Fight No More

by Lydia Millet

  “I—he was—he was completely on board.”

  Meaning he had not been.

  “Anyway. I’m deeply grateful. It’s far, far better than some group-living arrangement. It’s a lovely place to finish up my life.”

  “Finish—but that’s so dark! Aleska!”

  “Not dark, dear.” She almost laughed, but kept her face serious. “Just realistic. Old people die. And Lexie’s been doing a wonderful job, hasn’t she?”

  “She’s amazing. She’s so great with Baby Rae? I’m, like, amazed.”

  Even the mother called her baby by Lexie’s name for her.

  “She can get her to stop crying in a minute. And I never would have pumped this long if Lexie didn’t encourage me. She read, like, an article by a doctor? It said it made the baby healthier. Like, their immune system. I’m gonna do six months. I promised her. I mean, Paul isn’t that into it. And it does feel weird, like you’re a cow being milked.”

  “It’s just like that, isn’t it.”

  “Yeah. It totally is. Paul wants me to switch to formula like now. He said he wants them all to himself. But I said, six months.”

  She had to repress a shudder.

  “Very good. Stick to your guns.”

  “With Lexie, you can actually see how teen moms do it, you know? Like first I thought maybe she’d be too young. Paul was worried. Seventeen! Well, eighteen now. Paul was like, let’s just get a real nanny from a service. With experience. He goes, the au pair thing, that’s for people who can’t afford better. But I go, I swear, I have such a good feeling about her! And I was right! I mean. All those teen moms out there? Maybe they actually do a good job!”

  “There are economic difficulties, I think. Often. Aren’t there?”

  “Well, yeah. And school. That’s true.”

  A nice segue. She brought up the objective: get Paul to foot the bill for Lexie’s education. At least, precollege. Just a few courses, she said. Lexie could do some of them online, while taking care of the baby. Lora nodded and enthused, now dabbing, now holding up her toenails for Aleska’s approval. Their new color was a garish orange. Could stun a horse at ten paces. In good conscience, she could not praise the hue.

  Lora was skilled with that nail-polish brush, she deflected. How did she not go over the edges?

  Paul would be the stumbling block, of course. As a rule, he was only generous with himself.

  After Lora left she brought up the document on her screen. The document, she thought. There were thousands of documents on the drive, but this one said what she wanted at her funeral. She wasn’t morbid, just meticulous. One thing from the New Testament, one only, and not unusual for funerals, indeed it bordered on the hackneyed. But it was simple and she’d always been fond of simple sentiments. The missionaries had taught her the Psalms. It is creation that turns us back to dust, saying: “Go back, oh child of earth.”

  When she was younger and thought of her own funeral—rarely—she had briefly considered who might be present, which friends and colleagues, whether Jake would still be alive. Men predeceased, often. Common knowledge. The thought of the guests had been almost frivolous. No, it had been frivolous. And yes, Jake had predeceased. Died by his own hand, as they used to put it. He had always suffered, even threatened from time to time: Selbstmord. He preferred the German word to the Polish. More brutal. Fitting to the act, he said. An act against others. He saw it for what it was. But in the end he’d not been able to resist. The millstone was too heavy. He’d been Jake to her for decades, but was still Jakub to himself. Jakub from the camps. Who saw too much and could never forget. Never medicated, of course. Their generation wasn’t given to psychopharmacology. It might have saved him, though.

  She’d been shocked despite the warnings she’d had. Shocked not by the impulse, but by the lapse in his kindness. He’d been such a kind man. Small gestures of kindness, constantly. You left me, she’d said to the memory of him. By choice. By choice. By choice you left me here alone. The shock had taken years to recede. To this day she missed his face, his hands, his bearing. Broad shoulders, though he always stood a bit hunched. He always claimed to have poor posture, but she had loved the way he stood.

  Almost none of them were alive, those past, future mourners. Thus: almost no mourning.

  On good days, she could see it as freedom.

  Last night she’d slept fitfully and woken from the dream—the dream of children, was that what it was? Terrible children. Or short people dancing in a ring—and heard Lexie talking on her phone outside. Lexie pacing in the garden, alongside the flowerbeds outside the open window.

  An open window onto a garden: all she needed at night. The lift of a cool breeze from an open window. Cocktails at dusk, and then a warm wind after dark. That famous poem by Eichendorff. “Sehnsucht.” Am Fenster ich einsam stand / Und hörte aus weiter Ferne / Ein Posthorn im stillen Land . . . it didn’t translate well. “Yearning.” I stood alone at the window / And heard in the far distance / A horn in the peaceful country. In drifted the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine.

  On the phone Lexie had been disagreeing with someone. Or refusing to do something.

  Then she’d fallen asleep again and now she wasn’t sure: it might have been part of the dream, Lexie talking. Before that, the short people dancing around her, slowly swaying. But their faces were blurred, their features . . . no. Did they even have features?

  They had eyes. Oh yes.

  But were they children?

  They were not.

  Now she remembered. Shivered. That old tingle at the tips of her fingers, as though a sliver of glass was being drawn along beneath the nails. A thin point. Would it break the skin?

  She’d been so relieved when Lexie’s voice woke her. It had saved her from that dark ring. The faces with eyes burning.

  She could just ask her, ask Lexie. Had she been walking in the garden. Real? Or had that been the dream?

  But Lexie would think she was losing it—at her age, the default assumption. She probably was.

  And here was Lexie now. She stood behind the screen door, the baby in a carrier on her front, a hand on the bottom, jiggling and patting. The baby fussed.

  “Come in, dear. Come on in.”

  The screen banged behind her.

  “Sorry. Lora just left with the personal shopper and Dolores has the afternoon off for Flavio’s chemo? And now there’s people at the gate. A contractor from the renovation company and some guys to service the HVAC, he said. But Lora told me not to let anyone in if I didn’t already know them. She said it, like, three times. She’s afraid of that deaf guy Paul’s suing.”

  “That poor man. She’s afraid of him?”

  “I thought you could decide. If it’s OK to let them in.”

  “She might have forgotten the appointment. Did you text her?”

  Lexie nodded, slipped her phone out of a pocket as she bounced the baby. Glanced at the screen and put it back.

  “And Paul. But I haven’t heard back from either of them. And the guys are just waiting.”

  “You could ask them to reschedule.”

  “But that’s—I mean—there’s a whole crew out there.”

  “Oh, hell. Let them in. I’ll take responsibility if they rob us. You can blame it on the senile old lady.”

  Lexie smiled, looked like apology. Turned to go.

  “Wait. May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sometimes I don’t sleep well. I can’t always tell what’s a dream. And I’m worried that maybe I’m losing it. My grip on so-called reality . . . so maybe you can help me. Last night or early this morning. Were you outside my window? Talking in the garden?”

  Lexie looked startled. Almost guilty. Then she pulled her face together.

  “Yeah. Yes. I was.”

  “Oh! Good. Good. So I’m not demented yet.”

  But Lexie stood there. Indecision.

  “There’s this—I have some bad stuff going on.”

  “O
h?”

  “Yeah.”

  She waited. Best not to urge disclosure. Best to listen.

  “This stepbrother of mine. Ely?”

  “The older one. Ely and—Tosh? Was that his name?”

  “Toff. Close enough. It’s short for Christopher. So first off. They’re drug dealers.”

  “Oh.”

  “And it used to be mostly meth, but now a lot of meth comes up from Mexico so they deal pills also. But business isn’t going so good. Ely lost some connections when my stepfather died? So he wants me to hook him up. With new clients. Because I’m here. You know. Living with rich people.”

  “Well. That’s ridiculous. Paul’s friends would never buy meth. And they get their pills from actual doctors. Anyway, drugs. Isn’t that typically a seller’s market?”

  Lexie nodded, then shook her head and bounced the baby. Looked anxious.

  “He’s desperate, I guess. For money. And see, he has something on me. So it’s like, kind of a blackmail deal.”

  “Good lord, Lexie. Quite a telenovela, isn’t it?”

  “He has some information I didn’t know he had. That could, like, really hurt my mother. And he says he’ll tell her. If I don’t hook him up.”

  “Are you going to tell me? What this information is?”

  “You might not want to know. Like, TMI. Honestly.”

  “TMI?”

  “Too Much Information?”

  “Go ahead, please.”

  “It’s that. OK.”

  The girl’s mouth twisted nervously. Her face was ashen.

  “It’s that my stepfather was unfaithful. And it was me. He, you know. He had sex with me. I mean. I didn’t want him to. You know. But he did. And Ely knew. Knows. Whatever. I didn’t know he ever saw anything. But it turns out he did.”

  The poor dear looked queasy. At least the baby had gone quiet. Small mercies.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” said Aleska gently.

  “I can’t, she’ll wake up if I do. Anyway. I’ve gotta let those guys in.”

  When the screen door had banged again she looked up at her propaganda pieces on the wall over her desk. The Stalin poster. Papa Joe holding a baby up the clouds. Lifting a bright little cherub to the sky.

  What we do to our children.

  She herself, what had she done? Benign neglect. Lost in the daydreams. Sometimes nightmares. The sedimentation of everyday life. Now and then, when Paul was not so small anymore, she’d caught herself forgetting he existed. For hours at a time. How old had he been then? Ten? Twelve? He would go into his room, or run around with the kids from the neighborhood. Hunkered down in a basement cave, playing video games. Later, when he was grown and gone from the rooms of her orbit, she forgot him for days. When he was small she’d been suitably attentive. Until his needs appeared to diminish. Appeared was operative. For they needed so much, all of them. They needed so much forever.

  It had been vital, at first, that he be sheltered, as her sister hadn’t been. Only after a while it seemed to her that, living in plenty and in peace, he should be fine.

  Yet he was not. There were totalitarians always ascendant. Fools and demagogues. And her son would not lift a hand against them.

  He would never be in that brave legion.

  There was a man at her door. Chunky. Baseball cap backward on his head. Work boots.

  What time was it? Had she eaten lunch?

  She didn’t recall, damn it.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ll need to turn the power off. To the main house. Not too long. Wanted to let you know.”

  Then he moved off. Lexie was in his place. Pushed open the screen and came in. Her face still shadowed. No baby. She held the monitor in her hand.

  “She went to sleep. She’s in her bassinet.”

  “I’ll need your phone, dear.”

  “My phone?”

  “Yes. Bring up your stepbrother’s number for me. Then you can leave. No need for you to listen in. Oh. But write his full name down for me, would you? Date of birth, with the year. And his address. There. On the Post-it notes.”

  “But what—”

  “Just let me handle it.”

  “Seriously?”

  The phone said 3:18.

  Early, yes. But the situation called for it. Needs must.

  “Before you leave, pour me a drink.”

  Thus fortified, Lexie having bowed out, she pressed the call icon. An analog receiver: soon they’d stop using the image, no doubt. Kids could barely identify it already. By the time Lexie was her age, or Rae, herself long dead, all the symbols would be different. Or most. Would a green light still mean go, even?

  She felt cold and clean. Iron Lady. Like that old Tory bulldog in England. Ran the country. Now deceased. Sometimes names failed temporarily, but the memory would return.

  “Yeah?”

  Drug dealers had no manners these days. Back in the sixties, when she and Jake were doing LSD, they’d had a dealer who wore an ascot. And a smoking jacket. He’d styled his hair in an Afro, with jeweled combs stuck in. He was from New York, Harlem, but spoke immaculate French.

  She told the man who she was—Lexie’s employer in Brentwood, she said. Technically a counterfactual statement. But no need to get into the weeds. She told him the name of her lawyer. Taking a cue from Paul. When in doubt, lawyer up, he liked to say. She told him of the satisfaction she would have in turning him in. For both the pharmaceutical opioids and the methamphetamines. She read off his address and DOB. She told him she was indifferent, personally, as to whether he disclosed the history of molestation to his stepmother, but for his sake she advised against it. She told him not to call Lexie again. She asked him if he had any questions. He muttered. A half-wit, apparently.

  “Enunciate, please.”

  “Say what?”

  “Speak with your mouth open, so that the sounds can pass your lips. I wish to know that you understand. If Lexie hears from you again, or if she discerns from her mother that you’ve spoken of these unsavory matters, your contact information will be passed along by my attorney, who already retains it, to the relevant authorities. Are we clear?”

  Long pause. Something rustling. Faint, driving beat.

  “Fuck. Yeah. I get it. And fuck you very much.”

  “Good. You may hang up now.”

  “You bitch.”

  “Indeed.”

  Margaret Thatcher, that was it.

  If only there were more such tasks she could accomplish from her desk chair. How she missed walking! She missed that most of all. She saw people walking, ambling slowly, striding briskly, and felt a pang of the purest envy.

  She was finishing off her drink when Lexie poked her head in. Still minus baby, plus monitor.

  “So one of the HVAC guys put a screw through a water pipe? And then he made a worse mistake, the contractor said. He was so pissed at him? The guy drilled the screw through the pipe, and then he realized what he’d done and took it out again.”

  Was there a gentle way to advise her not to end declarative sentences with a question mark? Lora was worse. Yes: Point out that Lora did it. Discuss its ineffectiveness. The fact that it undermined authority. Note to self, for later conversation.

  “Flooding?”

  “Dirty water got on that rug Paul’s so proud of. From Abu Dhabi or whatever?”

  “Dubai, I believe it was.”

  “Yeah. The Dubai rug. He said it cost more than his car. Didn’t he?”

  “An exaggeration. Almost certainly.”

  “But still.”

  “I detect a fresh litigation opportunity.”

  “Oh, man. I’m toast.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. It’s not your responsibility. And I spoke to your stepbrother. I think he’ll probably steer clear. Though I can’t be sure. He’s not the sharpest knife.”

  “Seriously? What did he say?”

  “Not much.”

  She needed to get out. Walker or no walker.

  Lexie was s
aying thank you. Effusive. She waved a hand. No thanks were needed. If Lexie was her keeper now, she could also be Lexie’s.

  “I’d like to go out,” she told her. Was it too abrupt? Sometimes she spoke abruptly these days. Skipped a beat.

  “Oh. OK. Should I wake up the baby?”

  “No. I’ll go by myself. Maybe walk around the block. I’ll need help up, of course.”

  “All by yourself? It’s no problem. I can just put her in the stroller.”

  “By myself. I insist.”

  Lexie didn’t like it. She stood a minute, indecisive.

  “Bring the walker over, would you please?”

  Finally she was foot-borne, making her way along the garden path. The flagstones were uneven; you had to watch the walker’s rubber feet didn’t catch on an edge. The street would be better. Although: no sidewalk till the corner. Maybe a swiftly passing car would knock her over. She’d bounce like a bowling pin. Land on her side and roll. Her passage was so slow Lexie made circles around her as she went by the side of the house. Clearing obstacles. She moved a hose for her, opened the first gate, moved a dolly standing beside the open back doors of the workers’ van. Opened the second gate and held it.

  “You have your cell, right?”

  She’d seen her pack it, but still needed reassurance.

  Had to wear a hideous so-called fanny pack around her waist these days. Purses were no use anymore; they swung and got in the way. No surer sign of full capitulation. I have no dignity, the object broadcasted. No, not a shred.

  “Right here, dear. Yes. I’ll call if I have a heart attack.”

  “Very funny. So, so funny.”

  Then she was on the asphalt. Felt like a jailbreak. One of those condescending yet supposedly heartwarming films where crotchety old folk went AWOL on a day trip from a home, became carefree children again. Playing baseball or something. Running around on the grass. What would her grandson say? Busting up shit? Busting loose? Busting a nut? Not sure what that meant. Could ask him. Better not to lose face: look it up in the urban slang dictionary. Maybe she’d busted some drug-dealer nut already. Or maybe not at all.

  Nice shade from the sweeping branches above. Two houses down was a humdinger, a Mediterranean-villa-crossed-with-medieval-castle atrocity. A child’s idea of opulence. Turrets and crenellations combined with terracotta roof tiles. She smiled as she passed.