Balancing Acts

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  He was awakened, he didn’t know if hours or days later, by Lettie whispering his name. The moment he saw her he remembered, viscerally, why he had had to do it. After the arid white-clad shapes drifting in and out, she was a welcome sight in deep blue, her color (Susie’s too).

  ‘You can only stay ten minutes,’ a voice outside the curtain warned.

  She put her hand over his and searched his face. He could read her hesitation—to kiss or not to kiss? She decided not to.

  ‘Max, I feel so awful about it, it’s driving me crazy.’

  He tried to smile, keep up appearances. After all, a woman he had lured. Or had she? ‘It wasn’t you, sweetheart. No regrets. It could have happened anytime.’ His voice came out a weak croak.

  ‘Still and all. If you had died I couldn’t forgive myself.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. And if you hadn’t come back just then...?’ He coughed. She plucked a tissue from the box on the night table and handed it to him.

  ‘So how do you feel now?’

  ‘I feel like hell.’

  Lettie sighed and pulled over a chair. He didn’t much want to talk; he wanted her to sit there forever and protect him from the white coats. He tapped her hand with a finger and pointed. ‘My heart. Take a look.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen that contraption before. It’s an okay heart.’ At last, an unofficial smile. ‘It looks very nice and even to me.’

  ‘What do the doctors say? Did you ask?’

  ‘Yes. They say you’ll be all right. In a couple of days you’ll be out of intensive care.’

  He peered at her face, but it was not evasive. It never had been. She looked straight at him with her wide-open, sensible eyes, simply herself.

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’

  ‘Not about this.’

  He breathed deep and felt a lump rise, but swallowed it away. ‘Life is a sewer,’ he said, and was immediately sorry, for she put her face in her hands and wept.

  In a minute she raised her head and plucked another tissue, for herself. ‘You’re not supposed to talk, especially if that’s what you have to say.’

  He gave a limp, impatient flick of the hand and closed his eyes. When he opened them—in minutes, hours?—she was gone.

  Scattered over the next few days were more ten-minute visits from her, and then they moved him downstairs as promised, to a real room. His waking hours grew longer; he could distinguish day from night. They detached him from the I.V. tube and wheeled away his heart on its screen, gave him meager meals and questioned him with a less intense concern. Time oozed past; he didn’t think about much, not even about Susie. Susie was slipping away, after so long. It troubled him that he hadn’t the energy to snatch her back, but he hadn’t the energy to be much troubled over it either. Each time he opened his eyes to the white ceiling he felt relief, as well as a minuscule emotion that, if magnified a thousandfold, might be called joy. This will to live—and for what?—was puzzling, and not entirely welcome; it gave him a future, and played games with his perspective; made him foolish and irritable.

  ‘I’ve read this one already,’ he complained to Lettie. ‘This one too.’ Disgustedly, he flipped each paperback book across the white sheet. ‘Aha! This one I haven’t. Two strikes, finally a hit.’ He perused the lurid cover, then turned to the sensational preview on the back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max. They didn’t have such a great selection down at the drugstore. I’ll exchange these two; meanwhile you have the one.’

  ‘I suppose you did your best.’ He riffled through the pages.

  She rose from the yellow plastic armchair and went to stand at the window. From bed Max could see only a patch of smudgy April sky. The day looked warmish, and the wispy mare’s-tail clouds gave it a soft feeling of melancholy. Inside, the air was bland. The walls of the room were pale yellow. Jutting into the squared-off space was his bed, far too high, a platform over an abyss. A TV set, above eye level, protruded from the opposite wall like the trophy head of a captured beast. He hadn’t used it yet. The old crime movies he favored were shown only in the thick of night, when the house rules prescribed silence.

  Twice a day now they let him sit up and dangle his feet over the edge, an activity that discouragingly drained the blood from his head. There was a sagging heaviness in his arms and legs. Orders from the brain were subverted in transit; the muscles, once so eager, were on strike; any movement demanded a sustained determination. No matter: tomorrow, the nurse had told him, he would take a short walk around the room. Mentally he paced out the prospect, which loomed in anticipation like a five-mile uphill stretch.

  ‘What’s happening back at the compound? Have they rented my apartment yet?’

  Lettie returned from the window and dropped into the chair, her knees, in scarlet slacks, spread wide. Settling back in the stiff plastic, she folded her arms across her lap. The folding was a gathering in and withdrawal. His illness had aged her, he noticed. The lines from nose to chin seemed deeper. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair didn’t shine.

  ‘Max, I can live without the nastiness.’ She arched her neck and looked off into the corridor. ‘I watered your plants last night. Your Wandering Jew is thriving, you’ll be glad to know.’

  ‘I don’t know what possessed me to keep plants. They were my wife’s thing, not mine. I can’t seem to throw them out. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ She paused. He could see her summoning patience, resources. ‘Alison phones me every other day to ask about you. She’s very concerned.’

  ‘And what do you tell her?’

  ‘She feels guilty. I tell her it wasn’t her fault...Don’t give me that crooked look, Max. She’s just a child. Anyway, you said yourself that these things happen, who knows why? She’s afraid to call you, I think. You might give her a ring one day, when you’re feeling a little stronger.’ Her eyes wandered to the tan phone near his bed. ‘I have her number.’

  He sat up straighter on the pillows. ‘I take it you mean that in all seriousness?’

  ‘I do. Are you so busy you can’t spare the time? She’d like to hear your voice...’

  He gave his dismissive flip of the hand, with an incredulous frown that could have shriveled a weaker petitioner. A fine woman, but marred by an excess of sentiment.

  ‘You seem a little tired,’ Lettie said. ‘Do you want to rest? I’ll come back in a while.’

  ‘Rest! What do you think I’ve been doing?’

  ‘Maybe you’d rest better alone. Frankly, Max, I’ve had enough for now.’ She came over to pick up the rejected paperbacks.

  ‘Just think,’ he said, catching her hand. ‘Less than two weeks ago we were in the sack.’

  She raised her eyebrows wryly, then smoothed down his hair like a mother. ‘That’s not all there is to life.’

  ‘Go already, philosopher.’

  But when she was in the doorway he called to her. ‘Tell me, Lettie, when I get home—if—are you going to seduce me again?’

  ‘I don’t know, Max. Probably. Ask the doctor about it, why don’t you?’ She laughed at the mock horror on his face. ‘What’s the matter, are you too shy?’

  ‘No. Pride,’ he said.

  ‘I see. Well, take care of yourself, just in case. It’s an incentive, I hope.’

  Without a doubt. Only how could she suggest calling Alison? Hadn’t the kid done enough for the moment? She had her dense places, Lettie did, and he needed her perfect. It irked him that she was imperfect, but before he could brood on that, he was asleep.

  In the dream he had his strength again; he was back on the wire. Illuminated by spotlights, reaching for the sky, and all around, outside the glowing circles, was deep black. His feet dug in with a fine grip, quietly exulting. No urgency, no hurry, he could keep going forever. He felt his center rising straight through his length, fixed to each successive point. The exquisite calm of walking in space seeped through his pores while the encircling air buoyed him up. Suddenly, puncturing his joy, came a scary pric
kling inside; a second later the premonition was tangible, as the wire quavered, then shook dangerously. Only with a rapid shift of weight could he keep his balance. He turned to look. Way below was someone trespassing, destroying his equilibrium. In her dirty jeans and T-shirt and colored sneakers she was running carelessly up his wire as if it were a broad safe path, and calling, ‘Max, Max, wait for me.’ He was stunned with horror; the thoughtless child would kill him, chasing him like that. Already he could barely stay upright. Tottering, gasping, blinking, he was coming apart from the center, from the inside out. He wanted to shout at her to go back, wave her down, but any extra movement was an impossible luxury. He looked ahead to seize a goal, and there, not too far away, spotlighted on the high platform in her blue spangled costume, was Susie, smiling and beckoning. How come he hadn’t noticed her till now? In a fierce effort, he gathered his shattered balance, forcing the energy to cleave tight to the center—he had to get up there to her. But Alison was gaining on him. He could see her quite clearly now. And the wire above seemed to be lengthening, stretching inconceivably high off the ground, while from the top Susie, her features grown indistinct, still smiled at him, holding out her arms as though nothing was wrong. Couldn’t she see what was happening, or was she blinded by the glare of the lights? He yearned for her so hard he could practically feel her arms pulling him in. The platform she stood on receded. She grew smaller and smaller, unaware. Close behind him came the sneakered footsteps. Desperate, he risked a streaking dash towards Susie, caught his toe in the wire, leaped up to land with better balance but never landed, fell endlessly, down and down. He woke in terror. He was going to die, that was for sure, and his dread was black as the infinite falling reaches of space.

  No Susie out there where he was going either, no white lights, nothing at all. He would never have her close again. Over the past months he had been losing her, distracted by daily rounds, ensnared by caring. Her face and voice no longer kept their vividness, and he felt ashamed, as at a betrayal. Yet Susie was bones now; what could bones care about his betrayal? Hers was the worse negligence. He was fully awake now; that shabby defection of hers, to bone, maddened him as long ago, and the skin of his face twitched, tightening against the death’s head beneath.

  Lettie returned, carrying more books. Two steps inside the room and she went pale. ‘Max, what is it? Not again?’

  ‘No, no. It’s all right.’

  ‘What happened, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I had a bad dream.’

  She pulled a chair near him, sat, and took his hand. ‘You gave me such a scare. Look at you. Your face is gray.’ She began to cry.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. The irritation he had felt for her before he slept seemed senseless, a reflection in a distorting mirror. In himself. Each moment had to be lived, or suffered, separately, in its own wholeness, and she was real, and now. He saw her image truly, as she had always been. Only he wished he could spare her. ‘Don’t care so much, Lettie. You know what’s in store for you.’

  ‘And since when was that ever a reason? Stupid.’ She blew her nose. ‘What did you dream?’

  He shook his head weakly on the pillow. ‘It’s gone. Forgotten.’

  ‘Well, never mind, then.’ She sat quietly for a long time. ‘Are you better now? Good. Listen,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll give you something real to groan about. You’re not going to like this, but I promised Alison I’d ask...’

  He was groaning already.

  ‘Just listen, Max—this is kind of nice. She wants to take us both to the circus in five or six weeks, as her guests, no less. You ought to be all right by then. She wants to know if you’ll come.’

  ‘In five or six weeks I might be dead.’

  ‘So could we all. If you’re not dead, will you come?’

  ‘I’ll come. Why not? You twisted my arm.’

  It seemed she had expected more or a struggle, for she leaned back in relief and said, ‘You know, Max, sometimes you surprise me.’

  ‘My infinite variety, huh?’ He didn’t explain. There was really no need to tell her that he might as well go anywhere now, do anything, that one thing was as good as another since above all something was better than nothing. He didn’t want to be dead in six weeks, he didn’t want to be dead ever. Life drew him and claimed him, and he was humbled. Mortal and unreasonably hopeful, like everyone else. Alison had overtaken him.

  CHAPTER 10

  A COUPLE OF WEEKS later he gathered his books together and left for home. ‘Almost as good as new,’ the bearded intern told him on the way out.

  Glancing up at the shaggy, innocent face, Max jerked his head back with a brief laugh. ‘Listen to the expert! I’m probably your first case. Don’t forget, O’Reilly, you owe me forty thousand dollars from gin rummy.’

  The young man grinned and pumped Max’s hand. ‘You were here at the right time, Max. Next week I go off the night shift.’

  His arm linked through Lettie’s, he hit the warm late-April air. The scent of new-mown grass and honeysuckle rising around him was lushly intoxicating, and for an instant his head swam. He leaned harder on Lettie.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine. The shock of fresh air.’

  From the window of the taxi he watched the town go by. The low, box-like houses plunked on their tidy lawns were the same, interspersed with shopping centers also the same, the brashly lettered signs still an assault on the eye; yet lit with spring sun, all had an ingenuous glow, and stirred in him a singular compassion. A kinship. It was, after all, where he lived. As they rounded the corner near Pleasure Knolls he braced himself for Vicky Cameron.

  ‘Max!’ She rose as if propelled, and rushed to meet him, grasping his hands. He leaned to kiss her on the cheek, acknowledging the honor of the greeting—Vicky used first names only for the happy few. ‘It’s so good to have you back! You’re looking fine. How do you feel?’

  ‘Not bad, Vicky. Quieter, is all. You’ve been carrying on as usual, I trust?’

  ‘Oh, yes, things are about the same. Max, we can send up meals if you like. All you’ve got to do is call me. Don’t hesitate—’

  ‘New hairdo?’

  She blushed and ruffled her fair hair, freshly cut in short layers and frosted with silvery tips.

  He moved towards the elevator, where Lettie waited with his suitcase. ‘I’ll be talking to you, Vicky.’

  From back at her desk, her head bent and her hands fussing among papers, she called in a half whisper, ‘Max, take care of yourself. Really. I missed you.’

  He waved and followed Lettie into the elevator.

  ‘Another conquest,’ she said. ‘You have women of every generation hanging on you.’

  ‘But think of the irony of life. Now, when it’s too late.’

  ‘And after the way you’ve treated her.’

  ‘That’s not important. She knows I’m fond of her.’

  ‘Fond of her! It’s news to me. Are you sure you’re all right, Max? You don’t sound like yourself.’

  ‘I don’t feel like myself either. They drained out all the piss and vinegar. I don’t even think I could work up a good fury.’

  ‘Oh, give it time. Something’ll come along to set you off.’ They got out and walked down the hall.

  ‘No, I think I’m changed. Would you still like me if I were rehabilitated? I mean, the externals would remain the same, but inside, a simple sweet old man? Reconciled to the world? A metamorphosis? You think you could go for that?’

  She put her hand in his pants pocket and took out the keys. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re talking above my head.’

  ‘Uh-uh. I know you too well for that line, sweetie. You’re not sure, that’s it. You are having your doubts.’

  Impassive, she stepped inside and he followed. The apartment looked the same, only neater than the morning he had left. Someone—Lettie, of course—had wiped up the spilled coffee, emptied the ashtray, and washed the breakfast dishes, pancake skillet. Put away th
e bottle of Scotch, hung up the bathrobe. Also changed the hot sheets. His few plants were thriving—he visited them one by one, fingering the shiny leaves. Only three were from Susie’s original brood, a pink-edged flourishing coleus, a philodendron that wound from a high shelf around a lamp to the floor, and an indestructible small cactus she used to swear at when it pricked her. The rest he had left for patrons of the bike shop. Later, to give those three company he had added others, which thrived—he couldn’t tell why, since he watered them erratically. A stranger was sitting on his window sill, blooming a brilliant, mournful purple: the African violet the kids from the gym class had sent. Lettie had brought it home from the hospital.

  ‘You took good care of the plants.’ She was off in the bedroom, opening windows, and didn’t answer. He sat down and put his feet up on the ottoman. Lettie returned to study him.

  ‘You look tired. Go to bed.’

  ‘A one-track mind.’

  ‘Look who’s talking. Remember to take it easy.’

  ‘I must thank you for everything,’ he said.

  ‘Please. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I was only trying to be polite.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound natural.’

  A siren started to wail, just outside his window. ‘See, they’re welcoming me home.’

  He settled in to quiet days. He walked, morning and evening, alert to bird sounds and flowering dogwoods, mauve sunsets of the lengthening days, the milder pleasures, innocuous. He cooked and ate too much, Lettie along with him. In the movies they held hands and absently he stroked her leg; they stopped off for ice cream in Highet’s on the way home. He felt mellow, like softening, overripe fruit. Those nights he was alone in his bed he read, with a cool relish, mysteries by Dorothy Sayers. They gave him sound sleep and no dreams. Curious, those blank, uneventful sleeps. After a while he ventured farther on his excursions, visiting the local museum, where he found a display on the history of the region that sheltered him. Once it had been dairy farms bounded by thick woods. Way before that, Indians. Now a clutter of commerce. He clicked his tongue in righteous dismay, as though he had a personal stake in the land of the valley.