Lydia’s Party

by Margaret Hawkins

“Fatuous?”

  “I’m sorry,” Celia had said. “I didn’t mean fatuous. I just mean your letters are wonderful but they’re not going to hold up in court if there’s a dispute with your, well, you know. Jayne’s a lawyer,” she said. “I’m going to ask her to handle it, or to find someone who can, first thing tomorrow morning.” Celia felt a sense of urgency. She’d seen Lydia’s body as she’d helped her into the tub.

  “Jesus, Cel. Spare me the long face,” Lydia had said, seeing Celia look away and thinking that the sight of her unclothed body at least didn’t used to make people cry.

  • • •

  Now she lay in the cooling-down, grayish water. She had no idea how much time had passed. The bathroom was no longer steamy or even warm. A draft was coming through the door. Malcolm had nudged it ajar so he could hop onto the sink and keep her company. He sat there companionably, studying her jutting clavicles through half-lidded yellow eyes. At least he didn’t seem repulsed by the sight of her body, Lydia thought. That was a good sign. Cats could sense these things. Though so could dogs. Maxine was an emotional wreck these days.

  Her mind wandered back to her conversation with Ted. She hadn’t done anything properly is what she’d meant, nothing all the way. She’d tolerated what she shouldn’t have, not persisted in what she should have and never finished a thing.

  It was exhausting to think of. Even more exhausting was to consider how she was going to get out of this bathtub. Why had they installed this deep soak tub? But she knew why—it was when she and Spence had first moved in, when the idea of not being able to get out of a bathtub would never have occurred to either of them. He’d installed it himself, as a surprise on Valentine’s Day, an act that now seemed unimaginably distant and embarrassingly hopeful, obscenely so.

  Hope was obscene, Lydia thought. It was wet and sticky. Forget audacity. The Obscenity of Hope was more like it. Though it had seemed sweet at the time.

  • • •

  Celia had left her phone on a footstool near the tub and told her to call if she wanted help, but Lydia couldn’t even reach that.

  “We’re going to fix you up,” Celia had said. “Starting today. As soon as we get everybody out of here. We’re going to fix up this place and make it easy.”

  “Who’s we?” Lydia had asked, not liking the sound of it.

  “I am,” Celia said, feeling more focused than she had in some time. “And Spence, whether he likes it or not. I know Peter will want to help. Ted, your brother. Everyone will want to help.”

  “Please, not Ted.”

  “OK, not Ted. For starters, we’re going to set up an emergency phone system.”

  “Oh no.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Lydia. We’re getting you a cell phone.”

  “Oh no. Not a cell phone.”

  “Yes, with speed dial. We are not your pioneer ancestors. And as soon as I leave here, I’m going to get you a cane.”

  “A cane? What am I, Mr. Peanut?”

  “Don’t argue,” Celia said. “And yes, it’s going to be the ugly aluminum variety from the drugstore until I can locate something cuter. Maybe I’ll get Ted on the case. You know how he likes props.”

  Celia had been thinking she was also going to buy a walker and some adult diapers but she’d kept that to herself.

  Maxine pushed the door open, filling the bathroom with her good musty scent. Behind her stood Celia, holding a tray. “I brought you tea,” she said. “Want me to heat up the bathwater? Or do you want out?” She stuck her hand in to test the water temperature.

  Lydia dragged a washcloth over herself, let out something like a laugh.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about my mother.”

  “I liked your mother.”

  “I used to watch her take baths,” Lydia said. “In the middle of the day. She’d just lie there for what seemed like hours, with a washcloth across her eyes. I thought that’s what all mothers did all day.” Celia nodded to show she was listening. She was pouring tea from a yellow pot. “I’d sneak in and sit cross-legged on top of the toilet,” Lydia said. “I tried to be quiet. If she heard me come in she’d take the washcloth off her eyes and put it over her crotch.”

  Celia snorted.

  “Are you laughing or crying?”

  “What’s the difference?” Celia said.

  Lydia dried herself, slowly. Dressed in the sweat suit and robe Celia had set out for her. Pulled on heavy socks. Slowly. Combed her thinning hair. Considered makeup, decided against it. Somehow, in one day, she’d turned a corner, aged years. Now that she’d admitted she was dying, she felt her life slipping away.

  Lydia stood at the top of the stairs. She could see Celia below her, in the entry hall, barring the front door. In front of Celia, with her back to Lydia, stood Norris, camera bag over her shoulder. She held an orange in one gloved hand and her car keys in the other. Decked out in big sunglasses and a long white scarf, she was ready to go, if only she could get past this nuisance, Celia.

  “What is so important that you have to leave right now?” Celia was saying.

  “I told you. I have a meeting.”

  “On Sunday morning.”

  “Yes, in fact.”

  • • •

  It wasn’t a complete lie. Norris still planned to drive to the Cultural Center—it was open, she’d called to make sure—to scope out the space. She’d call the curator at home from her car. Maybe she could talk him into meeting her there. If not, they could discuss the installation over the phone, while she walked the gallery. She might even still have time for a quick visit to the Art Institute, before she headed home. Nice and neat, if only Celia would get her big, bulky, unkempt, food-reeking body out the way. Wasn’t it a little late in the day for a grown woman to be wearing pajamas? Did Celia never comb her hair?

  “Jayne’s car isn’t any less stuck than it was last night,” Celia was saying.

  “I’m well aware of that, Celia. But it just so happens that Triple A is on its way right now to dig us both out. Now, if you don’t mind, could you please step aside? I’d like to warm up my car.”

  “Hey,” Lydia called from the top of the stairs.

  “Norris is just going out to meet the Triple A guys,” Celia called up to her. “But she’s coming right back in. Right, Norris?”

  Norris was about to say no, but something in Lydia’s face stopped her.

  “For just a little bit,” Norris said. “Then I have to go.”

  “Great,” Lydia said. “I have something I want to give you.”

  Everyone was assembled at the table, which was covered once again with food, bottles, pitchers, and plates. The house smelled of coffee and bacon. There were ten around the table now. Peter had shown up with freshly baked bread, to help dig out their cars. Spence had been back for hours and had vacuumed, then shoveled the neighbors’ sidewalk. Extra chairs were crowded together, plates were held in laps. Betsy, hearing that an announcement was about to be made, had opened the last two bottles of champagne, before Celia had a chance to stop her. Glasses were filled.

  The party had resumed, with all the women, and Ted, wearing some version of what they’d slept in, except for Norris, who’d brought her overnight bag in from the car. She’d been up since six, run three miles in the newly plowed streets, washed her hair, and put on clean clothes. Norris looked at her watch.

  Jayne tapped her fork against her glass. Betsy was yelling, Toast, toast, and Ted was saying, I was going to make French toast but Jayne used all the eggs, and Spence was raising his glass and saying To all my friends in his best Mickey Rourke, although these were not his friends. Maxine, who knew too much, lay sideways across Lydia’s feet.

  “Quiet, please,” Celia said. “Lydia has something she wants to tell us.”

  Sunday: 11:30 A.M.

  The men were in th
e kitchen, loading the dishwasher and putting away food. The women sat around the apothecary cabinet, dividing up the jewelry. All ninety-nine drawers had been distributed and now they were trading. Elaine, who did not have pierced ears, had gotten an earring drawer and traded the whole thing with Betsy, who’d gotten pins but favored chandelier earrings and a retro hippie look.

  “I love this.” Maura was holding a long string of freshwater pearls against her chest.

  “Spence bought those for me, at an outdoor café,” Lydia said. “Some guy came to the table with them strung over his arm.”

  “Wow,” Maura said, looping the pearls around her neck, thinking of Roy. “I’ve never had pearls.”

  “What about this?” Norris said. She held up a sterling silver pin in the shape of a dragonfly. She’d gotten a drawer full of funky miscellany, not her style. Usually all she wore was a man’s diving watch and, for formal occasions, diamond ear studs, but she’d found the little pin among the Bakelite bracelets and it was the one thing she didn’t hate.

  “Isn’t it nice?” Lydia said. “It was my mother’s. Art Nouveau, I think.” Norris pinned it near the shoulder of her black turtleneck.

  “What’s this?” Elaine said, untangling something heavy from a mess of knotted-together chains. She held up an oversized oval locket with a tarnished filigree cover.

  “My grandmother’s locket!” Lydia reached for it. So that’s where the thing had been all these years. She’d given it up for lost. “I wonder if anything’s in there,” she said, reaching for the locket again. She’d kept things in it, in high school.

  Elaine ran her fingers over the side, looking for the release. She found a little bump and pressed. The cover popped open. Out fell the stub of a joint.

  A cry went up, false hilarity. Celia took the roach between two fingertips and held it to her lips, pretending to inhale. Someone went for matches. Meanwhile, Elaine held the open locket in her palm, plucking at something still stuck inside. After a couple of tries she extracted the thing and held it up.

  All they could see was that it was a piece of tightly folded paper, crushed to fit. Elaine shook it a little and the paper began to relax. They saw blue ink, girlish handwriting, the ruffled edge of a page torn from a spiral notebook. Lydia’s list of fears.

  • • •

  So that’s where it went, Lydia thought. She had no memory of having put it there, or anywhere—though it made sense, the locket had been a hiding place—and no memory of having put the locket in the apothecary cabinet decades after that. For a second, before anyone knew what it was, she thought of grabbing for it. It was bound to be embarrassing. Under almost any other circumstances she would have grabbed for it, but to do that required getting up. She felt too tired.

  Besides, she thought, why bother? It was ancient history, and if the doctor was to be believed, she was weeks away from death. Maybe, she thought, at this late date it might be amusing for once to let her friends see her without trying to control what they saw. Too little, too late, maybe, but really, where was the harm? At the very least, she thought, this could provide a bit of entertainment, fulfilling her duty as a hostess by taking the edge off the morning’s grim mood.

  • • •

  Elaine unfolded the paper, rattled it. Bits crumbled off and fell to the rug. She looked around to make sure she had everyone’s attention before she began to read.

  “‘Things I Fear,’ by Lydia Fallows.”

  A little murmur went up. Elaine looked at Lydia, realizing that what she was about to do might not be as funny as she’d thought. She felt kinder this morning, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, and Lydia’s announcement had put her foul mood in perspective. Elaine raised her eyebrows, asking permission.

  Lydia shrugged.

  Elaine adjusted her glasses and began to read. Lydia mouthed the words along with her.

  “Things I Fear,” by Lydia Fallows

  1. Dancing (in public)

  2. Going to parties

  3. Giving a party . . .

  The group had been silent but now a little cry went up. Maura reached over and gave Lydia’s shoulder a sideways hug. “But your parties are so nice,” she said.

  “They’re very nice,” Celia said.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Elaine said. “Maybe I should.” Lydia shook her head.

  “Is it OK if we laugh?” Jayne said.

  Lydia nodded. “Please,” she said. Maybe it would help, she thought. Things had gone from bad to awful.

  Elaine resumed. Now every item elicited some kind of noisy response—hoots, boos, gasps.

  4. Diving, especially scuba

  5. Driving

  6. Being buried alive

  7. Getting married

  8. Having a baby (a. giving birth, b. taking care of it)

  9. Tarantulas, snakes, some worms, large beetles, centipedes

  10. Big black dogs

  11. Being seen naked

  12. Getting fat

  13. Going to hell

  14. “This one’s crossed out,” Elaine said, looking at Lydia over her reading glasses. Lydia shook her head.

  15. Being abducted by aliens

  16. Being forced to sing in public

  17. Bad LSD trip

  18. Drowning

  19. Throwing up or any kind of seizure in public

  20. Going to doctor, dentist, etc.

  21. “Crossed out.”

  22. Going crazy and being put in a straitjacket

  23. “Crossed out.”

  24. Measuring out my life in coffee spoons

  25. Ballroom dancing—gym

  26. “Also crossed out.”

  Elaine looked up. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to illuminate us?”

  “I don’t remember that one,” Lydia said, though it wasn’t true.

  27. Competition

  28. Dying without accomplishing anything

  29. Somebody reading this list

  Celia

  It was late Sunday afternoon now, already dark, and everyone except Celia had gone home. Spence was outside, shoveling again—another three inches of snow had fallen—and Lydia had gone back to bed. Celia was vacuuming.

  What was it that made people crave disaster, she wondered, banging the vacuum wand under chairs, sucking up dog hair and food crumbs from under the couch. Boredom? Or impatience, the wish to hurry the world to the end they knew was coming, just to get it over with? Or was it the cleansing effect of destruction that people craved, she wondered, the possibility it offered for change? Everyone had stories—the house fire that unburdened, the bankruptcy that freed, the divorce that allowed the broken parties to walk away from the unbearable complications of love. Sometimes loss was a relief.

  Something rattled up the wand—more jewelry, probably, a thin gold necklace, maybe, or a charm bracelet. But who cared, now?

  At the very least, Celia supposed, disaster took people’s minds off their pettier concerns, made them put aside their schemes and grudges, at least for a while. Many a minor grievance had been forgotten as people stood on street corners with strangers, on 9/11, Celia thought. She doubted many perfect dinners had been cooked that night. She’d gone to the pantry and found a can of mushroom soup and felt grateful for it.

  Yesterday morning there had appeared again a headline on her home page that had been there for days—Hard Times Make for Shabby Hair. It had made her feel guilty. She needed a haircut and had been putting it off. It wasn’t cheap. And she was terrified of Victor, her hairdresser. He didn’t listen. Usually he did something awful. Paying him, then tipping him, afterward, felt like humiliation. She’d go home and look in the mirror and cry, then wait a few months and go back and he’d do it again. Why do you go back, Peter had said when she’d told him. Celia had said she didn’t know, but she did. It
was like marriage. Starting over with someone else would just be too hard.

  • • •

  Vacuuming made Celia’s back hurt. She dragged a heavy chair from a corner and sucked up a little stash of cat toys. She didn’t feel like bending over to pick them up. She knew her hair was the pettiest of concerns. “I acknowledge that,” she said, out loud, over the roar of the vacuum. Who cared if someone heard? She was sucking dust off the drapes now with the bare wand. She’d removed the attachment to get into the corner and hadn’t replaced it and now she’d sucked fabric into the roaring hole. She yanked it out—it felt like a rescue.

  Here’s what bothered her—for three days running she’d avoided opening the story on shabby hair in hope, yes, hope, there would be some newsworthy disaster to take its place. She wanted to feel virtuous in postponing her haircut. She wanted to not get a haircut because she was thinking of more important things, not because she was afraid of another one of Victor’s expensive hack jobs. She wanted to invoke that selfish bromide of her grandmother’s that was supposed to sound charitable but wasn’t—Look around and be grateful, young lady. Somebody else has got it worse. Her hair was bad, yes, but it was nothing compared with that.

  Celia had been thinking this just yesterday morning. Now everything had changed. Lydia had given her two Ziploc bags of costume jewelry, and a velvet pouch containing her grandmother’s marcasite bumblebee brooch, which, she said, Celia had once admired, although Celia didn’t remember having done so. Lydia had told them she was going to die any day.

  Celia jabbed at a cobweb that hung from the ceiling.

  She should have noticed something was wrong. She could have helped, gotten Lydia to the doctor sooner. Though Lydia had been distant lately, it was true. Celia had assumed it was another of her dramatic reinventions—Lydia being nervous, Lydia being mysterious, Lydia on a diet, Lydia having another semisecret affair, which caused her to change shape, color, even. Though yellow should have been a clue.

  Now Lydia was giving away her things and Celia didn’t know how to tell her that she didn’t need her family silver, that she didn’t want it, that she would not polish it, that her era of dinner parties, which Lydia remembered so fondly, had been over for years. The silver was beautiful—her response had been sincere—but truly, she didn’t want it. Now she had to decide whether to tell her she was going to sell it or just wait and do it after.