Don't Cry

by Mary Gaitskill

  I came out of the alley to find my way back to Katya. I tried to stop making noise. I couldn't. I felt people following me. I understood. The current had reversed. As I had chased the boy they would follow me. They would kill me. I heard myself sobbing. Thomas was dead. I had let him die. They would kill me. It was right.

  “Miss? Miss?” A small voice was at my side, gently tugging me without touching me. “Miss? What's wrong, miss?”

  I looked at the voice. There were two young girls, maybe thirteen years old, tagging at my side. They were dressed in school uniforms. Their faces were soft but intensely focused. I wiped my face; I glanced behind me. There was a small crowd following me, made up mostly of teenage girls and a few boys with curious faces. I turned to face them. “My husband died,” I said. “He died and somebody stole our wedding rings. Now I don't have anything.” Tears ran down my face—human tears now. “I have to find my friend and her baby. Thank you.”

  The girls nodded gravely. I continued to walk. One girl followed me. “It will be all right,” she said. “God will help you.”

  I said, “Thank you, honey” Machine-gun fire sounded in the distance. The girl dropped away.

  “Janice!” It was Katya, rounding a corner, Sonny in her arms. She said, “What happened? Why did you do that?”

  “I was robbed. That boy took my wedding rings. I couldn't catch him.”

  “Then we need to call the police.”

  If she hadn't been holding Sonny, I would've slapped her. “Do you know how stupid you sound?” I said. “Call the police?”

  “Janice—”

  “Look around you!” I was trembling, still dripping tears with no force. “They're in the middle of a war and you think the police are going to come because of my rings?”

  “Janice—”

  “Shut up!”

  I turned to get away, to go back to the B and B. In my head was Thomas well and virile, Thomas sick, our house with its marble shower, its riches of detail, its condiments and candies, paintings and knickknacks, baskets on the wall, baskets from all over the world, from places we had traveled together, shelves of books, the books he had written, the languages he had spoken, his children, my students— Now I don't have anything. But once I'd had everything; I had betrayed everything so I could fuck somebody I didn't love.

  “Stop.” Someone touched my arm from behind; I turned. A very small old man stood before me.

  “What?” I asked, or thought.

  “Stop,” he said. “Don't cry Please. It's okay.” He said “Please,” but his eyes had an expression of command. I lifted my hand to wipe my eyes. He reached out and took it. He held it palm up; he put my rings in my hand and closed my fingers over them. “Okay?” he said.

  “But how—”

  He shook his head and said, “Just don't cry Okay?”

  I stopped crying. He turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said. “There was a chain, too?”

  He turned his head and looked hard at me.

  “The rings were on a chain. Do you know about that?”

  He shook his head and walked away.

  Years later, I told this story at a party at the university I told it to a woman who had traveled extensively in Africa. She was a big woman, very grand, with a high chest and a chunky necklace made of precious stones. When I told her how I had lost my rings and how the old man had given them back, she made a face. She said, “Really, you make too big a fuss of yourself. You should not go to Africa and then make such a fuss.” I answered her vaguely. I let myself be chastised. Because in that room, she was right. In that room, I was a privileged and foolish woman running around bawling about rings while a whole city fell apart and people were killed. But I didn't meet the old man in that room. I met him in a place of biblical times and modern times, where people walked back and forth between times, all times. In this place, I walked back and forth between the time of the living and the time of the dead. In the middle of my walking, war broke out, and the path between the living and the dead opened up and everything dear to me fell down the crack. I fell, too, and I might've fallen forever—but the old man came and said, “Stop.” And I stopped.

  That same night at the university, another person asked, “Did you thank him?” And I was amazed to realize I didn't know. Probably I did not. How could I? Thanking him would have been like thanking an angel.

  I sit in my darkened house sometimes, holding a glass of wine, and I thank him.

  The next day, we rode through the streets, crouched on the floor of a car Yonas had borrowed from his uncle. We rode to the American embassy, sharing the car with five Ethiopians, women and girls whom Yonas was taking “to safety.” He didn't dare drive his cab lest taxi drivers striking on behalf of the protestors turn it over and burn it. But there were no taxis in the street, no cars, no people. There were huge high trucks full of soldiers in camouflage with automatic weapons. Still, the Ethiopian women sat on the seat and we crouched on the floor, hiding the whiteness that declared us paying customers. One of the women, a girl really, held Sonny against her breast. A military truck passed close by, bristling with guns. The girl holding our baby looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. Katya pressed her forehead to the sweat-drenched seat and stretched her hand up to clasp Sonny's foot as though it were a hand.

  Outside, the embassy was surrounded by guards with machine guns; inside, it was jammed with frightened people and officials behind windows. We took a number and waited. Waiting next to us was an American doctor who had been on emergency-room duty when gunshot victims began to come in. He was calm, over-calm, but he smelled like fear, and when he got up to one of the windows, he began talking loud and fast, telling someone, really everyone, that there had been many killings, many more than the reported twenty-five. The whole room smelled of fear. Something was missing from Sonny's file, and Katya was shouting at someone, her jaw moving like cheap animation on her stark chalk white face, her body giving off a smell that was nearly savage, the smell of something ready to attack. She turned to me suddenly and I flinched. “I've got to go,” she said. “I'll be back.” She was already dialing Yonas on her cell.

  I went to take Sonny from her, but the child refused; he hadn't let me hold him since I'd handed him off and run down the middle of the street and come back howling in pain. So I held his hand and walked out to the hall with him. Thomas walked out of the sun-shadowy water, stepping on his elegant pants, damp and sagging, and his shoes squishy wet, smiling as he handed me the dog's chewed-up ball, the dog, standing on its hind legs, dancing. With an ecstatic face, Sonny took the steps two at a time. Thomas's mother smiled and boarded the bus, the sun shining on her beautiful hair. Sonny looked up at me, gurgling with pleasure, forehead shining with effort. I stroked his hair. I thought of his mother's beaten face, her torn ears, her breasts hanging down. The child grabbed my hem with his tiny fist. Katya came back beaming, papers in her hand, her sweat rank and innocent.

  That night, I dreamed Katya and I were in a small dark house of mud and thatch. Thomas was there, too, asleep on a dirty mat, and so was Sonny's mother, who was terribly sick. Katya kept trying to nurse the mother, to suckle her at her breast, but the woman couldn't hold her head up, and I kept wanting to say, Stop. It's ridiculous. She's the mother. But I was distracted by Thomas's mother in the next room, laughing as she played with Sonny; I was distracted, too, by gunfire, which came closer and closer. …

  I woke in the dark with my heart pounding; I reached for my wedding rings on the table beside me.

  “Katya,” I whispered, only half-expecting her to be awake, too.

  She replied unintelligibly.

  “When Sonny gets older, and he asks you about his mother, what are you going to tell him?”

  She didn't answer. Shortly, she began to snore.

  But the next day, when we were at the airport, she answered. She said, “If he asks, I'll tell him that his mother was a great woman. That she was a fighter, and because she had to fight so hard, she gave m
e her most precious child to keep him safe. Something like that. Here.” Without thinking, she handed me the baby, and bent to pick up her bag. I stiffened, expecting Sonny to protest. But he didn't; he reached for me. For the first time since I'd run down the street, Sonny let me hold him. I thrive, his body said to mine, I will thrive. I put my hand on the back of his head and held it to my shoulder, my cheek against his hair. It was time to go.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank and acknowledge Pamela Laws, Tom Bissell, Maria Pallotta, Debra Losada, Beatrice Von Rezzori and Santa Maddalena, the MacDowell Colony, Jin Auh, Deborah Garrison, Deborah Treisman, Roger Hodge, Michael Ray, Eric Gottesman, Peter Trachtenberg, and especially my mother, Dorothy Jane Gaitskill. I am particularly grateful to Nuruddin Farah for his permission to use an excerpt from his novel Secrets in “The Agonized Face.”

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mary Gaitskill is most recently the author of Veronica, nominated

  for the National Book Award, and Because They Wanted To,

  which was nominated for a PEN/Faulkner Award in 1998.

  Copyright © 2009 by Mary Gaitskill

  All rights reserved.

  Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  The stories in this collection were originally published in slightly different form in

  the following: “The Agonized Face” in Conjunctions; “The Little Boy”

  in Harper's; “Mirror Ball” in Index; “Folk Song” on Nerve.com; “Don't Cry” and

  “An Old Virgin” in The New Yorker; “Description” in Threepenny Review;

  “College Town, 1980” in Vice; and “Today I'm Yours” and “The Arms and

  Legs of the Lake” in Zoetrope: All-Story.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gaitskill, Mary, [date]

  Don't cry: stories / Mary Gaitskill.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-37806-4

  I. Title.

  ps3557.a36d66 2009 813’.54—dc22 2008025231

  www.pantheonbooks.com

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