Silver

by Hilma Wolitzer

  Katherine sighed. “I suppose so,” she said. She took off her glasses and polished them with a paper napkin.

  “Don’t suppose,” La Rae advised her. “Know. Knowledge is truth, truth is beauty, et cetera, et cetera.”

  I didn’t say anything. I remembered briefly considering an abortion when I was pregnant with Jason. It was just before I’d given Howard the news, and everything seemed to depend on his response. He loves us, he loves us not.

  “Listen, Katherine,” La Rae said. “Why don’t you bring Ethan with you next week? We could hang a sign on his stroller: Here by choice.”

  Katherine was shocked. “I couldn’t!” she said.

  “They bring their babies, don’t they?” La Rae said. “To show the difference between their little cherubs and our bloody fetuses.”

  “I wouldn’t ever use him that way,” Katherine said.

  “Why not?” La Rae asked. “You’d be teaching him about responsibility.”

  “He’s only four months old, La Rae,” Katherine said. “I think he has time for that.”

  The three of us were sitting in La Rae’s kitchen, where we’d been gathering for years. Long ago, our own babies crawled around our feet under the table, banging spoons against pot covers, while we tried to figure out ways to keep them from ever being drafted. This time, now that our work was done, I drifted off into a troubled reverie. I was living a double life, encouraging Howard to get well while I was planning to leave him. What if he died suddenly, without ever knowing my intentions? But I was being morbid and silly. He was making great progress—he’d started working again that day—which both pleased and disheartened me. It was similar to the conflict I’d felt when the children started kindergarten. I had to let go; it was for everyone’s good. La Rae thought I was overreacting to the whole situation, but I thought that she underreacted, in the extreme, to hers. And I still didn’t want to confide in Katherine, to come up against the judgment I’d see in her face: How had I allowed it to happen again? Mostly, I dreaded that she’d be even more outraged than I was, that she might make me want to come to Howard’s defense. She’d once expressed her angry opinion of La Rae’s permissive arrangement with Frank, and La Rae told her to shut up and mind her own business, that she wasn’t a high-school student in need of guidance. They didn’t speak to one another for two weeks. But they were in the same car pool—music lessons and soccer practice—and one afternoon they were forced to talk about the driving schedule. Katherine threw her arms around La Rae and apologized. She’d only meant to be a good and honest friend. La Rae reminded her that honesty wasn’t always friendly, and that there are places friendship can’t go. Marriage was one of them.

  Katherine often pointed out the exceptional strength of her own marriage. She said that she and Tony discussed everything. When their children were still at home, there were family conferences every week in which complaints and confessions were aired. They actually voted on meals and vacations and the distribution of household chores. Years ago, La Rae and I both admitted that although we loved Katherine and Tony, we hated their perfect relationship. We made sly fun of them—“Can this marriage be saved?” La Rae asked when we saw them smooching. And we discovered that we both had secret, mean fantasies about a sudden scandal: Tony was fooling around, was gay, had embezzled money from one of his law clients. But nothing ever happened, except for the drug bust at the high school in which all of our sons were caught with pot in their lockers. And Tony was the one who got them off.

  La Rae was reheating the coffee when her father wandered into the kitchen from his room in the garage. He was wraithlike, with that startled crest of white hair, and eerily quiet in his bedroom slippers. “Coffee, Dad?” La Rae asked.

  “Hello, Mr. Munson,” Katherine and I chimed, in cheerful chorus.

  But he couldn’t stay. He poured himself a glass of water, made a circuit of the kitchen, and wandered out again. He’d been living with La Rae and Frank for ten years, ever since her mother died, and had become more and more withdrawn during that time. After the children moved out, La Rae urged him to take one of their bedrooms, but he refused. He stayed on in the garage, a deposed king on his island of exile. When the door closed behind him, La Rae confessed that she dreamed sometimes of driving her car into the garage again, right over the green shag carpeting, and parking it between her father’s bureau and his easy chair.

  We were all silent in contemplation of that scene. I thought of my mother’s solitary confinement, her regular rendezvous with soap-opera stars. She had dizzy spells that might be little strokes. Would she really be able to summon help, if she needed it, with her beeper? I listened, and imagined I heard scratching noises from La Rae’s garage, like mice in the walls.

  “I’d kill myself before I’d live with any of my kids,” La Rae said.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Katherine said.

  “Howard says that we’re never going to put Shadow down, so the children will be merciful to us in our old age,” I said. Howard says. Husband, children, dog. I saw them all in simple lines and primary colors, the stick figures in a child’s drawing of a family. When Howard left us, Jason was four, and he crayoned pictures of himself, Ann, and me inside the house, with Howard floating over the roof, like a Chagall lover, like God.

  Katherine went home, and La Rae and I put some of the letters for our columns out on the table. We’d worked together before, reading passages aloud, and offering one another suggestions. Once, at my house, I couldn’t find the antidote for battery-acid stains on car upholstery, even in my Encyclopedia of Spots and Stains. La Rae took a battery out of Jason’s toy robot and smashed it with a hammer. She smeared the acid on some rags, and we spent the afternoon experimenting with possible solutions, like a couple of mad scientists.

  My first job at the newspaper had been as La Rae’s secretary, when their offices were still in Mineola. My baby-sitter hadn’t shown up the morning of my interview, and I had to bring the children with me. The baby cried nonstop, I remember, and Jason overturned La Rae’s wastebasket. “Couldn’t you leave them somewhere?” she asked, and I said, angrily, that I’d tried to sell them to some gypsies on Jericho Turnpike but it hadn’t worked out. She laughed and told me that the job was mine.

  I’d read La Rae’s lovelorn column before I met her that day, and I expressed surprise that she was so young. “Why does everyone think wisdom comes with age?” she said. We agreed that our mothers had probably started the rumor. La Rae had begun at the paper as a file clerk. She’d invented her own column, out of boredom, writing all the letters to herself for a while, until the thing caught on. After I’d worked as her secretary for six months, she thought up “Paulie’s Kitchen Korner” for me. When I protested that I was no expert on household matters, she picked up my purse and dumped it out onto her desk. A world of domestic litter fell out: keys, a collapsed and dusty pacifier, expired supermarket coupons, a small screwdriver, a rubber dinosaur, a can of V-8 juice. “I rest my case,” La Rae said.

  Now I read a letter aloud to her. “Dear Paulie, My stainless-steel sink is anything but stainless! Rust and water spots all over it! Hope you can help. My ninety-year-old Mom and I really enjoy your helpful hints! Sincerely, Betty Jean Rickover.”

  La Rae handed me one of her letters. It said, “Dear La Rae Peters, It’s difficult for me to write this letter. Maybe everybody says the same thing, but I really mean it. It’s about my husband. We never had what you would call a thrilling love life. I know Burt works hard and he really is tired, but not all the time, La Rae. I just can’t get him in the mood, as the old song says. Any suggestions? Sign me Frustrated (Real name Mrs. Janet Workman). P.S. Please don’t print that I’m from Chicago—he would know.”

  “Oh, poor thing,” I said.

  “Yeah, those rust stains can really get you down,” La Rae said.

  “Don’t be funny,” I said. “At least I had a wonderful sex life, once. Howard didn’t ever used to be tired.”

  “Frank still
isn’t.”

  I looked up in quick sympathy, but La Rae wasn’t being bitter or ironical, only dreamily proud.

  “She can use lighter fluid,” I said, thinking of Betty Jean Rickover’s sink, and trying to change the subject. “Or some white vinegar.”

  “Yeah, that really turns them on.”

  I laughed. “Dear Frustrated, Get into something flimsy and dim the lights. Then rub a little lighter fluid on those special places.”

  “Behind the ears and the knees,” La Rae said. “And don’t forget the pillows.”

  “Come on, baby, light my fire!” I sang.

  “Do you think Tony is any good in bed?” La Rae asked.

  I was used to her habit of veering abruptly around the corners of a conversation. “Probably,” I said, plunging into gloom and jealousy. “But let’s not start picking on Katherine, okay?”

  “I just can’t stand her holier-than-thou attitude.”

  “What we really can’t stand is her happiness, that she makes marriage seem easy.”

  “I’ll admit that’s a neat trick,” La Rae said.

  “My favorite little poem goes: ‘So different, this man / And this woman: / A stream flowing / In a field.’ William Carlos Williams.”

  “Who else?” she said. “But I know an even shorter one, on the same subject. ‘Madam, I’m Adam.’”

  “Well, who else?” I said, and we both laughed.

  “Anyway,” La Rae said, “Katherine could have brought Ethan to the clinic.”

  “He’s her grandson,” I said. “It’s her choice.”

  “Can you imagine being a grandmother, Paulie?”

  “No. Yes.” It was probably the only opportunity in life to bestow unconditional love. Howard’s mother doted on our kids long-distance, with adoring letters and phone calls. And she was especially gaga about Jason. Against everyone’s advice, she often tucked crisp ten-dollar bills in with her letters to him. And when he was a baby, my super-critical parents refused to acknowledge his flaws: his wandering eye and the way his feet toed out, like Chaplin’s. “What? Where? I don’t see anything,” my father would say. “He’ll outgrow it,” my mother insisted, as we rushed Jason from the ophthalmologist to the orthopedist. “I wish I could have my own baby,” I told La Rae.

  “You still could, couldn’t you? But it would probably have two heads or something. And you’d have to be class mother when you’re sixty. Anyway, who would you have it with?”

  “Well,” I said. “I don’t really want a baby, La Rae. I guess I just wish I were young again. You know, all damp … and ready.”

  “Like garden soil.”

  “Like I used to be.” I meant more than physical youth, though. I meant the constant fever of excitement, the boundlessness of possibility. “I hate getting old.”

  “You’re not getting old,” La Rae said, “you’re getting better. You’re only maturing, like Arlene Francis and Hugh Downs.”

  “Soon I’ll get into the movies for half price again. And get discounts on dentures and hearing aids.” Live in Ann and Spence’s garage.

  “Meals on Wheels!” La Rae shouted.

  “Cataracts!” I shouted back.

  “Pacemakers!”

  “Osteoporosis!”

  “Wait until we start the changes,” La Rae said. “My sister Carol goes hot and cold all day, as if her thermostat is shot. And you get all dried out inside, like an old shoe.”

  We giggled nervously. I imagined my future single life as a confusion of interior climates, with a tube of lubricating jelly always on hand. “God, I can’t wait. Thanks a lot for cheering me up,” I said.

  “Why do they call it menopause?” La Rae wondered. “‘Pause’ makes it sound as if it’s going to start again.”

  “Do you know that novel by Thomas Mann?” I asked. “The Black Swan? A middle-aged woman falls in love with her son’s friend, and she starts to feel miraculously young again.”

  “Damp and—”

  “Yes, and her periods do come back! But it turns out that she really has this terrible cancer.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Merry Sunshine,” La Rae said. And then she said, “Don’t do it, Paulie.”

  “What, grow old?”

  “No, don’t leave Howard.”

  “La Rae, I have to. Before he leaves me again.”

  “Maybe he won’t.”

  “I’ll never feel safe about that.”

  “Well, then don’t leave me.”

  “We’ll see each other.”

  “Yeah, for lunch, probably. We’ll go shopping. When are you going?”

  “Soon,” I said, wondering if it was true.

  “Nothing will be the same around here.”

  “Everything changes,” I said. “We may even have to grow old gracefully.”

  “Not yet,” La Rae said.

  “Not yet,” I agreed.

  Then the phone rang and it was Howard. “What’s wrong?” I said, forgetting my vow to be calm.

  He didn’t sound that calm himself. “Nothing!” he snapped. “Why do you always think something’s wrong?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “I’m only a little tired,” Howard said in a gentler voice.

  “Then I’ll come and get you now,” I told him.

  “No, no, I’m home already. Mike gave me a ride.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I’ll be home soon, too.”

  “Take your time,” he said. “I’m going to take a nap, anyway. Take your time,” he repeated.

  So I did. La Rae and I drank some more coffee, and the caffeine rushed through my bloodstream, giving me a fast, false surge of energy. We made a pact to live together when we’re both ancient and decrepit. We made another pact to never get that way. And we answered a few of our letters, giving serious attention to the universal problems of love and rust.

  When I got home, Howard was awake. The house was heavily, funereally fragrant. “What stinks like that?” I asked, and Howard said that he’d spilled some after-shave. I turned on the exhaust fan and then I started supper.

  10

  SHARON DANZER HAD PICKED Ristorante Scala, about halfway between our two houses, for our recovery celebration. She’d told Paulie it was expensive but festive—just right for the occasion. It turned out to be one of those pretentious new places, with menus too big to handle, and prices to match. On Saturday night, at seven-thirty, we followed the maître d’ to a corner table for four in the nonsmoking section. All of the tables were spotlit little stages, and Muzak was being piped in steadily and softly, like odorless gas. I looked over at the other side of the room, where cigarette smoke swirled in the beams of the spotlights.

  The captain recited a long list of the evening’s specials, but I kept tuning him out. I wished we were at Sweet Basil or the West End, ordering cheeseburgers and fries, and listening to live music—somebody old and mellow, like Doc Cheatham. That was the way to celebrate survival. Sharon and Paulie paid careful attention to the captain’s spiel, while Gil studied the wine list as if they were going to quiz him on it later. I began to crave all the forbidden foods I could think of—bloody, marbled steak; silky oysters; salty, saturated onion rings—anything deep-fried and greasy. I think I could have guzzled a quart of crankcase oil right then without any trouble. I’d been good for weeks, letting Paulie supervise my diet, and hardly ever complaining. “Listen, everybody,” I said, keeping my voice casual and trying not to salivate. “This is a special occasion, am I right? So let’s have something special this once, the exception to the rule. A steak isn’t going to kill anybody, is it?”

  Gil gave me a pitying smile, and the women looked shocked, as if I’d suggested eating live mice. In the end, they ordered for everybody: green salads first, and broiled lemon sole with wild rice. I slathered butter on my roll, tore off a chunk, and practically swallowed it whole. Paulie didn’t say anything, but a few seconds later she moved the rest of the buttered roll onto her own plate.

  The waiter brought the w
ine, and after the tasting ritual, we raised our glasses in a toast. “To us,” Gil said, “long may we wave,” and the glasses clinked together. I had the crazy notion I could hear his heart beating across the table, that I could hear everybody’s heart in the restaurant, like a chorus of metronomes. Of course it was only the boring beat of the Muzak.

  Another waiter went by, with platters of dark, glistening meat on his tray. When our main course arrived, looking almost as pale as hospital food, Gil said, “Ahh, good!” I had never liked fish very much, except for shellfish. Mercury poisoning probably killed more people than cholesterol, anyway. And then there was smog, and fallout, and radon, and terrorists—hell, you had to die of something. “Gil, they’ve got you brainwashed,” I said. “You’ve become a Moonie of the health nuts. Soon you’ll be bugging us in airports.” Even as I said it I remembered that he was my role model, that we were both alive because we were lucky and had been given a second chance to be sensible.

  We ate, and the fish wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was just that I was hungry, or that the wine had helped loosen me up. I noticed that Gil didn’t really look that hot, despite his tan and his flat gut. And his happy mood seemed forced after a while, and kind of desperate. When Paulie and Sharon went off to the ladies’ room together, I sang, “Gimme a pig foot and a bottle of beer,” Bessie Smith style, and he didn’t even crack a smile.

  “You think this is all a big joke, Howie, don’t you?” he said.

  “Hey,” I said. “What did I say?”

  “It’s your whole attitude,” he said. “You’re acting like a spoiled little kid, like a deprived person.”

  “Listen, Gil,” I said. “I’m grateful to be alive, but I don’t really enjoy living this way. If I had any choice in the matter, I’d be over there, smoking my lungs out and eating all the poison on the menu.”

  “Go ahead, then,” he said. “Nobody’s stopping you, are they? It’s your funeral.”

  I tried to remember why I’d liked him so much in the hospital. I thought of how we used to horse around with the nurses, like a couple of sex-crazed teenagers. And late at night, before our sedatives took effect, we usually rapped for a long time, about our families, about music. We were the same age, and we’d grown up in adjacent neighborhoods. When we were kids we’d both hung around the clubs, hoping to sit in with the greats, and at the union halls, looking for work. We’d also both been drafted during Korea, and then sat out two years of the war in the States, waiting to be shipped out any minute, to be killed on foreign soil. The army itself was a foreign experience for two laid-back musicians from New York who were used to going to bed about the same time we had to get up as soldiers.