The Suicide of Claire Bishop

by Carmiel Banasky

  “And in the same neighborhood, no less,” he went on. “Just down the block. Do you miss it? Your old apartment? You should think about getting a ground-floor place, not that it’s my business. So you don’t have to walk up the stairs by yourself.” He shook his head. “You remember what a mess we made of the den? Me and the guys sleeping on the floor.”

  “Yes. Unbelievable,” she agreed emphatically.

  “All these years,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, it has been years, I was going to say that. You took the words plumb out of my mouth.” She wondered if she’d known him before or after Mary passed.

  He laughed again at something she didn’t catch. What a nice man, with a nice laugh, who had apparently slept on her floor? With other men? Claire found that hard to believe, but she often felt like she’d been cast at the end of a play, an understudy to the real actress who’d been reported suddenly missing, and she hadn’t had the chance to read the script and catch up with the other players. At other times, she was aware of the prior scenes, having watched the first three acts from the wings before being thrust on stage, the script ripped from her trembling fingers—but she was never the original actor.

  “I loved that apartment,” the man was saying. “Even after…”

  They had reached her door. Claire dug into the pockets of her long purple cardigan for her key ring. “And I enjoyed having you there, of course. Those were good times,” Claire said. She thought herself very convincing. She was about to lift her key to the lock, but then the man stepped between her and the door. He peered too closely at her face, frowning, wrinkling up his forehead. Then he leaned back and let out a quick, cold laugh.

  “What is it? Let me by,” she said.

  “As soon as you’re honest with me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come on, you don’t remember me. Do you? You don’t remember a thing.”

  “Don’t take it personally. My mind’s not quite what it used to be. The condition.”

  “The condition. And what would that be?”

  “A memory condition.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated and stepped aside.

  Claire fumbled with the keyring enough that he steadied her hand, sorted through the half-dozen keys, and lifted out the correct one.

  “How did you know?” Claire demanded.

  But he only held the key out to her.

  “I can do it,” she said curtly. He let her. And as she opened the door to her apartment, she knew all at once. She was not walking into her shameful one-room box of mold, the only place she could afford in the neighborhood—she was walking into her and Freddie’s old hallway, sans Freddie, those beautiful white moldings around the doorframes, the den with the double doors and sleeping bags spread across the carpet where Jill and the boys were snoring well past noon.

  “Jill,” she whispered. She turned to him in the doorway and dropped her keys at his feet, but did not bend down to pick them up. The door banged open against the adjacent wall, where there was a dent the shape of a knob that deepened each time she came home.

  Jill grinned sheepishly.

  Claire tried to laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s what happens when you get old.”

  “Is it?”

  “To some of us.”

  They stood there, pressed close together on the threshold, and she tried to hurry her shock along to catch up to his. But she was too late. The look on his face was no longer surprise. It was pity.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “So what if I can’t recognize my neighbors half the time? They’re dimwits anyway. But I recognize you. Only a few minutes off.”

  He reached his hand toward her face, but seemed to change his mind. He looked down at the keys on the ground.

  “Look at me making you stand here like a dummy,” Claire said. “Come inside.” He bent down and picked up her keys without a word. “Would you like some tea? Or? I don’t know what I have, but you can look. I’m going to sit down for a minute. I just need a minute.”

  He helped her to her chair and she didn’t grumble about it. His hand on her arm felt comforting. A thief’s hands touching her skin. How could she forget that part?

  Jill sat in the old wicker chair across from her and set his gas mask on the coffee table, beside the newspaper and the letter to the editor she’d been composing all week about how lately the weather hadn’t seemed to change as it should and the bees were getting confused. The daybed, unmade, was behind him in the corner. None of her furniture matched, most of it she’d found on the sidewalk—people were always leaving perfectly good couches and bureaus right in her way so she paid the gutter boys a few dollars to carry them upstairs. It was all very embarrassing, but only until she forgot that it was embarrassing. And Jill didn’t seem to notice anyway; he was only looking at her.

  He clapped his hands on his knees. She glanced at his fingers—no ring. “Thirty years,” he said. “Christ. Thirty-three? Thirty-five. I’m not a math guy.”

  “You’re asking me?” she said. “Go get yourself some tea.”

  “Do you want some?”

  “Not now.”

  “I don’t want any, either.” He kept staring at her so severely the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to vanish. His expression was no longer pity. It had moved into some other place and it was making her blush.

  “What’s that sound?” he asked, glancing toward the window; he must have known she needed a respite from that look.

  “I hardly hear it anymore.” She opened her ears and listened to the buzzing. The sound came and went to her like the ticking of a clock; a sound that vanishes when not thought of. “I’ll show you.”

  “You don’t have to get up.”

  “I want to.” She was steadier on her feet now, but even so, he kept his hand on her lower back as they walked to the window. She felt his warmth through her cardigan—because it was covered in little moth holes. How embarrassing. Why couldn’t she throw something away when it was worn out? Did she think she would never again run into someone whose opinion mattered to her? They hadn’t all died off like her bees.

  Claire loosed the window screen and tapped gently on the hive that lived on her fire escape. “These are my honeybees. It’s a top-bar hive. Only the best.”

  Jill took a step back and grinned. “You? A beekeeper?”

  “Why not? No reason to be scared. They won’t sting you. And if they do, you’ll live. You just need a little baking soda and water.”

  “I’m not scared,” Jill said. He sounded as young as when she’d seen him last.

  “Thirty-five years,” Claire whispered.

  “You’ve had them thirty-five years?”

  She closed the screen. “No, two. But I had the first hive for four years before I lost them. A young man was moving out and couldn’t keep them anymore so he asked if I wanted them. He was very handsome. I couldn’t say no. It’s not difficult to harvest the honey. One of the kids from the green market comes by and helps me once a month. They all know me as the old bee lady. And you should see me in my beekeeper’s veil.” She laughed quietly. “I spoil these ones. They don’t need much attention, but I like to give it to them anyway.”

  “You sell your honey at the market?” Jill asked, surprised.

  “I mostly give it away. I could make a profit, but it’s more fun to see people’s faces when you throw a jar of honey at them. I bet you’ve never had honey thrown at you before. Put it in your tea. Or just have a spoonful. It’s the best you’ve had, I guarantee.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “No. But it’s organic.”

  “I think I will have that tea now.”

  Claire let him put the kettle on while she sat in the rocker and rested her eyes, having some fun with the flickering blues and yellows on the insides of her lids. Jill stayed behind her in the kitchen while the water boiled. Perhaps he needed a moment to process. It’s not every day you see an old friend and find out they’ve turned into a disappearing be
ekeeper.

  Claire had fallen. It was a year ago, on Sullivan Street, or so she thought, and when she looked behind her, she saw there was nothing she could have tripped on. At the hospital, she received four stitches on her left knee. She was not afraid, and the young man stitching her up smelled of a sweet, women’s soap. He checked her ears for any infection or swelling that could have impacted her balance. As he scanned her chart, he said, “I see your mother had—”

  “Well it’s not that,” Claire interjected. “It certainly is not that. It will happen, you can bet. But not yet.”

  “All the same, I think we’ll get you set up with a few appointments. Some basic tests, memory and skill sets,” he said nonchalantly. “Do you live alone, Claire?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you have someone who might go with you to these tests? This is all a just-in-case.”

  “My memory is fine. It must be vertigo. Have you thought of that?”

  “Knowing early on—there will be more options for you.”

  “Something must be wrong with your ear contraption.”

  He tapped his papers straight, scanned her chart. “What street did you say you fell on?”

  “Sullivan.”

  “I see. But the ambulance picked you up on Mercer.”

  “It was Sullivan. I know. I used to live there.”

  The doctor shifted but his white coat seemed to stay perfectly still. He smiled pitifully and lit up her ears again with his instrument. “I’ll take another look. Could be an infection, yet.”

  When the kettle whistled, Claire called out behind her, “What have you been doing all these years?”

  “Stealing art,” Jill called back.

  “Very funny.”

  He brought their tea on a tray with a jar of the good stuff, and set it on the coffee table beside his gas mask. Quite the still life.

  “I like three big spoonfuls,” she said, spilling them into her cup slowly and watching the honey dissolve. “But I’m partial. Plus, I don’t have to watch my figure anymore.” He sat directly facing her and watched her pour the honey into his cup, pity smudging his features. She refused herself permission to ask what was wrong. “Have you kept in touch with your old friends?” she asked. “What happened to Lawrence?”

  “How long do you have…?” he said, his voice deeper.

  “How long do I have for what?”

  “You’re as tough as I remember, Claire. You’re going to make me say it? How long do you have? Until the Alzheimer’s—”

  “Could carry on a few years like this. It’s manageable. Or who knows, they might find me in the gutter next week, lost on my way to the hair salon.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “No, it isn’t. It will only get worse. That’s what they keep repeating at these Monday night groups. In case I dragged in some hope stuck to the bottom of my shoe.”

  Jill blew on his tea in response, watching her above the rim of his mug.

  “Stop looking at me like that. It’s not as bad as I make it sound. I feel very lucky. The doctors say I should feel very lucky.”

  “You don’t have to feel what they tell you to.”

  “So you’re still the anarchist. Well, thank you. But you should try it sometime, feeling lucky.”

  “Do you have someone? Who takes care of you?” Jill asked, glancing at his big hands holding his little mug.

  “I still know how to use the toilet.”

  “I mean if things get worse. You know what I mean.”

  “My bees will take care of me.” Claire grimaced.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. Everything will fall into place.” Claire turned her face toward the hive. “My first colony ran away, those ingrates. Two winters ago. I’d had them for four good years, and then they just disappeared. Isn’t that strange? I was hurt by it. It felt like they’d run away from me.”

  Jill blew on his tea.

  “Drink your tea,” Claire said.

  He took a sip and tried, but not very hard, to smile at her.

  She sighed. “A few years, I’ll be like my mother. I took care of her at her worst. Or right before.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Why would you? It got so I couldn’t do it anymore. She needed a nurse around all the time. I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “I bet you were plenty strong,” Jill said.

  “I mean I couldn’t physically lift her in order to clean her off when she messed the bed. She wanted to die. And she figured out how. She starved herself.”

  With his cup to his lips, Jill said, barely audibly, “Don’t get any funny ideas now.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Like what? Like finally offing myself?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “My mother said it. She made it very clear she wanted to die and I wouldn’t let her. She asked for help and I pretended not to hear. And it was the one desire of hers I respected. What do you think of that? What would you do if someone asked you to help them die?”

  Jill stared out the window. “Where do you think the bees went when they disappeared?”

  But Claire wasn’t about to let up. He’d put himself in this position, showing up without warning, wanting to make amends. Revealing himself as her last best hope.

  “I wasn’t brave enough when my mother asked,” Claire said.

  “Could they have just move into another hive?”

  “You might have been brave enough, if it was your mother.”

  “They probably died in the cold,” Jill said.

  “Look at me.”

  Jill looked at her. “What are we talking about here? Brave enough for what? This is nonsense.”

  Claire tried to stand. But the stupid chair was too saggy to provide her any leverage and she stumbled back down to sitting in the process. “I’m very tired. It’s time you go.”

  “Already? Can I come by again?” He stood up, then sat back down. “We could talk more. There’s still a ton we didn’t talk about.” He scanned the mostly empty walls as if for a topic. He wouldn’t find the painting here, if that’s what he was looking for. “Like Lawrence. And the boys. Guess they’re not boys anymore.”

  How much money did you get for it, Claire didn’t ask. Did it go to the cause?

  “Lawrence and—oh, man, did I really forget his name?” Jill kept on.

  “Carlos.”

  “Now I’m being corrected by a woman with Alzheimer’s. Or, sorry, too soon to joke.” He nodded. “I lost touch with them.”

  “And Bird?”

  “Bird—he died. Didn’t you hear? After he got back.”

  “How?” Claire probed, but she knew the answer.

  Jill stood again, tossing his gas mask up and down. “He was in a lot of pain, mentally, so. It wasn’t that long ago. I hadn’t seen him in years. I had to read about it in the paper.”

  He couldn’t even say the word suicide. What good was he to her?

  “I wish I’d seen him,” he said, meeting her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” Claire said. She didn’t blame him, not for anything.

  He shrugged. “I should let you rest. But I’ll call you. I’ll stop by. If that’s okay.”

  She said only, softly, “Let yourself out.”

  When the door shut behind him, the bees buzzed loudly in her defense. She thought about sending them after, to keep an eye on him.

  Jill came by again. And again, Claire did not recognize him until they were in her doorway.

  As they stood at her window admiring the top-bar hive, again for the first time, Jill asked, “Do you want some tea? Are you hungry?”

  “Oh, yes,” Claire said. “For one thing, I don’t have to cook for myself anymore. They bring food to my door. Isn’t that nice?”

  Jill laughed. “What program treats you like a queen like that?”

  He had a nice laugh. Claire stared at him, and laughed, too. “Yes.”

  “No,” Jill said. “Who brings food to
your door?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  Jill waddled around with his hands in his pockets, not looking at her. “I’m not much of a cook. But I make an edible pasta. Do you like pasta?”

  Claire frowned, then laughed again, unsure of what he wanted her to say.

  “I want to help,” Jill said. “I can. Money, or whatever.”

  Claire tried to think about this a moment, but there was a cloud in the way. She couldn’t see around it, or through it. She could not kill it. Finally, she landed on a simple phrase that might satisfy him. It was such work to satisfy him. “Good for you,” she said with a smile.

  PART X: WE LAUGHED UNTIL WE WERE NO LONGER PEOPLE 2004

  There is a black raincloud inside the car. I am a dog being driven out to the country only to be ditched on the side of the road—except that we’re in Friday morning rush hour heading into the city from the airport. I don’t dare look Dan in the eye when he swings his head toward me in the backseat of his new sedan where I’m huddled up wet. His rainy beard rubs against the headrest. Keep your eyes on the road, I want to tell him, even though he’s in the passenger seat. The road is barely visible through the veil of rain around us. Jules says nothing, her hands on the wheel at ten and two. I bet she offered to drive so she wouldn’t have the chance to hit me. They called her number on my emergency card from the airplane. What a shock that must have been. A privilege, really, to get a telephone call from thirty thousand feet in the air. She might have cried. But I already apologized, I think. I’m not going to say it again.

  I realize that I got overwhelmed on the plane and that jumping would have been nuts. It would not have gotten me closer to Nicolette. Because it would have killed me. I’m getting distracted from the logic. I have to find a quiet place to read over my mathematical proof, starting back at Premise 1.

  “So you’re off your meds, I take it?” Jules asks the road whizzing under us.

  Isn’t that funny—we talk about being off or on meds like it’s a trampoline, when really they are in you, undoing you. “I’m a little too soaked to talk right now,” I say. Which is true, after standing outside with that Homeland Security guard—a Hasid—waiting at the airport. We stood in the rain like it wasn’t raining at all. I’d hidden the painting tube the best I could under my shirt. One of those big New York summer rains, but not warm. As if a whole season passed since I was here last, which is wrong because that was only three days ago.