by Mary Robison
516
Mev’s gone off to read the news.
Left the Door Open, Lid Up, Cap Off
He’s dead, is what it is. The Sadistic Insect Criminal. His body was found in the prison’s laundry room, stuffed, and with his head crushed, into a clothes washer.
Oh, and I would think that ought to be that.
518
“We’d like for Paulie to chill a bit,” says Garnet.
She means he must stay a little longer in the icy sewer that is New York.
519
“Nothing, I’m fine. You?” Paulie asks me. He says, “I am anxious to get back to my fish.”
520
I’ve chosen now as the time to be sick in a bucket.
521
I do want to call someone and pass along this news. Who? Here for hours studying the listings in my phone and address book.
Already Had Them Laughing
On one of the last days I was there, Armando disappeared with Paulie into the bathroom and then the door opened and Paulie was wearing a derby hat and black jeans and a black turtleneck. “We forgot wide face but that’s yet to come,” Armando said.
Paulie said, “So I won’t have to answer all kinds of questions about the gloves.”
“Right, right,” I said. “You might get a different type of request, though. Do the box, do the escalator, do eating a banana.”
Whatever You Do, Don’t Let Go
Hollis is in a chair before the long window looking drowsy in pj’s, rubber slippers, a robe of some fabric too stiff to be flannel. He sits with his hands on his knees, his eyes unblinking. On the table beside him is a breakfast mug of steaming water he’s staining with a green teabag.
It isn’t daylight yet.
I’m pressed against the screen door, looking out. I can see the moving shadow of somebody in my car.
It’s Mev’s shadow, seems like. I’m going barefooted across the lawn, jerk the door open and say, “I thought you went home on your bicycle!”
“And . . . what? You no longer think so?” she croaks.
“Mev, don’t be exasperating. I had thought you rode home on your bike.”
I crawl inside, sit in the passenger seat. She looks wretched. She says, “Mom, there’s something disgusting. I knew that guy. Who raped and tortured Paulie. I got introduced to him in New Orleans at something, some soiree. I remember it perfectly.”
“No . . .”
“Yes. It was the guy. I did. I’m totally, without a doubt, certain.”
I’m shaking my head.
“Mom!” she says.
“What?”
“I bet I told him about Paulie. Braggingly. And gave him the address.”
She says, “I’m all right, just keep quiet. There’re things I have to figure out.”
“Mev,” I say, “you obviously need rest and then you’ll feel better—”
“No. I will not, Mother. I’ll feel. Not worse. But not better.”
524
“Probably I’ll go away,” she says. “I have some friends in the Nevada desert who want me to get involved in that—whatever the thing—Paulist Fathers’ Project.”
“That sounds O.K.”
She says, “Maybe. Those fuckin’ priests better not discriminate against thinking about me.”
“Better not,” I say. “It is one of the risks you run, as a woman. That it’s hard sometimes to rise above.”
Deal from the House, Don’t Pay Rent
A Goodwill truck is in the driveway of Mev’s house and a clip-art-looking man in a uniform is loading up quite a lot of stuff she’s giving away.
She comes out now carrying a wind chime in each hand.
I’ve been parked here, about a block off. On the seat I have this Nine West shoebox stuffed full of cash money she might want. I’m insane.
I’m not going to mess with this, and so start up the car. “Say good-bye, Mev,” I say.
526
Hollis is on the bench in the yard. He says, “Well, congratulate me. I’ve decided to run for office.”
“No fooling, wow. What office?”
“Just, for Transportation Secretary,” he says.
“Well, what an idea. Can you win, do you think?”
“Not really,” he says, firming up his lower lip. “We’ll have to see. That’s not why I’m doing it. I want the exposure, want to meet people, get used to seeing and being seen.”
527
A little more waiting and then I’ll get the phone call. Maybe in another four or five weeks after Paulie’s six-months test. When he’ll be able to say he’s virus-free. Or I’ll answer and he’ll say just, “Mom.”
528
I meet up with Hollis on my sun porch. He’s got Gray’s Anatomy opened on his lap and his arm is up as he examines the parts of his wrist and right hand.
“Were you always like this?” I ask him.
“Always.” He nods. “What’ve you got there?” he asks me.
“Oh, a parting gift I’m making for Mev. It’s a macramé . . . I don’t know.”
He squints and says, “You’ve got to budget your time on a thing like that. When hours become days? Now it’s kind of a tangle, isn’t it? The girl might hurt herself. Were you always—”
“From day one,” I say.
529
I run into Claude and Early and the Zieter brothers.
To Claude I am two separate women. He tells me I must meet my twin! It’s uncanny, he says. He says this twice. To me, when he’s going into the video store, and to me, when he comes back out.
I’m in the lot all this time because I’m waiting for the shift to change in there so I can go inside and with the least amount of embarrassment rent Purple Rain yet again.
Right Where You Left It
“‘It’s the memory of?’” sings my shrink. “‘The land I love?’”
“O.K., fine, got it,” I say.
531
“I hate this,” says Hollis, shaking his magazine. “See how this title tells you, ‘Stock Up on These Five Foods and Never Go Hungry Again!’ Only the list is like . . . anchovy paste. Sorghum.”
“I read it,” I say.
He’s ripping the pages of the article out and crunching them singly into little wads. Now lining them up on the chair’s arm. “Listen to this latest idea,” he says and turns his focus to me. “Suppose Bigfoot’s outside, right?, and shooting baskets, except he’s using a milk crate instead of a hoop.”
“I’ll propose it.”
“Lie away,” he says.
I was lying but I won’t anymore. I say, “How I read the producers’ memo, about what they think and their recommendations, is we could put in anything you want.”
“If that’s true,” says Hollis.
“Well, not—” I say, but he’s up and off, in search of paper and a writing instrument.
532
Ah, but here in the alleyway is Flower Girl, my cat, and somebody’s made a mess of her.
533
It’s quicker to drive on this concrete strip where there’re no other cars in the way and it’s cutting a big, big corner to go over the lawn of this hair salon. If she’s cold, I would be fine in just my bra if she needs my shirt.
I don’t know. I don’t know at all. I’m just riding her around now. Dead little baby.
At a time that seems so unfair.
Give Me a Hit of That So I Can Keep Coughing
“Are you alone?” I ask myself.
“All alone,” I say.
535
I would say to my cat, “There’s no place very safe for any of us anymore.”
I would say, “I’m obliged to you for bringing that home to me.”
And say, “Nothing about you really irritated me
at all.”
536
Hey, Joe in the CD player and now most of the men of my town are following me. Although, according to the mirror, which does not lie, I look like a Smurf doll. So I’m wondering, and would like to know, what must life be like for young attractive women?
“Pay attention to the fucking sunset,” I tell myself, but I’ve been out here too long, I can barely keep awake.
“My dear, my dear,” I say, “it’s getting kind of late.”
So, go home, I guess. Some sleep wouldn’t hurt.
Acknowledgments
The author is most grateful to the Corporation of Yaddo, to Michael Sundell, and to Candice Wait for their extraordinary generosity and support.
The author wishes also to thank Dawn Seferian and Andrew Wylie for their kindness and their grace.
And to these dear and true friends, Roger Angell, Rick Barthelme, Karen Crowley, Rie Fortenberry, Virginia Harabin, Bob Hester, Laura Lark, Mark La Rue, Rick Moody, and Maureen Murray, my thanks.
about the author
Author photograph by Pier Rodelon
MARY ROBISON was was born in Washington, D.C. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, two Pushcart Prizes, an O. Henry Award, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction. She is the author of Oh!, Subtraction, Tell Me, and One D.O.A., One on the Way. She lives in Gainesville, Florida.