The Collected Stories of Lorrie Moore

by Lorrie Moore

  "Dad, that's ludicrous," whispers Therese, not wanting to interrupt the game. "Bars are open to everyone. Public Accommodations Law."

  "I'm not talking about the cold legalities," he says chastisingly. He has never liked lawyers, and is baffled by his daughters. "I'm talking about a long-understood moral code." Her father is of that Victorian sensibility that deep down respects prostitutes more than it does women in general.

  "'Long-understood moral code'?" Therese looks at him gently. "Dad, you're seventy-five years old. Things change."

  "Arachnophobia!" Andrew shouts, and he and Ann rush together and do high fives.

  Therese's father makes a quick little spitting sound, then crosses his legs and looks the other way. Therese looks over at her mother and her mother is smiling at her conspiratorially, behind Therese's father's back, making little donkey ears with her fingers, her sign for when she thinks he's being a jackass.

  "All right, forget the William Kennedy Smith. Doll, your turn," says Therese's father to her mother. Therese's mother gets up slowly but bends gleefully to pick up the scrap of paper. She looks at it, walks to the center of the room, and shoves the paper scrap in her pocket. She faces the other team and makes the sign for a famous person.

  "Wrong team, Mom," says Therese, and her mother says "Oops," and turns around. She repeats the famous person stance.

  "Famous person," says Ray encouragingly. Therese's mother nods. She pauses for a bit to think. Then she spins around, throws her arms up into the air, collapses forward onto the floor, then backward, hitting her head on the stereo.

  "Marjorie, what are you doing?" asks Therese's father. Her mother is lying there on the floor, laughing.

  "Are you okay?" Therese asks. Her mother nods, still laughing quietly.

  "Fall," says Ray. "Dizziness. Dizzy Gillespie."

  Therese's mother shakes her head.

  "Epilepsy," says Therese.

  "Explode," says her father, and her mother nods. "Explosion. Bomb. Robert Oppenheimer!"

  "That's it." Her mother sighs. She has a little trouble getting back up. She is seventy and her knees are jammed with arthritis.

  "You need help, Mom?" Therese asks.

  "Yeah, Mom, you need help?" asks Ann, who has risen and walked toward the center of the room, to take charge.

  "I'm okay." Therese's mother sighs, with a quiet, slightly faked giggle, and walks stiffly back to her seat.

  "That was great, Ma," says Therese.

  Her mother smiles proudly. "Well, thank you!"

  After that, there are many rounds, and every time Therese's mother gets anything like Dom De Luise or Tom Jones, she does her bomb imitation again, whipping herself into a spastic frenzy and falling, then rising stiffly again to great applause. Pam brings Winnie in from her nap and everyone oohs and aahs at the child's sweet sleep-streaked face. "There she is," coos Aunt Therese. "You want to come see Grandma be a bomb?"

  "It's your turn," says Andrew impatiently.

  "Mine?" asks Therese.

  "I think that's right," says her father.

  She gets up, digs into the bowl, unfolds the scrap of wrapping paper. It says "Jekylls Street."

  "I need a consultation here. Andrew, I think this is your writing."

  "Okay," he says, rising, and together they step into the foyer.

  "Is this a TV show?" whispers Therese. "I don't watch much TV."

  "No," says Andrew with a vague smile.

  "What is it?"

  He shifts his weight, reluctant to tell her. Perhaps it is because he is married to a detective. Or, more likely, it is because he himself works with Top Secret documents from the Defense Department; he was recently promoted from the just plain Secret ones. As an engineer, he consults, reviews, approves. His eyes are suppressed, annoyed. "It's the name of a street two blocks from here." There's a surly and defensive curve to his mouth.

  "But that's not the title of anything famous."

  "It's a place. I thought we could do names of places."

  "It's not a famous place."

  "So?"

  "I mean, we all could write down the names of streets in our neighborhoods, near where we work, a road we walked down once on the way to a store—"

  "You're the one who said we could do places."

  "I did? Well, all right, then, what did I say was the sign for a place? We don't have a sign for places."

  "I don't know. You figure it out," he says. A saucy rage is all over him now. Is this from childhood? Is this from hair loss? Once, she and Andrew were close. But now, as with Ann, she has no idea who he is anymore. She has only a theory: an electrical engineer worked over years ago by high school guidance counselors paid by the Pentagon to recruit, train, and militarize all the boys with high math SAT scores. "From M.I.T. to MIA," Andrew once put it himself. "A military-industrial asshole." But she can't find that satirical place in him anymore. Last year, at least, they had joked about their upbringing. "I scarcely remember Dad reading to us," she'd said.

  "Sure he read to us," said Andrew. "You don't remember him reading to us? You don't remember him reading to us silently from the Wall Street Journal?"

  Now she scans his hardening face for a joke, a glimmer, a bit of love. Andrew and Ann have seemed close, and Therese feels a bit wistful, wondering when and how that happened. She is a little jealous. The only expression she can get from Andrew is a derisive one. He is a traffic cop. She is the speeding flower child.

  Don't you know I'm a. judge? she wants to ask. A judge via a fluke political appointment, sure. A judge with a reputation around the courthouse for light sentencing, true. A judge who is having an affair that mildly tarnishes her character—okay. A softy; an easy touch: but a judge nonetheless.

  Instead, she says, "Do you mind if I just pick another one?"

  "Fine by me," he says, and strides brusquely back into the living room.

  Oh, well, Therese thinks. It is her new mantra. It usually calms her better than ohm, which she also tries. Ohm is where the heart is. Ohm is not here. Oh, well. Oh, well. When she was first practicing law, to combat her courtroom stage fright, she would chant to herself, Everybody loves me. Everybody loves me, and when that didn't work, she'd switch to Kill! Kill! Kill!

  "We're doing another one," announces Andrew, and Therese picks another one.

  A book and a movie. She opens her palms, prayerlike for a book. She cranks one hand in the air for a movie. She pulls on her ear and points at a lamp. "Sounds like light" Ray says. His expression is open and helpful. "Bite, kite, dite, fight, night—"

  Therese signals yes, that's it.

  "Night," repeats Ray.

  "Tender Is the Night" says her mother.

  "Yes!" says Therese, and bends to kiss her mother on the cheek. Her mother smiles exuberantly, her face in a kind of burst; she loves affection, is hungry and grateful for it. When she was younger, she was a frustrated, mean mother, and so she is pleased when her children act as if they don't remember.

  It is Andrew's turn. He stands before his own team, staring at the red scrap in his hand. He ponders it, shakes his head, then looks back toward Therese. "This must be yours," he says with a smirk that maybe is a good-natured smirk. Is there such a thing? Therese hopes.

  "You need a consultation?" She gets up to look at the writing; it reads, "The Surrey with the Fringe on Top."

  "Yup, that's mine," she says.

  "Come here," he says, and the two of them go back down the corridor toward the foyer again. This time, Therese notices the photographs her parents have hung there. Photographs of their children, of weddings and Winnie, though all the ones of Therese seem to her to be aggressively unflattering, advertising an asymmetry in her expression, or the magnified haziness of her eyes, her hair in a dry, peppery frizz. Vanity surges in her: surely there must have been better pictures! The ones of Andrew, of Ann, of Tad, of Pam and Winnie are sunlit, posed, wholesome, pretty. But the ones of Therese seem slightly disturbed, as if her parents were convinced she was ins
ane.

  "We'll stand here by the demented-looking pictures of me," says Therese.

  "Ann sent her those," says Andrew.

  "Really?" says Therese.

  He studies her hair. "Didn't your hair used to be a different color? I don't remember it ever being quite that color. What is that color?"

  "Why, whatever do you mean?"

  "Look," he says, getting back to the game. "I've never heard of this," and he waves the scrap of paper as if it were a gum wrapper.

  "You haven't? It's a song: 'Geese and chicks and ducks better scurry, when I take you out in the surrey…"

  "No."

  "No?" She keeps going. She looks up at him romantically, yearningly. "'When I take you out in my surrey, when I take you out in my surrey with the fringe on—'"

  "No," Andrew interrupts emphatically.

  "Hmm. Well, don't worry. Everyone on your team will know it."

  The righteous indignation is returning to his face. "If I don't know it, what makes you think they'll know it?" Perhaps this is because of his work, the technosecrecy of it. He knows; they don't.

  "They'll know it," Therese says. "I guarantee." She turns to leave.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," says Andrew. The gray-pink of rage is back in his skin. What has he become? She hasn't a clue. He is successfully top secret. He is classified information. "I'm not doing this," he says. "I refuse."

  Therese stares at him. This is the assertiveness he can't exercise on the job. Perhaps here, where he is no longer a cog-though-a-prized cog, he can insist on certain things. The Cold War is over, she wants to say. But what has replaced it is this: children who have turned on one another, now that the gods—or were they only guards?—have fled. "Okay, fine," she says. "I'll make up another."

  "We're doing another one," announces Andrew triumphantly as they go back into the living room. He waves the paper scrap. "Have any of you ever even heard of a song called 'The Surrey with the Fringe on Top'?"

  "Sure," says Pam, looking at him in a puzzled way. No doubt he seems different to her around the holidays.

  "You have?" He seems a bit flummoxed. He looks at Ann. "Have you?"

  Ann looks reluctant to break ranks with him but says, quietly, "Yeah."

  "Tad, how about you?" he asks.

  Tad has been napping off and on, his head thrown back against the sofa, but now he jerks awake. "Uh, yeah," he says.

  "Tad's not feeling that well," says Ann.

  In desperation, Andrew turns toward the other team. "And you all know it, too?"

  "I don't know it," says Ray. He is the only one. He doesn't know a show tune from a chauffeur. In a way, that's what Therese likes about him.

  Andrew sits back down, refusing to admit defeat. "Ray didn't know it," he says.

  Therese can't think of a song, so she writes "Clarence Thomas" and hands the slip back to Andrew. As he ponders his options, Therese's mother gets up and comes back holding Dixie cups and a bottle of cranberry drink. "Who would like some cranberry juice?" she says, and starts pouring. She hands the cups out carefully to everyone. "We don't have the wine-glasses unpacked, so we'll have to make do."

  "We'll have to make do" is one of their mother's favorite expressions, acquired during the Depression and made indelible during the war. When they were little, Therese and Andrew used to look at each other and say, "We'll have to make do-do," but when Therese glances over at Andrew now, nothing registers. He has forgotten. He is thinking only of the charade.

  Ray sips his a little sloppily, and a drop spills on the chair. Therese hands him a napkin and he dabs at the upholstery with it, but it is Ann who is swiftly up, out to the kitchen, and back with a cold, wet cloth, wiping at Ray's chair in a kind of rebuke.

  "Oh, don't worry," her mother is saying.

  "I think I've got it," says Ann solemnly.

  "I'm doing my clues now," says Andrew impatiently. Therese looks over at Winnie, who, calm and observant in her mother's arms, a pink incontinent Buddha who knows all her letters, seems like the sanest person in the room.

  Andrew is making a sweeping gesture with his arm, something meant to include everyone in the room.

  "People," says Tad.

  "Family," says Pam.

  Ann has come back from the kitchen and sits down on the sofa. "Us," she says.

  Andrew smiles and nods.

  "Us. Thom-us," says Ann. "Clarence Thomas."

  "Yes," says Andrew with a clap. "What was the time on that?"

  "Thirty seconds," says Tad.

  "Well, I guess he's on the tip of everyone's tongue," says Therese's mother.

  "I guess so," says Therese.

  "It was interesting to see all those black people from Yale," says Therese's mother. "All sitting there in the Senate caucus room. I'll bet their parents were proud."

  Ann did not get in to Yale. "What I don't like," she says, "is all these black people who don't like whites. They're so hostile. I see it all the time in law school. Most white people are more than willing to sit down, be friendly and integrated. But it's the blacks who are too angry."

  "Imagine that," says Ray.

  "Yes. Imagine," says Therese. "Why would they be angry? You know what else I don't like? I don't like all these gay men who have gotten just a little too somber and butch. You know what I mean? They're so funereal and upset these days! Where is the mincing and high-spiritedness of yesteryear? Where is the gayness in gay? It's all so confusing and inconvenient! You can't tell who's who without a goddman Playbill!" She stands up and looks at Ray. It is time to go. She has lost her judicial temperament hours ago. She fears she is going to do another pratfall, only this time she will break something. Already she sees herself carted out on a stretcher, taken toward the airport, and toward home, saying the final words she has to say to her family, has always had to say to her family. Sounds like could cry.

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  But first Ray must do his charade, which is Confucius. "Okay. I'm ready," he says, and begins to wander around the living room in a wild-eyed daze, looking as confused as possible, groping at the bookcases, placing his palm to his brow. And in that moment, Therese thinks how good-looking he is and how kind and strong and how she loves nobody else in the world even half as much.

  * * *

  Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens

  when the cat died on Veterans Day, his ashes then packed into a cheesy pink-posied tin and placed high upon the mantel, the house seemed lonely and Aileen began to drink. She had lost all her ties to the animal world. She existed now in a solely man-made place: the couch was furless, the carpet dry and unmauled, the kitchen corner where the food dish had been no longer scabby with Mackerel Platter and hazardous for walking.

  Oh, Bert!

  He had been a beautiful cat.

  Her friends interpreted the duration and intensity of her sorrow as a sign of displaced mourning: her grief was for something larger, more appropriate—it was the impending death of her parents; it was the son she and Jack had never had (though wasn't three-year-old Sofie cute as a zipper?); it was this whole Bosnia, Cambodia, Somalia, Dinkins, Giuliani, NAFTA thing.

  No, really, it was just Bert, Aileen insisted. It was just her sweet, handsome cat, her buddy of ten years. She had been with him longer than she had with either Jack or Sofie or half her friends, and he was such a smart, funny guy—big and loyal and verbal as a dog.

  "What do you mean, verbal as a dog?" Jack scowled.

  "I swear it," she said.

  "Get a grip," said Jack, eyeing her glass of blended malt. Puccini's "Humming Chorus," the Brahms "Alto Rhapsody," and Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" all murmured in succession from the stereo. He flicked it off. "You've got a daughter. There are holidays ahead. That damn cat wouldn't have shed one tear over you."

  "I really don't think that's true,"
she said a little wildly, perhaps with too much fire and malt in her voice. She now spoke that way sometimes, insisted on things, ventured out on a limb, lived dangerously. She had already—carefully, obediently—stepped through all the stages of bereavement: anger, denial, bargaining, Haagen-Dazs, rage. Anger to rage—who said she wasn't making progress? She made a fist but hid it. She got headaches, mostly prickly ones, but sometimes the zigzag of a migraine made its way into her skull and sat like a cheap, crazy tie in her eye.

  "I'm sorry," said Jack. "Maybe he would have. Fund-raisers. Cards and letters. Who can say? You two were close, I know."

  She ignored him. "Here," she said, pointing at her drink. "Have a little festive lift!" She sipped at the amber liquor, and it stung her chapped lips.

  "Dewar's," said Jack, looking with chagrin at the bottle.

  "Well," she said defensively, sitting up straight and buttoning her sweater. "I suppose you're out of sympathy with Dewar's. I suppose you're more of a Do-ee."

  "That's right," said Jack disgustedly. "That's right! And tomorrow I'm going to wake up and find I've been edged out by Truman!" He headed angrily up the stairs, while she listened for the final clomp of his steps and the cracking slam of the door.

  Poor Jack: perhaps she had put him through too much. Just last spring, there had been her bunion situation—the limping, the crutch, and the big blue shoe. Then in September, there had been Mimi Andersen's dinner party, where Jack, the only non-smoker, was made to go out on the porch while everyone else stayed inside and lit up. And then, there had been Aileen's one-woman performance of "the housework version of Lysistrata!"

  "No Sweepie, No Kissie," Jack had called it. But it had worked. Sort of. For about two weeks. There was, finally, only so much one woman on the vast and wicked stage could do.

  "I'm worried about you," said Jack in bed. "I'm being earnest here. And not in the Hemingway sense, either." He screwed up his face. "You see how I'm talking? Things are wacko around here." Their bookcase headboard was so stacked with novels and sad memoirs, it now resembled a library carrel more than a conjugal bed.