by Lucia Berlin
When Sally and I first became friends, after we grew up, we spent several years working out our resentments and jealousies. Later, when both of us were in therapy, we spent years venting our rage at our grandfather, our mother. Our cruel mother. Years later still, our rage at our father, the saint, whose cruelty was not so obvious.
But now we speak only in the present tense. In a cenote in the Yucatan, atop Tulum, in the convent in Tepoztlan, in her little room, we laugh with joy at the similarities of our responses, at the stereo of our visions.
The morning of my 54th birthday we don’t stay long at La Vega. Sally wants to rest before her chemo. I need to dress for lunch with Basil. When we get home Mercedes and Victoria are watching a tele-novela with Belen and Dolores, the two maids. Belen and Dolores spend most of the day and night watching soap-operas. They have both been with Sally for twenty years; they live in a small apartment on the roof. There is not that much for them to do now that Ramon and the daughters are gone, but Sally would never ask them to leave.
Today is a big day on Los Golpes de la Vida. Sally dresses in a robe and comes to watch. I have showered and put on make-up, but stay in my robe too, don’t want to wrinkle my grey linen.
Adelina is going to have to tell her daughter Conchita that she can’t marry Antonio. Has to confess that Antonio is her natural son, Conchita’s brother! Adelina had him in a convent twenty-five years ago.
And there they are in Sanborn’s but before Adelina can say a word Conchita tells her mother that she and Antonio have been secretly married. And now they are going to have a baby! Close-up of Adelina’s grief-stricken face, her mother’s face. But she smiles and kisses Conchita. Mozo, she says, do bring us some champagne.
Ok, so it’s pretty silly. What was really silly was that all six of us women were bawling our eyes out, just sobbing away when the doorbell rang. Mercedes ran to open the door.
Basil stared at Mercedes, aghast. Not just because she was crying, or wearing shorts and a bra-less top. People are always taken aback by the sisters’ beauty. After you are around them awhile you get used to it, like a hare-lip.
Mercedes kissed him on the cheek. “The famous Basil, wearing real English tweeds!”
His face was red. He stared at us, all of us in tears, with such confusion that we got the giggles. Like children do. Serious, punishable giggles. We couldn’t stop. I got up, went to give him an abrazo too, but again he stiffened, held out his hand for a cool shake.
“Forgive us …we’re watching a tear-jerker of a tele-novela.” I introduced him to everyone. “Of course you remember Sally?” He looked aghast again. “My wig!” She ran to put on her wig. I went to dress. Mercedes came with me.
“Come on Tía, dress up real whorish and trashy… he is so stuffy!”
“There is no place to eat around here, surely,” Basil was saying.
“Surely, there is. La Pampa, an Argentinian restaurant, just across from the clock of flowers in the park.”
“The clock of flowers?”
“I’ll show you,” I said. “… Let’s go.”
I followed him down the three flights of stairs, chattering nervously. How good it was to see him, how fit he looked.
In the downstairs foyer he stopped and looked around.
“Ramon is a minister now. Surely he can afford a better place for his family to live?”
“He has a new family now. They live in La Pedregal, a lovely home. But this is a wonderful place, Basil. Sunny and spacious … full of antiques and plants and birds.”
“The neighborhood?”
“Calle Amores? Sally would never live any place else. She knows everybody. I even know everybody.”
I was greeting people all the way to his car. He had paid some boys to watch it, keep it safe from bandits.
We buckled up.
“What is the matter with Sally’s hair?” he asked.
“She lost it because of chemotherapy. She has cancer.”
“How terrible! Is the prognosis good?”
“No. She’s dying.”
“I’m so sorry. I must say, none of you seem particularly affected by it.”
“We’re all affected by it. Right now we are happy. Sally is in love. She and I have become close, sisters. That’s been like falling in love too. Her children are seeing her, hearing her.”
He was silent, hands gripping the wheel.
I directed him to the park on Insurgentes.
“Park anywhere, now. See, there is the clock of flowers!”
“It doesn’t look like a clock.”
“Of course it does. See the numbers! Well, hell, it looked like a clock the other day. The numbers are marigolds, and they’ve just grown a little leggy. But everybody knows it’s a clock.”
We parked a long way from the restaurant. It was hot. I have a bad back, smoke a lot. The smog, my high heels. I was faint with hunger. The restaurant smelled wonderful. Garlic and rosemary, red wine, lamb.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it’s very rowdy. It will be hard to have a proper conversation. It’s full of Argentines!”
“Well, yeah, it’s an Argentine restaurant.”
“Your accent is so American! You say ‘yeah’ all the time.”
“Well, yeah, I’m an American.”
We walked up and down the street, peering into the windows of one wonderful restaurant after another, but none were quite right, one was too dear. I decided to use the word dear instead of expensive from now on. Oh, look, here’s my dear phone bill!
“Basil … let’s get a torta and go sit in the park. I’m famished, and want to spend time talking with you.”
“We’re going to have to go downtown. Where I am familiar with the restaurants.”
“How about I wait here while you go get the car?”
“I don’t like to leave you unescorted in this neighborhood.”
“This is a swell neighborhood.”
“Please. We will go together and find the car.”
Find the car. Of course he didn’t remember where he had parked the car. Blocks and blocks. We circled back, out, around, ran into the same cats, the same maids leaning on gates flirting with the mailman. The knife sharpener playing a flute, driving his bike with no hands.
I sank back into the cushioned seat of the car, kicking off my shoes. I took out a pack of cigarettes but he asked me not to smoke in the car. Tears were streaking down both of our faces from the Mexico City smog. I said I thought smoking might form a sort of protective screen.
“Ah, Carlotta, still flirting with danger!”
“Let’s go. I’m starving.”
But he was taking photos of his children from the glove compartment. I held the pictures in their silver frames. Clear-eyed, determined young people. Lantern-jawed. He was talking about their brilliance, their achievements, their successful careers as physicians. Yes, they saw the son, but Marilyn and her mother didn’t get on. Both very headstrong.
“She is quite good with servants,” Basil said about his wife. “Never lets them step out of bounds. Were those women your sister’s servants?”
“They were. They’re more like family now.”
We turned the wrong way on a one-way street. Basil backed up, cars and trucks honking at us. On the periférico then, speeding along, until there was an accident up ahead and we came to a standstill. Basil turned off the motor and the airconditioning. I stepped outside for a smoke.
“You’ll get run over!”
Not a car was moving for blocks behind us.
We arrived at the Sheraton at 4:30. The dining room was closed. What to do? He had parked the car. We went into a Denny’s next door.
“Denny’s is where one ends up,” I said.
“I’d like a club sandwich and iced tea,” I said. “What are you going to have?”
“I don’t know. I find food uninteresting.”
I was profoundly depressed. I wanted to eat my sandwich and to go home. But I made polite conversation. Yes, they belonged to
an English country club. He played golf and cricket, was in a theatre group. He had played one of the old ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace. Great fun.
“By the way. I bought that house, in Chile, with the pool, off the third hole of the golf course in Santiago. We rent it out, but plan to retire there. Do you know which house I mean?”
“Of course. A lovely house, with wisteria and lilacs. Look under your lilac bushes, you’ll find a hundred golf balls. I always sliced my first shot into that yard.”
“What are your plans for retirement? For your future?”
“Future?”
“Do you have savings? IRA, that sort of thing?”
I shook my head.
“I have been very concerned about you. Especially that time when you were in the hospital. You have knocked about a bit… three divorces, four children, so many jobs. And your sons, what do they do? Are you proud of them?”
I was irritable, even though my sandwich had arrived. He had ordered an untoasted cheese sandwich and tea.
“I hate that concept … being proud of one’s children, taking credit for what they have accomplished. I like my sons. They are loving; they have integrity.”
They laugh. They eat a lot.
He asked again what they did. A chef, a TV camera man, a graphics designer, a waiter. They all like what they do.
“It doesn’t sound as if any of them are in a position to care for you when you’ll need it. Oh, Carlotta, if you had only stayed in Chile. You would have had a serene life. You would still be queen of the country club.”
“Serene? I would have died in the revolution.” Queen of the country club? Change this conversation, quick.
“Do you and Hilda go to the seashore?” I asked.
“How could anyone, after the coast in Chile? No, there are such throngs of Americans. I find the Mexican Pacific boring.”
“Basil, how can you possibly find an ocean boring?”
“What do you find boring?”
“Nothing, actually. I’ve never been bored.”
“But then, you have gone to great lengths not to be bored.” Basil moved his almost uneaten sandwich aside and leaned toward me solicitously.
“Dear Carlotta…how ever will you pick up the pieces of your life?”
“I don’t want any of those old pieces. I just go along, try not to do any damage.”
“Tell me, what do you feel you have accomplished in your life?”
I couldn’t think of a thing.
“I haven’t had a drink in three years,” I said.
“That’s scarcely an accomplishment. That’s like saying, ‘I haven’t murdered my mother.’”
“Well, of course, there is that, too.” I smiled.
I had eaten all my triangles of sandwiches and the parsley.
“Could I have some flan and a cappuccino, please?”
It was the only restaurant in the Republic of Mexico that didn’t have flan. Jello, sí.
“What about you, Basil, what of your ambition to be a poet?”
He shook his head. “I still read poetry, of course. Tell me, what line of poetry do you live by?”
What an interesting question! I was pleased, but perversely unacceptable lines came to mind. Say, sea. Take me! Every woman loves a fascist. I love the look of agony / Because I know it’s true.
“Do not go gentle into that good night.” I didn’t even like Dylan Thomas.
“Still my defiant Carlotta! My line is from Yeats: ‘Be secret, and exult.’”
God. I stubbed out my cigarette, finished the instant coffee.
“How about ‘miles to go before I sleep’? I’d better get back to Sally’s.”
Traffic and smog were bad. We inched along. He recited all the deaths of people we had known, the financial and marital failures of all my old boyfriends.
He pulled up at the curb. I said goodbye. Foolishly, I moved to give him a hug. He backed away, into the car door. Ciao, I said. Exult!
The house was quiet. Sally was asleep, after her chemo. She stirred fitfully. I made some strong coffee, sat by the canaries, near the fragrance of tuberoses, listening to the man downstairs playing his cello badly.
I crept into bed next to my sister. We both slept until it was dark. Victoria and Mercedes came to find out all about the lunch with Basil.
I could have told them about the lunch. I could have made it a very funny story. How the marigolds grew out and Basil couldn’t tell it was the clock of flowers. I could have impersonated him acting one of the old ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace. But I lay back against the pillow next to Sally.
“He won’t ever call me again.”
I cried. Sally and her daughters comforted me. They did not think I was a fool to cry.
Mourning
I love houses, all the things they tell me, so that’s one reason I don’t mind working as a cleaning woman. It’s just like reading a book.
I’ve been working for Arlene, at Central Reality. Cleaning empty houses mostly, but even empty houses have stories, clues. A love letter stuffed way back in a cupboard, empty whiskey bottles behind the dryer, grocery lists … “Please pick up Tide, a package of green linguini and a six pack of Coors. I didn’t mean what I said last night.”
Lately I’ve been cleaning houses where somebody has just died. Cleaning and helping to sort things for people to take or to give to Goodwill. Arlene always asks if they have any clothes or books for the Home for the Jewish Parents, that’s where Sadie, her mother, is. These jobs have been depressing. Either all the relatives want everything, and argue over the smallest things, a pair of ratty old suspenders or a coffee mug. Or none of them want anything to do with anything in the whole house, so I just pack it all up. In both cases the sad part is how little time it takes. Think about it. If you should die … I could get rid of all your belongings in two hours max.
Last week I cleaned the house of a very old black mailman. Arlene knew him, said he had been bed-ridden with diabetes, had died of a heart attack. He had been a mean, rigid old guy, she said, an elder in the church. He was a widower; his wife had died ten years before. His daughter is a friend of Arlene’s, a political activist, on the school board in L.A. “She has done a lot for black education and housing; she’s one tough lady,” Arlene said, so she must be, since that’s what people always say about Arlene. The son is a client of Arlene’s, and a different story. A district attorney in Seattle, he owns real estate all over Oakland. “I wouldn’t say he is actually a slumlord, but …”
The son and daughter didn’t get to the house until late morning, but I already knew a lot about them, from what Arlene told me, and from clues. The house was silent when I let myself in, that echoing silence of a house where nobody’s home, where someone just died. The house itself was in a shabby neighborhood in West Oakland. It looked like a small farm house, tidy and pretty, with a porch swing, a well-kept yard with old roses and azaleas. Most of the houses around it had windows boarded up, were sprayed with graffiti. Groups of old winos watched me from sagging porch steps; young crack dealers stood on the corner or sat in cars.
Inside, too, the house seemed far removed from that neighborhood, with lace curtains, polished oak furniture. The old man had spent his time in a big sunroom at the back of the house, in a hospital bed and a wheel chair. There were ferns and African violets crammed on shelves on the windows and four or five bird feeders just outside the glass. A huge new TV and VCR, a compact disc player—presents from his children, I imagined. On the mantel was a wedding picture, he in a tux, his hair slicked back, a pencil-thin moustache. His wife was young and lovely, both were solemn. A photograph of her, old and white-haired, but with a smile, smiling eyes. Solemn the two children’s graduation pictures, both handsome, confident, arrogant. The son’s wedding picture. A beautiful blonde bride in white satin. A picture of the two of them with a baby girl, about a year old. A picture of the daughter with Congressman Ron Dellums. On the bed table was a card that began, “Sorry I was just too tied up to make
it to Oakland for Christmas …” which could have been from either one of them. The old man’s Bible was open to Psalm 104. “The earth shall tremble at the look of him; if he do but touch the hills, they will smoke.”
Before they arrived I had cleaned the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs. There wasn’t much, but what was in the closets and linen cupboard I stacked in piles on one of the beds. I was cleaning the stairs, turned the vacuum off when they came in. He was friendly, shook my hand; she just nodded and walked up the stairs. They must have come straight from the funeral. He was in a three-piece black suit with a fine gold stripe; she wore a grey cashmere suit, a grey suede jacket. Both of them were tall, strikingly handsome. Her black hair was pulled back into a chignon. She never smiled; he smiled all the time.
I stood behind them as they went through the rooms. He took a carved oval mirror. They didn’t want anything else. I asked them if there was anything they could give to the Home for Jewish Parents. She lowered her black eyes at me.
“Do we look Jewish to you?”
He quickly explained to me that people from the Rose of Sharon Baptist Church would be by later to get everything they didn’t want. And the Medical Supply place for the bed and wheelchair. He said he’d just pay me now, pulled off four twenties from a big stack of bills held by a silver clip. He said that after I finished cleaning to lock up the house and leave the key with Arlene.
I was cleaning the kitchen while they were in the sunroom. The son took his parents’ wedding picture, his own pictures. She wanted their mother’s picture. So did he, but he said, No, go ahead. He took the Bible; she took the picture of her and Ron Dellums. She and I helped him carry the TV and VCR and CD player out to the trunk of his Mercedes.
“God, it’s terrible to look at the neighborhood now,” he said. She didn’t say anything. I don’t think she had looked at it. Back inside she sat in the sunroom and looked around.
“I can’t picture Daddy watching birds, or taking care of plants,” she said.
“Strange, isn’t it? But I don’t feel I ever knew him at all.”
“He’s the one who made us work.”
“I remember him whipping you when you got a C in math.”