their tongues when she begins to read, others have become as enthusiastic as Martha is. One has volunteered to edit when the time comes, and another to help Martha find a publisher for her “novel.” Still, they are all reticent when she tries to enlist someone to assist her in her next venture.) But then Martha, who remembered suddenly that she had been brought into the room to inspect Liz’s project, espied it, descended on it, and applauded Liz’s ingenuity with as much sincerity as she could muster.
Liz relaxed then, and modestly changed the subject, announcing that it was of no consequence that her sister had left her diary behind because the writing was too “sloppy” to be deciphered anyway. She closed it and carried it over to the corner, placing it on top of a stack of old newspapers that were awaiting recycling.
“Sloppy” was too frivolous a term to describe what Martha had seen. Sherri’s e’s, l’s, and o’s were all loopless and could be distinguished from one another only by their height. Her t’s were stemless dashes, and her i’s were represented by a raised slash above a void. The rest of her letters (except for her s’s, which resembled cobras in pursuit) appeared all to be v’s and w’s, and scanning them gave Martha the impression that she was looking at a cardiological read-out. Furthermore, the entire page was sans punctuation.
But Martha knows that Sherri is spending the night at the Arroway house; she saw her earlier from a window, standing on the stoop with Jake, puffing on a cigarette and looking about as if she expected to be assaulted momentarily. Martha is certain that she will find Sherri’s diary just where Liz left it. And she is certain too that under her relentless scrutiny (and contrary to Liz’s claim), the material within will become decipherable.
She puts her floor plans away and gets out her notes. There are still gaps. For one, she would like to know exactly what happened to Fred Crum that day, and God knows how long it will take until she gets to the bottom of this issue with Gladys. Still, she can’t help but giggle; she thinks she knows now how Heinrich Schliemann felt when he unearthed Agamemnon’s tomb. Death is a friend to the wretched, she thinks, and she remembers how frequently He did try to cultivate a liaison with her. Whether reading or quilting or flower-arranging with her peers, she heard His grave solicitations. Even her Tai Chi instruction did nothing to dispel Him. But since she began this new endeavor, she has not heard Him as much as speak her name.
PETE
Pete is in the shower singing Randy Newman’s “America, America” at the top of his lungs. When his skin begins to pucker, he turns off the water, slides open the door, and gropes around for a towel. Smiling, he steps out and swipes at the mirror. But when his face comes sailing out of the fog and he sees how the skin around his jawbone is beginning to sag, his smile vanishes. “What am I doing?” he whispers.
He lowers his head, and it occurs to him that what he actually knows about Gladys Morgan wouldn’t fill the vanity basin he finds himself staring into. She makes him feel young; he knows that. But of her intelligence level, political leanings, religious persuasions, he knows nothing. Really, their conversations have been more flirtatious than illuminating. He doesn’t even know what kind of music she likes. Is it possible, he asks himself, that this makes him feel young, the pursuit rather than its object?
He slips into his favorite khakis, a cotton shirt, and a button-down sweater his mother brought back for him from L.L. Bean. He wore a suit to dinner, but Gladys suggested they change into streetwear for the stroll they are planning to take after they run down to the nursing home. The stroll was easy; Pete had only to suggest that they get some distance from their colleagues so as to be able to discuss the various techniques they learned today objectively. The nursing home was trickier. Pete didn’t know how Gladys would go for it. Really, he would have preferred to go without her. But whereas most of the other female conferencees had been dressed in business suits and “man”-tailored blouses, Gladys had worn a sheer, tight-fitting, scooped-neck dress, and he had seen the eyes of the other men taking note of her. So he forced himself to ask if she would accompany him. She looked disappointed at first, but then she shook her head and said, “You’re such a considerate person. It’s one of the things I really like about you.”
But Pete knows very well that he’s not considerate at all. A considerate man would not have asked Gladys to accompany him anywhere. When she suggested they attend the convention, he could have said no, or he could have told her afterward that he had changed his mind. Certainly that was his intention. But his fantasies got hold of the notion, and somehow he never got around to it. And now it’s too late; they’re here. She brushed her fingertips over his wrist at dinner and said, “I’ve been looking forward to this.” What can he do at this point? Tell her he’s changed his mind? He’s inclined to leave the matter to fate now. For all he knows, Gladys’ gesture at dinner may have been completely unintentional. When they return from the nursing home, she may very well shake his hand and say good-night. And if she doesn’t, well, it’s bound to be just this one time. What harm can it do? Liz suspects, he guesses, but does not oppose. It seems reason enough to succumb to his inertia. He has never been so impudent as to allude to his knowledge of her secret. Eventually, it may even strengthen their relationship.
He raps lightly at Gladys’ door. She opens it immediately, her eyes bright with collusion. She is dressed now in tight black jeans and a diaphanous flowered blouse. What a figure she has! And even with the heels she’s wearing, she’s still shorter than he is.
They take the elevator down and find his car in the lot. They have never been alone in a car together. They have never been alone anywhere. The meeting of their knees, and, later, the entanglement of their feet, would have seemed to suggest a closer alliance, but although their flirtation endured verbally, no such thing occurred. Now Pete doesn’t know whether he should open the door for her or not. Liz would say it isn’t necessary. But this isn’t Liz. He picks up his pace and reaches the handle before Gladys can. His effort is not in vain; she gives him that you’re-so-considerate smile all over again.
On the way to the nursing home, he is moved to tell her something about Iron John and its author. This is because he would like her to know that although he may appear to be a soft man now, he is actually in transition. He explains that the male malleability which is so prevalent these days is actually a reaction to female compulsion. He is hoping she will say that she is not part of the feminist movement, or that she is, but understands and does not o
ppose the men who are now in search of the golden place within that is wild and extravagant. But she doesn’t comment either way. She merely nods and smiles.
Pete decides to change the subject on the off chance that he is offending her—or worse, boring her. He asks if she’s seen Batman. Her smile broadens and she says she has, that it’s one of her favorite movies. He’s happy to hear that and informs her that Batman Returns is due out next summer. She knows. She can’t wait to see it. Although he promised his son that he will take him as soon as it comes out, he would like to suggest to Gladys that they see it together. He wouldn’t disappoint Jake, of course. He is only interested in knowing how Gladys would respond. If she says yes, then that would confirm that they are more than quasi-intimate business associates, that it would not be untoward of him to accept her invitation—as of yet nonexistent—to go to her room for a drink later, but he can’t seem to verbalize the question. He is about to change the subject again when she says, “Maybe we should see it together.” He glances at her inquiringly. “Batman,” she declares. He swallows hard and looks back at the road.
When they reach the nursing home, Pete gets out quickly and races around to her door. He takes her elbow to help her out. He would like to hold on to it, but he doesn’t have the nerve. He signs in, finds the elevator, and they go up to the eighth floor. When the doors open, they are immediately assaulted by the odor. As if it emanates from him, he apologizes for it. She doesn’t answer, but he notes that she is walking stiffly, with her arms folded, looking from side to side at the people in wheelchairs who line the long hall as if she finds them threatening. He would like to put his arm around her shoulders to make her feel protected, but he doesn’t want his father-in-law to see them come in like that.
It’s not that he’s afraid that Fred will mention to Liz that he came to visit with a woman; that’s out of the question. From what Liz says, he doesn’t speak at all anymore. But he doesn’t want to confuse the old man either. He doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.
They go to the nurses’ desk and inquire as to Fred’s whereabouts. The woman they speak to tilts her chin. Pete turns around and sees Fred sitting in his wheelchair beside the doorway that must lead to his room. He takes a deep breath and leads Gladys over to him.
“Fred,” he says, “Dad, it’s me, Pete.”
Fred looks up at him expressionlessly.
Pete notices two folding chairs against the wall and runs over and fetches them. Gladys helps him to set them up. They both sit down in front of Fred. “This is Gladys Morgan, Dad. We’re attending an advertising convention in town and we decided to come and visit you since we were so close. Gladys is a friend of mine … and Liz’s.” He looks anxiously toward Gladys. Her smile assures him that she understands his obligation to mention Liz. “Gladys made dinner for us on my birthday,” he continues, “for me and Liz and the kids, the whole family!”
Gladys extends her hand, but Fred only looks down at it, then back at Pete. He seems to be waiting for Pete to state his business. “Well,” Pete says, “you look pretty good, Dad … Fred. Gosh, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?. Gee, the last time I saw you was that day in the Bronx, when you fell out of your wheelchair.”
“What!” exclaims Gladys.
“Yes, he fell out of his wheelchair. My sister-in-law and Jake and …” He hesitates, wondering if Fred will think he’s being rude. But Fred is hard at work now, using his good hand to maneuver his useless one on the little tray that extends from the arm of his wheelchair. He is still absolutely expressionless. Pete doesn’t think he even realizes he has visitors.
He turns to Gladys and begins to tell her the story, all about Sherri and Jake and Eduardo kidnapping the old man to take him to the Bronx Zoo. Gladys is fascinated. She can’t believe that Pete didn’t tell her about it before. Actually, Pete didn’t tell her because he didn’t want to have to explain about Sherri being a schizophrenic. But now he finds that with a few minor fabrications, he can make it sound as if Sherri is just young and reckless, Liz’s younger, delinquent sister. Then he goes on to tell her how proud he was when he learned that the whole thing was Jake’s idea. When she is done marvelling, he adds, guiltily, that Liz went and punished the boy. He refrains from mentioning that in spite of his pride, he did nothing to stop her. Gladys cocks a shoulder. “That seems sort of unfair,” she says.
Yes, sometimes Liz is unfair. Pete is glad Gladys pointed that out. His surge of guilt almost made him forget about that. He glances at Fred again, who is still fiddling with his hands. “He’s not paying any attention to us,” Pete whispers to Gladys.
“Well,” she responds, “the important thing is that you’re here. You’re making the effort to bring him some comfort. That’s what’s important.”
“That’s the way I feel about it.”
They seem to agree on everything. He decides to tell her more about Bly, explaining all about the Zeus energy, how men don’t have it anymore because they don’t have the same relationships with their fathers and grandfathers that they once did. He tells her that Liz won’t listen to anything he says about Bly just because one of Bly’s poems says something about women having teeth in their vaginas. Gladys laughs. Pete feels like saying more about Liz, but then he remembers that they are having this conversation right in front of her father.
He’d like to go now. Liz is unfair, indifferent, and breaks promises. It seems a good idea to get back while he’s still cognizant of her flaws, But they haven’t been here all that long, and he doesn’t want Gladys to change her mind about him being considerate.
They get to talking about parents. Gladys’ are divorced. Her father, she tells him, owns a yacht. Pete suspected they were wealthy. He tells her that his father recently retired from IBM. His parents travel now and he doesn’t see them much. His mother calls once a week from wherever they happen to be. His father gets on the phone towards the end of the conversation. He asks about the business and then the kids—but he seldom asks to speak to them.
He talks about Butch, Max’s father, and how he used to wish he were his father. Then he tells her about the dream he had the other night, how at first he thought the authoritative voice talking to him in the dark was Butch. Before she can ask who it actually was, he describes how he awoke with a terrible longing to talk to him. He relates how when Liz went downstairs, he picked up the phone and dialed Butch’s number. He had no idea what he was going to say after all this time. His wife answered. Without identifying himself, he asked for Butch. Maybe she knew who it was anyway. “Butch is dead,” she said, “two years now,” and hung up.
Gladys’ features contract with empathy. She looks like she might cry. Pete feels like he might cry himself. He turns his head aside, and in an effort to gain some control, he concentrates on the place within, the golden orb—though he suspects his is no larger than a pinky ring—of his masculinity. Then he takes a deep breath, claps his hand lightly on Gladys’ knee (it is the first time he has ever blatantly initated contact between them), and opens his mouth, prepared to suggest that they get going now. But before he can do so, Fred says, “Gold.”
Gladys and Pete look up at him, then at each other. Pete is speechless for some seconds. “What did he say?” he asks.
Gladys shrugs. “Sounded like ‘gold.’”
Pete’s eyes dart back to the old man. “He can’t have said that.”
“Why not?”
Pete laughs nervously and doesn’t answer. Gladys says, “So go on with what you were about to say.”
But Pete isn’t listening. Fred’s head is tipped downward, but he’s peeking up at Pete from under his thick white brows. “Gold,” he says again, this time with some urgency.
“He said it again!” Pete exclaims. “Did you say gold, Dad?”
A ravenous look appears on Fred’s face. He stares deeply into Pete’s eyes. But then his own eyes fill with moisture, his mouth stretches, and his bottom lip declines. His face begins to quiver and quake. He grabs Pete’s hand. “Gold,
” he repeats. The quaking becomes more violent. He drops Pete’s hand and spreads his own hand over his face. Pete and Gladys can see him crying through the spaces between his fingers.
“Come on, Pete,” Gladys urges. “He needs to be alone. There’s nothing we can do to help him.” She touches Pete’s elbow.
“Wait a minute,” he mumbles. “Something may be happening here.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t involve us. We can inform one of the nurses on our way out.”
He opens his mouth, glances at her, and turns back to Fred. Gladys sighs audibly. Pete puts his fingers to his temples. He wishes she would go away for just a minute. His head is a cloud of confusion.
Fred drops his hand from his face and stares at Pete with eyes that plead for comprehension. Pete doesn’t understand what is happening. The old man seems desperate to have him stay. Why, he was always under the impression that Fred didn’t even like him, that he found him tedious. “Do you remember before when I explained the significance of gold in Bly?” Pete mumbles without taking his eyes from the old man.
“Of course I do. How could I not? You talked about it all the way over here.”
“Oh, right, right,” Pete replies. It registers that her response was snippy. He can see he’s alienating her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says. “Just give me a minute to figure …”
But he doesn’t need a minute. He has been listening to Fred talk about street gangs and battle zones for years, but he has never heard the old man say a word about his pain, never what it was like to have one sick child and one gone from the nest before you noticed. And now that he is virtually speechless, here he is alluding to that place within where you bear up under that kind of suffering. And Fred did, Pete realizes, he bore up just fine, working around the clock, doing what had to be done. “Oh, God, Gladys!” Pete cries. “You’ve got to leave me alone with him for a few minutes!”
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