by Molly Giles
“Yes. Another twenty years please.”
“Oh Mom.”
“And check the barometer, would you?”
“What barometer? You don’t have a barometer.”
“Yes we do, dum-dum. In the hall.”
But the big brass barometer Francis had won at a golf club raffle thirty years ago was not in the mirrored hall. Kay, as always avoiding her own reflection, Red-Eyed Woman with Tea Tray, tried to remember when she had seen the clunky instrument last. Perhaps in the hall of two houses before this. Like the battered chrome toaster and the checked gingham potholders, it had been abandoned long before the move to the Heights. “Rain,” she said, obediently reading the blank wall. “Lots more rain.” That’s all it’s done for months, she reasoned, that’s all it’s ever going to do again.
“Liar,” Ida called.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Kay whispered. She braced, waiting for Ida’s “I will if I want to” to come winging back to her, but Ida was quiet and for once must not have heard her. She swallowed the Scotch. It tasted great, strong and sharp. She went into the kitchen, rinsed the glass out in the sink, and opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t much there besides the beaker of Stuff. She brought it to her nose and sniffed; it smelled like mimeograph fluid. She set it back, poured herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle, and cut off a small hunk of cheese, paring the mold off at the sink. Looking down, she saw Coco bright-eyed and abject in her cage, head on paws. She bent and unlatched the wire door, prepared for the scrape of thick claws down her thighs, the sharp bark in her face, but Coco surprised her by creeping out and meekly slinking into the bedroom, where she circled the carpet on Francis’s side twice and went to sleep.
Ida’s eyes had closed again when Kay returned, but she was alert. “What are you eating?” she asked.
“Cheese.”
“We don’t have anything but cheese.”
“That’s what I’m eating.”
“I haven’t eaten since the fall.”
“When did you fall?”
“I don’t know. What day is today?”
“Wednesday.”
“It must have been Monday.”
“I talked to you Monday. You were fine.”
“No I wasn’t ‘fine,’ Kay.” Ida opened her eyes then and even across the room they were so scary Kay gasped: huge blue fire balls, the twin demon moons of her childhood nightmares. “I haven’t been ‘fine’ since you were born if you want to know the truth.”
“Not me, no ma’am, I don’t want to know nuthin’.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Nothing.’”
“You’ve always mumbled. Scared of your own shadow. That’s one thing you and Buffy had in common.”
“Who’s Buffy?”
“That criminal you ran off from school with.”
“Biff. He wasn’t a criminal. He was a twenty-year-old boy.”
“I never could understand one word he said. I sat him right down and told him he wasn’t good enough for you and he got mad and stammered at me for five solid minutes. He did take the check though. Oh God, what am I going to do? I’ve been such a bad person. Aren’t people supposed to change on their whatever this is? Deathbed?”
“You’re not on your deathbed,” Kay corrected automatically. She pulled her cuticle out of her mouth. “Did you buy Biff off?” She remembered the last thing Biff had said to her, before he roared off on his motorcycle with the waitress: “Go back to your parents. That’s where you belong.” She had always heard him clearly. And she had taken those words as he had intended her to, as a curse.
“He was all wrong for you. You’ve never had taste. Who’s this new one?”
Kay hesitated. Then: “Charles Lichtman.” His name sparked the air as she spoke, evoking first his curls, then his eyes, then his smile, until all of him was there in the room with her, in his honeyed pinks and browns. Tomorrow, she thought. He’ll come into the library tomorrow; I’ll see him; we’ll start. Whatever it is we are going to start will start tomorrow and whatever has to end with the life I am living now will end tomorrow too. She waited, wanting something. It took her a second to recognize it herself. She wanted Ida’s blessing.
But Ida turned her head away on the pillow. “Lichtman,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “Jewish? Say: I really am hungry. Would you cut me a piece of that cheese you were having and we’ll eat like little rats together? Nibble-nibble.”
Kay went back into the kitchen and scowled at the Bleeding Heart, which had somehow been rescued from the deck and was flourishing on the sill above the sink. She took a fresh pack from the carton of Kent Lights Francis had stashed on top of the dryer, tore it open, and smoked in spurts as she assembled a small supper for her mother. Cheese sticks stacked like faggots laid for a miniature bonfire. Applesauce sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon, strawberry yogurt three days past its shelf date. She arranged it all on a glass plate, stubbed out her cigarette, and went back into the bedroom. Ida was wide awake and had managed to pull herself up on the pillows. Her broken arm hung from a sling tied around her neck. “Let’s watch a video while we eat,” she called. Her smile was wide and incandescent. What was in those pills? Vampire plasma? Kay set the plate down and looked through the huge stack of tapes by the television set. She paused at The Taming of Tami.
“Some of these are X-rated,” she said doubtfully.
“We’re grown-ups.”
“Speak for yourself.” Kay pulled My Fair Lady out of the pile with relief.
“Wasn’t that funny,” Ida said, “when Neal was trying to set our new VCR up?”
Kay shook her head. “I was at work,” she reminded Ida as she inserted the tape.
“Oh it was funny. Neal spent hours installing it, he was so slow and careful, and he finally called us in from the swimming pool for the grand christening. But Francis had taken the remote control and was hiding it behind his back. So every time Neal turned the set on, Francis turned it off and Neal couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Mimi Johns and I were laughing so hard we thought we were going to pee in our pants.”
Kay frowned. She could see Neal working on this VCR—trying to please, screwdriver tucked behind his ear, instruction booklets strewn over the carpet, doing everything he could to be a good son-in-law. Failing. They had never given him a chance.
“Why do you want me to stay married?” she asked. “You don’t like Neal.”
“Who said that?” Ida looked genuinely amazed. “Francis and I are very fond of Neal. Now what’s on that plate you brought me? I’m too hungry to eat, if that makes sense. Starving. But you’ll have to help me. I can’t move my arm.”
Kay began to feed her. At first it felt awkward, lifting the spoonfuls, but she soon fell into known maternal rhythms, leaning toward this wrinkled old lady-baby of hers with sweet pleasure, parting her own lips to prompt Ida to part hers. “Open up,” she sang. “Open wide. Now close. I love you,” she added. The words fell out of her mouth, easy and apt.
“I love you too,” Ida said.
They smiled.
I should have fed her all her life, Kay thought.
My Fair Lady was a slow go; Ida kept falling asleep and waking up and Kay also drifted off, slumped in the wheelchair. She woke to the sound of her mother singing along to “I Could Have Danced All Night.”
“If I’d had your ability to play the piano,” Ida said in a strong conversational voice as Kay, disoriented, opened her eyes, “I never would have asked for one thing more.”
“You did other things,” Kay yawned. The bedroom shimmered around her, hot and crowded, mirrors everywhere, loud with the television and Ida’s voice. “You danced all night.”
“I was doomed as a dancer,” Ida said. “I was no good at all. My muscles were too short. Isn’t that the craziest thing? It didn’t matter how hard I worked or how long I practiced. I could not do extensions. It ruined my life.”
“Mom. Ruined? Isn’t that a little dra
ma—”
“It ruined my life.”
“Okay. Sorry. I never knew you cared that much.”
“That’s because you don’t care at all. You have talent and look what you do with it. Nothing. You don’t study. You don’t practice. You could have been a concert pianist.”
“No,” Kay said wearily. “I couldn’t. I wasn’t good enough. That was your fantasy, not mine.”
“Don’t blame me. You should have had your own fantasies. Oh look.” She turned the sound up on the movie. “This is my favorite part. Where she tells ’enry ’iggins to go to ’ell. Isn’t it time for my Stuff now?”
“Dad said whenever you want it.”
“I want it now.”
“How much do you take?”
“Three bags full.”
“Let’s settle for a tablespoon.” Kay rose to go to the kitchen.
“You’re a good daughter,” Ida said as Kay returned with the beaker. “I have been meaning to tell you that. A very good daughter. Except for your temper. And your sarcasm. And your sulks. Oh don’t look like that. I’m kidding. We’ve done some terrible kidding in this family, haven’t we. Listen. Is that the wind?”
“More storms,” Kay said. “Just like the barometer said.”
“Is that ugly old brass barometer still here? I thought we left it in the house before last. I’ll be damned. No. Oops. I won’t. Ha-ha. Not anymore, thanks to the blessed Father Bliss. You ought to get yourself baptized, Kay. And Nicky too. Before it’s too late. Oh I wonder what they’re feeding Francis at that dinner meeting tonight. He always brings me his dessert. Baked Alaska the next day is not a pretty sight. But Coco likes it, don’t you, Coco? Kay? That Stuff? Give me a spoonful? Now? This is the damndest thing,” she said, her face falling into soft ripples Kay had never seen before, her forehead beading with sudden sweat. “It’s like labor, darling. Remember that, when your time comes. Just like labor. Only … different.”
Kay hurried to pour a second spoonful, but by the time she had it filled Ida was already gripped in some deep private sleep, her arm in its sling propped sideways on the blanket, her hand palm up.
She was still asleep when Francis came home at midnight. He tiptoed in, his finger to his lips, saying “Shhh” as Coco struggled to her feet and skittered toward him. Kay looked up from the piano bench, where she had been picking out the melody of a love song. She stood up quickly, her heart racing, guilty, caught. She tugged the big brown sweater down over the tee shirt she used as a nightgown, picked up the stuffed animal Nicky had slipped into her backpack as a comfort and surprise, hid it behind her back so Francis would not know she had been singing to it as if it were Charles Lichtman, and said, “What happened, Dad? What are you doing home?”
“I live here,” Francis said. He looked flushed and jocular. “How was our little im-patient?”
“Fine. We watched a movie. And she ate some dinner.”
“Well wunnerful. I see you’ve been drinking tea. Afraid I have not been drinking tea. Can I get you a nightcap before you go home?”
“I’m not going home, Dad. I thought you were going to be gone all night, remember? So I made arrangements to sleep over.”
“If you want to do that, that’s fine too. Might as well, actually, it’s storming out there. Brandy all right?”
“I’d love a brandy. Thanks.”
“Fellow sat next to me at the banquet has a great rental space out there in the new shopping center,” Francis said as he returned with the bottle and two snifters. “You ought to tell Neal about it.”
“Why? Neal likes the stables in downtown West Valley. He’s happy there.”
“Downtowns are dead.” Francis settled into his leather chair, pulled off his shoes, unhooked his bow tie, and lit a cigarette. Kay sat across from him, hands folded on the couch. “Can’t bring back the past. Neal’s living in some dream of dime stores and soda fountains.” He yawned. “Got to live in the present,” he said. “Even though it’ll kill you.”
Kay nodded. “Sometimes the past feels like it will kill you too,” she agreed. She thought about asking Francis about Biff—or the woman in New York—or his reasons for ending that affair and coming back to Ida. She opened her mouth, closed it, bounced Pokey on her knee like a child. No nerve. She had been rebuffed by Francis so often when she tried to ask about the past that she had given up. Don’t be like Neal, she scolded herself. Make an effort. “Dad?” she ventured. “All our photos are of Mom’s family. You never talk about your own parents, or your brothers and sisters or how you grew up. You’ve never told me anything about your childhood.”
“Nothing to tell,” Francis said. “I survived it. That’s all that’s asked of us.”
“Francis?” Ida’s voice from the bedroom.
“Coming dear.”
That’s not all that’s asked of us, Kay thought, watching him rise and head off to her mother. Survival is only step one. She finished her brandy, shivered, and stood. Then she went in to say goodnight. She saw Ida sitting up, pale but smiling, Francis bent over her with the rosebud cup, the dog curled at his feet. She felt like an intruder as she blew a kiss and backed out. “I’ll see you both in the morning,” she said. “Sleep tight.”
“Oh, Kay?” She turned, saw Ida leaning toward her, beaming, nightgown slipping coquettishly off her shoulder sling. She looked slight and luminous. “Buddhists don’t eat meat.” She beamed, triumphant, then paled. “What’s that thing you’re holding?”
Kay looked down at Pokey in her hand. “An old toy of Nicky’s. He snuck it in my backpack so I wouldn’t feel lonely.”
“It’s not a horse, is it?”
“It could be a horse. It could be a hippo. But I think it’s a dinosaur. Actually,” Kay remembered, “it’s something you gave to him. Years ago, when he was a baby.”
“I want it out of my house,” Ida said. “What?”
“Put it outside the house. Throw it in the garbage can.”
Francis clucked his tongue and said, “Now now, Old Crazy,” but Ida’s eyes blazed and Kay shrugged and said, “Okay.” She opened the front door and took a deep whiff of the clean black air, then placed Pokey carefully in the crook of a jade tree under the overhang, where he could stay dry and guard the house all night.
Ten
Rain. And more rain. Fine. Let it. Wind? Wonderful. Cold? Great. Even if the power goes out, the house will hold. Built of glass, stone, steel. I designed this house for light, Francis thought, because I know enough about dark to know I don’t like it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, opened his eyes, and stared up at the pattern of branches blowing across the bedroom skylight. Not one leak this wet winter. He’d had to watch that roofer who came out last summer: What was his name? George? All Greeks are named George. Strange when you think about it. Which I don’t intend to do, Francis reminded himself. He shifted his weight on the mattress. I don’t intend to think about anything but getting back to sleep.
The wind pounded the windows down the length of the bedroom and Coco whinnied from the floor. Francis checked his parts: clear brain, headache centered toward the front and fitting over his eyes like a cat burglar’s mask, sore throat, the usual wet weight in his lungs, the twinge in his sacrum that meant he’d have to get the back brace out of the closet and start wearing it again, cement in his bowels, half-hearted erection, burning itch in the rectum. Nothing new there. But something had awakened him. Not guilt. He had no use for guilt, never had, and anyway, nothing had happened last night. He’d meant to leave town. Meant to spend the night out, free and alone, in a quiet motel. Give himself a quick vacation before the final siege. But he missed her. Old Ida the Spida. Worried about her. Coco whinnied again and he reached down and patted her kinky head. “Shaddup,” he said gently. Ida’s breath sounded rough. And that frown on her forehead, that was new. Maybe Kay gave it to her. Maybe Kay and Ida spent the night boohoohooing in each other’s arms, like they liked to. That whole mother-daughter thing. Started years ago, between them, when
he was in New York. “Take care of your mother,” he’d said as he left, a simple thing to say, any father would say it, but Kay, only three, the serious way she’d answered, like a marriage vow, “I will.”
Odd about George the Greek, though. He’d thought Kay was the wife. Saw her out by the swimming pool and winked, man to man. Thought Nicky was the son. Flattering me, making me feel young so I’d give him the job. Must have thought Ida was my mother. She can’t help looking old, after all she’s been through, but still—hard to see her crumpled now, happened so fast, hard to be lying beside someone who looks like your mother. Happened to Oedipus—another dumb Greek.
He settled back, hands folded one upon the other under his chin. But still he felt restless. He raised his watch, looked at the glow. Almost five. Ida usually had to be lifted onto the commode at least once before now. What if she’s died? he thought. A clamor of relief and grief together made him sit up. He reached across to her side of the bed, heard her moan as he touched the strap of her sling. If she could feel enough to feel bad she was all right. She was clutching her crucifix, he saw, and her night-light was still on; even after the official baptism she didn’t like to sleep with it off. Jim Deeds said let her, if it helps with the delusions. That was something Jim hadn’t warned him about. The goddamn delusions. Most of them were drivel, but the other day she’d said, in a perfectly reasonable voice, “Francis? I’m going on a journey. I have a suitcase, and it’s all packed, and I’m ready to leave,” which was an elegant metaphor, really, and for a short while it had eased his worry about her, but then she had thrown herself out of the wheelchair in a jealous fit when he was talking to Glo Sinclair on the phone, and last night when he asked her how the packing was coming along she had burst into tears. “You want me to die,” she’d said. No. No. Never wanted anyone to die. Wouldn’t mind if they left him alone, however. He’d just calmed her down when Kay wandered in with her backpack, looking lost as always, as if she’d come to the wrong house.
A feeling he knew. He’d lived in the wrong house himself for years. “Tell me about your childhood,” Kay had said. What childhood? He hadn’t had Kay’s luck. No one had ever given him music lessons or sent him to summer camp. No one had encouraged him to succeed; no one had paid his bills. His father had been a bully and a fool; lost every cent in the Depression and never recovered, padded around the stuffy flat in his bedroom slippers making bad deals on the telephone. His mother lived at church. His sisters and brothers were noisy and nasty as a nest of rats. He’d made a space for himself behind a cardboard screen in one corner of the flat, a spare space by the only washed window where he could do his math. When he was old enough to leave, he took the scholarship, caught the train. Never went back. No point. Life was what you made it. The opportunities were there. You just had to see them.