Emily, Alone

by Stewart O'Nan

  THE MYSTERY OF MARCIA COLE

  With spring came not just its and blooms but its mating rituals—all of them, it seemed to Emily, nocturnal. The peepers were peeping, Buster and his friends prowling the back alley, keeping her up with their serenades and lovers’ quarrels. She had to close her bedroom windows to block out the carnal opera.

  These were the hours she missed Henry keenly, the bulk and warmth of him against her reassuring. They spooned, his arm hooked around her ribs like a fallen branch, his knees tucked behind hers, then, without a word, they both rolled to face the other way, and she held him, kissed his back. In the morning he prodded her, wanting, and while she kept luxurious memories of those trysts, what she missed most was the smell of his skin.

  One noisy night when she couldn’t sleep, she threw off her covers and padded to the bathroom to take some Bufferin and refill her water glass. The moon was bright, laying shadows over the plush bath mat by the sink, and as she looked out onto the yard, she noticed someone standing on the Coles’ back deck.

  The figure by the sliding door was pale and still. At first Emily thought it was a trick, her fears conjuring a burglar from the darkness. Then the figure moved, lifting its face to the sky, and she could see it was Marcia, and that she was naked, her skin reflecting the moonlight.

  It seemed to Emily that she was basking in it. There was something ceremonial and dreamlike about the scene, and Emily didn’t dare move. Maybe Marcia was sleepwalking, or maybe she’d taken a sauna. She had to be freezing. Emily expected Jim to step out with a robe and lead her back inside, but after a few minutes Marcia turned and closed the door behind her.

  Emily waited for her to reappear, then topped off her water glass and climbed into bed again. Rufus huffed once and subsided. It was two-thirty by her clock radio, and now she was wide awake. She was sure it was the lateness of the hour, and the strangeness of what she’d just seen, but along with her many speculations she tried to recall the last time she’d been outside like that, naked to the world, and couldn’t. She remembered beaches and ponds, and, long ago, Henry’s canoe at Chautauqua. The temptation was to go down right now and stand on the back porch in the altogether to prove she could do it, but it wasn’t the same, and she immediately vetoed the idea as preposterous. No one wanted to see that ruin, least of all herself, and so she lay there waiting for the release of sleep, listening to Rufus wheeze and trying to think of anything besides Marcia shining in the dark like another moon.

  BETTER OR WORSE?

  Arlene had had a little accident. Just a fender bender, nothing serious. The first Emily heard of it was from Betty, who called to see if she could bring anything on Wednesday. Arlene had backed into someone in the parking lot at the Petco in Monroeville and broken a taillight.

  “When did this happen?” Emily asked.

  “Yesterday, I guess.”

  “Why am I just hearing about it now?”

  “I just heard about it myself. I’m sure she’s embarrassed.”

  “What happened to the other car?”

  “Nothing. It was a truck. Supposedly her insurance will cover it.”

  “It’s still going to be expensive. Plus the time and aggravation. That’s not something you can drive with. I should check and see if she needs help.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Emily said. “I can’t say I’m surprised, the way she drives. She can’t see.”

  “She can’t.”

  “It worries me.”

  “It worries me too,” Betty said, and the fact that she agreed pleased Emily, as if confirming a long-held belief.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good luck,” Betty said, and let her go.

  Emily made no pretense, as Betty had, of calling for some other reason.

  “What’s this I hear about you having an accident?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” Arlene said.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”

  “A car accident’s not a big deal?”

  “I was going two miles an hour in a parking lot and bumped someone. That hardly qualifies as a ‘car accident.’”

  “Arlene, you can’t see.”

  “I can’t see at night. That’s why I don’t drive at night.”

  “For which we are all grateful.”

  “My eyes are perfectly fine during the day.”

  “When’s the last time you had your eyes checked?”

  “November, and they were fine.”

  “They were not ‘fine,’ and that was last year. You need to have them checked.”

  “I have my six-month appointment with Dr. Laughlin next week.”

  “I can drive you if you want.”

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

  “It’s not just me—Betty’s just as concerned as I am.”

  “If I remember correctly, Betty was very concerned when you started driving again. I was too, but I didn’t tell you you couldn’t. I’m sorry. It’s good of her to be concerned, and of you. I appreciate it, Emily, I do. But—and please tell me if I’m wrong here—this is the first accident I’ve been in this century, and it wasn’t all my fault. I don’t know what Betty told you, but the other driver was backing out just like I was, he just had a bigger bumper. Otherwise we wouldn’t even be discussing this.”

  “I didn’t hear that part,” Emily said.

  “It wasn’t like I pulled out without looking. I looked both ways, several times. We just happened to pull out at the same time. It was a one-in-a-million chance.”

  “Maybe less than that.”

  “It had nothing to do with my eyesight.”

  “Which you’re going to have checked.”

  “Because I’m aware that my eyes aren’t as good as they could be, and I need to take care of them. Like anyone my age.”

  Having endured countless moments of terror as her passenger, Emily wasn’t persuaded, but pressing the argument would do no good, and while she hadn’t quite made her point, she’d at least registered her opinion.

  “You’re sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “I know you would.”

  It would serve Arlene right, Emily thought, if she had an accident on the way there—on the bridge, where there was nowhere to pull off—then dismissed the idea as spiteful. These little skirmishes brought out the worst in her. The infuriating thing was that she really had meant well—as she explained to Betty later.

  She didn’t expect to ever hear the results of Arlene’s checkup, or only a bowdlerized version, but the following Wednesday, right after lunch, Arlene showed up on her doorstep sporting a trendily rectangular pair of glasses. She modeled them for Betty, turning her head one way and then the other. They were right, her eyes had gotten worse. The new prescription made a world of difference, especially driving, and she’d wanted to come over, first thing, and thank them for putting up with her. It was an apology, and yet Emily didn’t feel vindicated. If anything she felt chastened, as if her argument had been false all along. While she laughed at Betty popping her eyes at how strong the lenses were, she couldn’t understand why Arlene’s good news should make her feel bad.

  WHITE ELEPHANTS

  Every May, as part of her big spring cleaning, Emily donated her castoffs to the church rummage sale. Over the years she’d systematically emptied the basement and the garage, taking a victorious general’s pleasure in the newly recouped space. The tables at Calvary had been blessed with an abundance of junk she no longer had any use for and couldn’t fob off on the children: old dishes and Christmas lights and board games and steamer trunks and cameras and lamps and so many folding chairs. There were sentimental exceptions, of course—her golf clubs, Henry’s jigsaw, Margaret’s typewriter—though as she grew older, she found it easier to part with the tokens of their past. She
was done storing things in the hope that someone would love them as much as she did.

  She spent a morning in the corner behind the furnace, culling the most obvious pieces. This year’s crop included a rusty cooler they’d used for picnics and backyard parties, a box fan that didn’t fit Kenneth’s window and two ugly beige card tables she’d bought for her long-defunct bridge club. It was a shame, the card tables were in perfect shape, but no, they had to go.

  As tough as it was giving away merchandise she’d paid good money for, presents were even harder. She’d keep the bread maker for another year, though she had no intention of using it, and the Crock-Pot, and the redenameled skillet like her mother’s that Margaret had found at the flea market. No one would know if she donated them, and yet, out of simple etiquette, Emily felt obligated. It was doubly frustrating, leaving these unwanted objects to gather dust when she was getting rid of things that actually meant something to her.

  Hardest of all were those remnants of Henry’s she should have thrown out years ago, like the matching luggage they’d bought for their trip to England—four hardshell American Tourister suitcases the dark purple of raw liver, each with its own gold monogram and combination lock. Tall and narrow, they hailed from the era before wheels, and had a tendency to topple over at the merest touch. Emily couldn’t remember the last time they’d used them, probably a Christmas visit to Boston when the grandchildren were little. She had a vague memory of filling one with presents. In any case, at least ten years. Since Henry died she hadn’t used hers, as if breaking the set would be bad luck.

  She tipped one to the light to read the initials—Henry’s—and saw him in his trenchcoat, hatless, on some Midlands rail platform, the wind rearranging his thin hair. Rather than bother with a car, they’d taken trains, vetting the schedules like astrologers, working their way from London up through the Lake Country and the empty moors to Edinburgh. It was supposed to be romantic, the dining cars and long vistas, but each time they boarded, Henry had to navigate the treacherous metal steps and busy aisles with the two larger suitcases while Emily struggled behind with the smaller ones. When they reached their cramped compartment (in the movies they were much more spacious), he had to heft each bag onto an overhead rack, prompting muttering about how he was certainly getting his exercise this trip and then testy exchanges over how many clothes they really needed to bring and why they’d chosen to come in the fall. By their second week the ritual had become so unpleasant that neither of them commented on it, just lugged the bags on and off as if this were their sentence. And then, when they’d unpacked at the next inn and found their way around the quaint town, they softened. They hadn’t come all this way to argue. Henry was accommodating; she was sorry. A nice rare lamb chop and a bottle of claret did wonders for their morale, a sinful dessert with clotted cream and then a tawny port, perhaps a nightcap of Drambuie for Bonny Prince Charlie, and arm in arm they weaved their way back through the ancient streets to their nest of a room and fell into bed, all the rigors of travel forgotten, all the joys theirs for the taking.

  With an old dishcloth she wiped the handle free of cobwebs, then lifted the suitcase to test its weight—surprisingly light. She’d performed the same experiment last year, and the year before, the strength of her memories weakening her resolve, when, really, there was no compelling reason to hang on to them. Her days as a world traveler were over. That was fine. She wasn’t the Elderhostel type, traipsing around the Holy Land with a visor and a canteen. If only they weren’t monogrammed. She wished there were a way to remove their initials. She was tempted to mask them with electrical tape, a kind of blindfold, as if it would be easier to send them off anonymously.

  These second thoughts stopped her, made her straighten up, take a breath and reconsider the whole set, the four of them huddled in the dankness like a family. They were more than forty years old, she’d never use them again and the children had their own bags. So why did she feel like an executioner?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping down the sides. “Maybe your new owners will take you somewhere nice.”

  The decision sapped her as if she’d run a mile. She didn’t bother with the far corner, just carried up what she had, one piece at a time. Rufus, who was afraid of the basement stairs, waited for her at the top, and then, as she came back from filling the Subaru, at the back door.

  “Yes,” she said, “thank you for helping. No, Boobus, you don’t really want to come. I promise, it’s going to be no fun. Go lie down. I’ll be back in an hour.” She kissed the top of his head and sent him off, listening for the clatter of his nails on the stairs. “Go on up,” she said, and he did.

  One of the pleasures of donating to the rummage sale was seeing what other people had dredged up before the public had a crack at it—an empty privilege, really, since she was done accumulating things. Part of it was simple curiosity, part a confirmation. Confronting the sheer bounty of junk made her grateful she’d already gotten rid of hers. Spread about the refectory like the treasure of an archaeological dig was the detritus of a civilization dedicated, it seemed, to leisure: lawn chairs and fondue sets and exercise bikes, children’s skis and wooden tennis racquets still in their wing-nut-studded presses, Herb Alpert records and forgotten bestsellers, outmoded tape players and TVs and VCRs. So much of life, one might assume from this display, was a waste of time, but among the folding tables she recognized meaningful episodes from her own—the humidifier she set on a chair beside Margaret’s and Kenneth’s beds when they had bronchitis, or at least a reasonable facsimile; a Coleman stove like the one Henry brewed their morning coffee over on their camping trips before they had children; dry-cleaned sleeping bags, chipped punch bowls, space-age sunlamps. It was somehow comforting to encounter the same juice pitcher from the seventies decorated with a giant orange slice, as if, like one of Plato’s ideal forms, it could never vanish completely. Despite herself, she pinched the little price tag on its string and then had to resist the bargain by walking away.

  There were several coolers to choose from, including a newer-looking one with drink holders sunk into the lid, and several sets of expensive luggage. She eyed them as if they were competitors. The volunteers from the Altar Guild hadn’t put hers out yet, and rather than wait and see what they were asking for them, she said her goodbyes and headed home, telling herself it didn’t matter.

  She told herself the same thing the next Sunday when they didn’t sell and the youth group chucked them into a dumpster with all the other garbage to be hauled away and buried in some landfill. She’d given them freely, glad to have them out of the house. What happened to them after that was beyond her control, though, imagining their bags crushed beneath the ever-deepening layers, she understood it was all her fault, and now when she ventured down to the basement for a cardboard box or a screwdriver from Henry’s workbench, instead of stopping and admiring the open space she’d created, she was reminded of how much she’d lost, and scurried back upstairs.

  INNOCENT VICTIMS

  Emily agreed, the Post-Gazette did seem to feature more upsetting stories lately, as if the city were declining by the day. The article that prompted this latest discussion, as they were warming up with their coffees at the Eat ’n Park, involved a fifteen-year-old girl from Brushton who bested her rival by opening fire on her Sweet Sixteen party. Three girls were dead, three more in critical condition at Children’s Hospital. Arlene knew one of the families, if the father was the same Shawn Booker she was thinking of. She’d had him, oh, it had to have been thirty years ago. A nice boy, tall, always polite. It made her sick to think of it, though Emily could sense a kind of pride or excitement in her personal link to the news.

  “It could happen to anyone,” Arlene said. “Look at that Duquesne student last week, stabbed on Forbes in broad daylight. It’s not just the bad neighborhoods anymore. Highland Park’s a perfect example. There are some blocks back there behind Negley that are like the Wild West. You can hear the gunshots at night.”

  S
he wasn’t completely exaggerating. Emily had seen the neighbors complaining on the news after another shooting, mothers clutching their babies on the sidewalk, and once or twice she’d been startled by a single, distant report, the abrupt pock! carrying over the rooftops like a balloon, though now that she recalled it, the last time had been during the day and might have been a starter’s pistol kicking off a road race in the park.

  “Have you been through Friendship lately?” Arlene asked. “Along Penn there by the cemetery? I thought that strip was supposed to be turning around, but everything’s closed.”

  “I know, it’s a ghost town.” Emily wondered if she’d been there to see Henry, and felt guilty. She really needed to visit him. She needed to visit her parents too, and Louise, but when would she find the time?

  “You heard about the home invasion right here in Edgewood.”

  “I thought that was Wilkinsburg.”

  “That was right here.” Arlene jerked a thumb at the parking lot. “It was one of those row houses on Pennwood, up by Hampton, not ten blocks from here. Two men forced their way in, held this other man against the wall and shot him.”

  “Awful,” Emily said, and stole a look at the buffet. There was no line.

  “Apparently he owed these characters money and couldn’t pay them.”

  “It’s always drugs, isn’t it?”

  “So they killed him. Just like that.”