Whatever Lola Wants

by George Szanto

“What for?”

  “‘Cause that’s the closest point to down.”

  “No!”

  “I have to.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Of course I can.”

  “But you’re a God!”

  “Yeah, and that’s the trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “It’s kinda boring, you know? All I get allowed to feel is pleasure, and that doesn’t work any more.”

  “But you’re at the greatest pinnacle—”

  “But Theresa’s way more interesting. Except I don’t understand her. Yet. My mind—heck, Ted, my imagination—can’t grasp her from here. So I’ve got to go down there to find out. And besides, I think she’s calling for me.”

  “For that ethical being on her ceiling!”

  “Maybe that’s me.”

  “Lola!” What a crazy thought. “Anyway, Theresa’s mostly dead.”

  “Then I should get there before she’s all dead.”

  “But you can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “No one ever has.”

  On the right of her face, a tiny smile. But from the saddest little mouth. “Imagine. You. Saying that.”

  “You’ll never get back up!”

  She took my hand. “Walk with me.” She stopped. “Or better, come down too. See your son again, up close.”

  I squeezed her fingers tight. My eyes tried to hold hers. “That’s impossible.”

  “Lots of things are possible.”

  “Not this.”

  She nodded slowly. “Maybe.” She turned and walked away. I knew I couldn’t stop her. But I followed. Three steps ahead, the edge—

  She stood. She faced me. “Thank you for your story.” Her fingers touched my temples.

  I tried to speak. Her lips stayed my words, and my breath. Her kiss was that much sweeter, for in moments she’d be lost to me forever. My cursed story! “What will Edsel say?! The Distant Nimbus crowd?”

  She smiled. “Who’s Edsel?” She drew away.

  I grasped her forearms tight. “I can’t let you.”

  She shook her head. “Yes.”

  I felt my fingers loosen. I had to speak, to make her change her mind. But no words came.

  She smiled, turned, glided to the edge.

  I stood with her. A half step back. My heart approached exploding.

  She pointed. “Just there?”

  I moved her arm. “A bit more to the west.” My voice held steady.

  “I see.” And she stepped off.

  Ten

  DOWN TO EARTH

  Do I go on? I think I have to.

  •

  1.

  Theresa’s right arm, punctured with needles attached to tubes, lay on top of the sheet. From under it less dignified piping drooped to a low platform under the bed. “Hello, Theresa.” No reaction. “How goes it?” Not a flicker. “Good to see you.” How does one talk to someone who may not be there?

  Carney sat. Bobbie had asked him why he was going to the hospital again. Carney said it felt like he owed Theresa something. What? He couldn’t make this clear. And wouldn’t make himself say, I feel drawn by her, and by Milton, even by Feasie. Bobbie would find this silly.

  The skin of Theresa’s cheeks was pulled smooth as by some force inside sucking at her underskin, temples to chin. Her eyelids, open wide, pupils thrusting through irises, focused on the ceiling as if the meaning of the world were printed up there, no glance away till she’d grappled with it all.

  What to talk about with her? Anything but Terramac. What worked best in A Ton of Cure were the perversely funny disaster stories. Stories are able to convince people of many things, Carney believed, and the best stories make you laugh—a certain cynic’s view of laughter notwithstanding. He’d read how someone had been cured of ankylosing spondylitis, a cell disease, in large part by the act of laughter. No, you don’t laugh yourself all the way back from a stroke, not one as huge as Theresa’s. But a little bit back?

  So Carney, medical experimenter, jumped in where neurologists feared to make waves—Feasie might have said it better—and told Theresa a fishing story. “Want to hear one of my favorite fishing stories?” and chose to think the empty look slipped for an instant from Theresa’s eyes. “Okay, this is about the time my friend Charlie swamped me, ready?” He smiled. “Well we’d been out on the water all afternoon, a hot summer day, we’d found a couple of schools of bass, taken and released maybe a dozen apiece, all around two pounds. Charlie was using a Mepps, me an old Wob-L-Rite. Something heavy struck my line. I said to Charlie, ‘Hey, this one’s bigger, get your line out of the water.’

  “He said, ‘Nothing here but babies.’ Charlie figured I’d located another school and he cast toward my fish. He got a strike right away. ‘Hey, maybe you’re right, these fellows are bigger.’”

  Theresa’s mouth, yes, quivered.

  “It was tricky keeping our lines from tangling so Charlie led his fish around the bow to take him on the other side. And by now my fish was close but still deep. Then it swam under the boat, pulling still harder. I muttered this to Charlie and heard him say, ‘Yeah.’

  “I leaned over the side, what the hell was going on? The fish gave such a yank I lost my balance, lunged forward, dropped my rod, hit the water. Lucky it was warm, I grabbed onto the boat and shouted, ‘Charlie, for godsake give me a hand!’

  “All I heard was, ‘Innnn—credible.’ I pulled myself up the gunwale and looked. He had the bass netted and was staring at its mouth. And in its lip, his Mepps and my Wob-L-Rite.”

  Now, was it there or had his imagination set it on her lips? At the far corner, a twitch? He stared. Nothing. Another story? “When I was fifteen I was fishing with my father for pickerel. We had shiners for bait, little ones. We used bobbers, those red and white ones, and hooked the shiners just under the dorsal fin. On maybe my fourth or fifth cast, over by some lily pads, my bobber went under. I waited, let the fish turn my shiner around, and struck. I started to reel in when suddenly the bobber came back to the surface. Damn, I’d lost it. But then the bobber dove and my fish ran with the bait, screaming line from my reel.”

  Was that a new kind of attention around Theresa’s mouth?

  “Suddenly from deep in the water the fish took to the air, red gills flashing. A pickerel that would be at least twenty inches if I got it in—where had he come from? I worked the fish away from the weeds, but he had a mind of his own, he had to get away. He tried to jump two more times, the second much more wearily, nose just out of the water, but my rod, bent into a U, was in control. I brought him to the boat and he made another run, shorter, and I knew I had him. Back to the boat and my father passed the net under him and hoisted him into the boat. Five pounds easy, I saw, as he thrashed around. And then I realized: I’d caught not one but two fish. There, in his mouth, my original catch, a perch about seven inches long. With the hook in its mouth. I’d never hooked the pickerel—he’d been so greedy he’d never released the perch.”

  A new movement from Theresa: her lips flicked, her chest shook, huunhh—hunnhh— Like laughing without muscles. Like tiny dry heaves. A body fighting for the power to laugh. In her right eye, at the temple corner, was that a shine of water?

  She lay still now. An excellent large idea came to him. He stood, touched Theresa’s shoulder. “I’ll be back, Theresa.”

  2.

  Into his case John Cochan slid the three files he’d need for his meetings in Lexington. He left the old church building, walked briskly, greeted neighbors with a wave. Soon Benjie would be in his proper place in Terramac. In minutes Priscilla would mix the martinis again, like she— Like that. It’d be okay.

  Okay like in the memories? Of a wife, her beauty fine as fire, who brings to you an essential life? Yes. The memory of a boy, tan arms, long legs? Of course. Yes. But later, later—

  He reached his driveway. Deirdre came running, jumped up, arms around his neck, “Daddy! I learned to sew, Diana’s teaching me. I’m makin
g clothes for all my dolls!”

  “Hey, Dee, terrific.” He carried her into the house. Yes it was pretty good. She didn’t feel as Benjie had, a different heft here. Which was as it should be.

  Priscilla did make him a martini. Two. They all had dinner together. A soft peaceful evening and they spoke of good things. Diana took Lissa to bed, then Dee off for a story. Once it had been, yes, more complicated. Better.

  A cognac in the dark on the enclosed rear deck, and stars.

  “The alcohol’s not bad for the baby?”

  “He loves it.”

  “He?”

  “A way of speaking.”

  He sipped. “It feels okay?”

  “Everything’s great. Rachel says I’m perfect.”

  Once, had he thought so too? Then a distance came. Now, better. Though not as it was. Could it be again? “I’m glad.” After the baby. “Listen, I was thinking, shouldn’t you have a doctor here too? I mean, if something goes wrong.”

  “Oh no, Rachel’s so good and what is it to Burlington, forty minutes? No problem.”

  “Still, in November, if it arrives during a storm …”

  Why did he have to keep saying “it”? “If anything happens there’s the County Hospital. Rachel would come. She’ll deliver.”

  “The road might be icy.”

  Priscilla laughed, and hid a shudder. “I couldn’t have this baby without Rachel.” Not go to Burlington? Burlington wasn’t much but Johnnie had taken her away from Boston. From friends, from shops to buy pretty things for the girls. From restaurants, and people. She could never give that up. “I need Rachel.”

  An answer for everything. The perfect wife, the perfect mother. Well why not, what else for her to think about.

  She sat back, felt her belly, that bit of a bulge? She looked forward to Wednesday. Tonight could be okay too. Everything might work. He used to be so gentle. Still was. Less recently. Tonight they’d make love. Maybe it would be good tonight.

  The cognac was excellent. He had a second glass. He followed her upstairs, early.

  It didn’t work. It wasn’t good.

  •

  I’ve been thinking while recording. Didn’t I swear to tell this story only for Lola? Then what am I doing, noting all I see? Do I expect her back? I guess I must. Record for Lola!

  •

  3.

  Carney, delighted with his idea, explained it to Milton. Milton wanted to believe Carney, that Theresa had tried to laugh. He needed to see Theresa laughing. It took them much of Sunday first to find Theresa’s doctor, then to convince him. Okay, the doctor acceded, non-orthodox techniques did interest him. So long as the movies didn’t interfere with hospital procedure they could try it. But the technician they needed for this wouldn’t be in till Monday morning.

  Milton shared the doctor’s prognosis with Carney: “They talk like they did last time.”

  Carney nodded. “What do they say, exactly?”

  “Paralysis of the left side, face, shoulder, arm. And great weakness on the right, still unclear how much of that’ll stay paralyzed.”

  “What can they do?”

  “With therapy, maybe give her some mobility.” He scowled. “But she’ll get better than that, you’ll see. She will laugh.” He grimaced. “And another letter from John Cochan.”

  “Saying?”

  “An offer again. But going the other way. Lots more money. It’s $12 million now.”

  Carney raised his eyebrows. A new form of harassment?

  Milton spoke as if Carney had always been there. The easy intimacy felt okay to Carney. It seemed like a good time, so Carney told Milton what he and Bobbie learned yesterday. “He’s building under the ground. There’re caves down there, caverns maybe. Maybe under your land.”

  Milton’s face went tight. “It’s true, then.” He shuddered. “I didn’t want to guess out loud, especially not in front of Tessa.” He glanced her way. “Glad she doesn’t know.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get legal advice, first off. Can we enjoin Cochan on building? Under his own property? Poking around under Grange land? We signed that damn agreement, but is this included?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Leasie’s coming down tonight. I’ll hear what she’s learned. We’ll figure something.”

  Among Carney’s phone messages back at the farm, one from Leonora. Was he free for supper? He told her answering machine he wouldn’t be in Burlington till tomorrow. What did she want?

  Theresa could tell: Carney had arrived early. He was doing something. Fussing. Too much bustle. She wanted to get angry. But no energy for anger. She had to tear loose. Tubes, chemical malleable—

  How, old woman.

  Old? Who? Me?

  Has the stroke made you crazy?

  Looser. Loose. Hey! Look at that! Two of me. Two Theresas.

  What?

  No. Impossible. Two souls in the body maybe, but no two bodies for one soul.

  One Theresa, old woman.

  Two Theresas. Me, Theresa old dry skin tired tubed struck—

  Not so tired.

  And you, Theresa down from the photo. Silver. Lithe. Laughing. Bright. Wondering. Clear. Theresa herself. Firm. Silver glowing. You. Theresa, forty years ago.

  •

  Lola, tangibly interfering! Talking to Theresa! Don’t! But I could see everything, and hear Theresa speaking, silently:

  •

  Do I sleep, an old woman needing her beauty sleep? A joke, two Theresas. Big joke, too funny.

  Nope, sorry, Theresa, no joke.

  No? Maybe not. Get angry? No general anger. Anger is specific. Anger as category but no such thing as general anger. Do-no-let-this-stroke-blur-your-thinking!

  Do you really want to let go, Theresa? To let it all be past?

  No! The rot of the heart. How much putrescence and silken mendacity will I tolerate? Before a tiny rebellion can begin.

  Why rebellion?

  •

  She’s as clear as if she were up here: Lola, red lips pouting. Merry eyes. In the room. With the technician, the nurse, Carney. Who couldn’t see her. “Lola, for heavensake, get out of there!”

  She didn’t hear. Or pretended not to.

  “Lola! You’re breaking every rule!”

  A wicked grin. I’m sure she hears me. But, and this horrified me, Theresa could see Lola.

  •

  Her. Theresa. From—long ago. White-gold hair, shining in the dark. Very—beautiful.

  Lola grinned. So you can still judge beauty, old woman?

  Not the same. Not young Theresa. But—how not? Almost Theresa? Theresa, the white dress. Laughing. Dancing. Used to dance but who can dance beside the rivers of bile. Theresa, how can you— My goddamn voice!

  Don’t try so hard, Theresa. I hear you.

  What—

  I hear everything. Lie still.

  What else to do.

  Lots, lots of wonderful things.

  Yeah, except, see, there’re complications.

  Theresa, I want to be your friend.

  Friend. Hell, that’s too simple.

  And more. You’ll see. But first, friends?

  After so many years—

  It’s a long road. Twisting. Want to try it, Theresa? Want to come?

  Look. You can tolerate only so much. Beyond, it makes no sense.

  Nonsense. I just heard the better you.

  You heard what?

  Your little rant on tolerance. I agree. Want to come with me?

  Where?

  To find a joke to laugh about.

  Ha!

  That’s a good start.

  With sinew like mine one doesn’t go damn anywhere.

  Okay. Bye.

  You don’t have to leave. Please.

  That’s better. Think about me. Okay?

  Sure. Why not. Uh—who are you, anyway?

  You can call me Lola. See ya.

  Uh, you coming back?

  Maybe. Afte
r you’ve thought. You need to think a lot.

  About?

  A wonderful joke, a huge joke. The best of jokes.

  A joke?

  A last chance. To bring such healing laughter to the world, why it could prove the physic ’gainst the shocks and traumas of our time.

  Who said that?

  I did. And maybe so did you.

  Me?

  Bye, Theresa.

  Listen, when— Blast! Where— Sure, go behind the bed. Where I can’t see. Coward!

  •

  My heart surged, my hands shook. My foolish meddling Lola.

  •

  4.

  John Cochan rose early, before the girls woke. Priscilla had coffee ready for him in the kitchen. Yes, she was a good woman. But times like now he’d have preferred the pleasure of the start of day alone. They spoke a few morning words. He kissed her lightly, said he’d be back late Wednesday afternoon. They’d have supper. A small supper, he needed to be at Terramac later in the evening.

  A bit of a lie. His appointment with Hank, at the cemetery.

  He drove the Saab from Richmond to the Burlington airport. No way would he leave the Rolls in a parking lot for three days.

  5.

  Milton sat with Theresa. He tried to remember funny stories. Ti-Jean and Feasie arrived. This Monday morning they couldn’t come up with a single joke between them.

  Carney, carrying a cloth bag, came back with Theresa’s nurse and a man.

  What’s Carney doing now? Milton! No—don’t do that!

  The nurse held Theresa by her arms and pulled her up to sitting. “Okay, good.”

  Not sit, no!

  The nurse said, “There. How’s that?”

  The other man, the technician, moved the large TV screen closer to the end of the bed. Theresa stared at it, as if hypnotized. Carney said, “Get used to it slowly, Theresa. The nurse’ll put it on a few minutes at a time. They’re bringing a DVD player in, we’ll put on some movies.”

  Colors. No! Colors bounce shine jump. Ache. Eyes. Noise, whir, rising— No-o-o!

  Carney pulled a half-dozen DVDs from the bag. “Great old comedies.”

  The screen seemed to overwhelm Theresa. Milton found her glasses and set them on her face. The DVD player arrived. They watched a Keaton two-reeler. From Theresa, no visible reaction. But during the early Chaplin, a twitch at Theresa’s lip edge! Milton took Theresa’s hand. It was cool, not cold. His eyelids were batting hard.