But Mary didn’t wake up. Mary didn’t move. No matter how many times Dave called, Mary just lay there. So now Dave is running for the garage, and he is running as fast as he can.
Mary had been working hard at her meditation all winter. Just the week before, her instructor had told her she was doing well. It didn’t feel like that to Mary. Okay, once or twice she’d lost track of time and entered some joyful state of—well—she wouldn’t have used the word out loud, not to you, nor to me, but to herself, and to her teacher; it was the only word she could come up with that described it:
“A state of … bliss,” she said.
But as soon as she’d noticed it, as soon as she’d become aware of it, the sensation went away, popped like a soap bubble.
She had tried to get it back. But she couldn’t.
Her teacher said, “Do not try.”
Her teacher said, “To hold on, we must let go. Just breathe. Just breathe in and breathe out. Just notice each breath. Just notice what is.”
“I notice everything,” said Mary. “That’s the problem.”
“It is the problem,” said her teacher. “But it’s also the solution. Just notice. And let go. Notice and let go.”
And that is when Mary heard the latch of her garden door open and close. Bert must be home early, she thought.
Last fall Mary would have opened her eyes and said something. Probably would have snapped at Bert.
But Mary had progressed. She noticed the gate. And she let the gate go.
“Mary?” said Dave.
Mary didn’t move.
Not a muscle.
Teacher said there would be a moment like this.
“Every moment is a learning moment,” said teacher.
Breathe in and breathe out.
“Mary,” said Dave.
She was not going to succumb.
There is no doubt a list of things that even the most experienced meditator might find difficult to notice and let go.
And one of the things at the top of that list would surely be your neighbour’s hand landing on the top button of your blouse and tugging.
Mary opened her eyes.
“What is going on?” said Mary.
Dave, who was fiddling with the machine now, said, “Just relax. I’m here to help.”
He turned and slapped the first pad in place.
Mary said, “I don’t think so.”
And she started to get up.
Dave reached over and pushed her down.
The air around Mary, Dave, and the defibrillator became a whirl of arms and legs and wires.
And the thing about those wires is, they’re not meant to be jostled around like that. They’re not meant to be attached to a person who is leaping about like a circus performer—folded like a pretzel one moment and airborne the next.
If they are, the defibrillator is going to pick up an erratic signal. And the little voice is going to say, “Shock the patient.” Any sudden crisis requiring action, any emergency, that is, requires a number of things to go right if things are not going to go—wrong. After all, an emergency is, by definition, a shifting landscape. Cool heads must prevail. Emergency workers must roll with the punches, accurately assess reversals, quickly change direction. Dave does not have a gift, or talent, for any of these things. What Dave has is perseverance. What Dave has is the ability to get a job done—even if it doesn’t need doing.
“Shock the patient,” said the machine.
“For God’s sake,” said Mary.
“Just relax,” said Dave.
And they both watched, in that horrible slow-motion way, as his right hand, the one not holding her down, descended toward the big red button.
There was an odd pause, a moment of silence—the two of them staring deeply into each other’s eyes.
Then there was a terrifying shriek.
Well, two shrieks, actually.
Bert came home about ten minutes later.
When he didn’t find Mary inside, he went into the backyard.
He found the two of them lying on the grass beside each other.
Dave’s hair and his wife’s clothes both in disarray.
There was an odd smell in the air.
As if, perhaps, one of them had been smoking.
Mary never meditated again. She tried, but her eyes popped open with every sound, every voice, every footstep. Every distraction was just too distracting. Everything she heard was him coming her way.
She went back to the doctor, and he said, okay, okay. He referred her to a psychotherapist, who met her for five minutes and put her on meds.
There was a neighbourhood meeting. Everyone agreed it would be best if they moved the defibrillator from Dave’s garage.
“For Mary’s sake,” said Carl. “Bert says she’s having nightmares.”
June turned to July. July to August.
Kenny’s beef sales went back to normal—not right away, but slowly over the summer.
And August turned to September.
As the nights cooled, so did the memories. What once seemed unforgettable just seemed memorable. What had seemed so horrifying just seemed funny.
Before you knew it, it was summer again.
This summer was different from that one. You could ask anyone from the neighbourhood—probably none of them would have much to say. No dust-ups to report, no heart attacks. They would probably tell you it was dull, a dull summer. Which, as far as Dave—and Mary Turlington—were concerned, was perfectly fine.
DANCELAND
On a soft summer evening, after dinner was done and before there were kids, sometimes even after there were kids, back in the summers when the kids were still young and the world was too, Dave and Morley would often go for a walk. Sometimes to the park, sometimes to the bookstore, sometimes on muggy nights for ice cream, or even just around and about the neighbourhood, into the church of the trees, through the cathedral of comfort. They would inevitably run into someone. And they would inevitably stop and chat.
“We don’t do that anymore,” said Morley. “Why don’t we do that?”
“We lost the habit,” said Dave. “Or maybe, Arthur.”
It was such a lovely habit to have. To leave the dishes in the sink. Or better, to get them done. So when they came back from their walk there was nothing to do. Nothing pressing.
To put the dog on the leash—
“Arthur,” said Dave.
Who was gone now, how many summers?
“I still miss him,” said Dave.
They all did. But it didn’t mean they shouldn’t walk. And so, on a warm summer night, they did the dishes and they went for a walk.
“Which way?” said Dave as they walked out the door.
“That way,” said Morley.
They came across the birthday party on their way home.
A squeal of little girls flying around a front yard with sparklers. Little fairies in gauzy tulle tutus, writing in the sky with fire.
They stopped and watched. Dave talked to one of the fathers. But they didn’t watch long. They left before someone grabbed a hot sparkler end. They left before the tears.
And as they walked, the squealing girls still sparkling in their heads, Dave said, “You’re thinking about dancing, aren’t you?”
And Morley laughed. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. How did you remember that?”
How could he not?
It was another summer. A summer long ago and far away. The summer Morley was seven.
An only child.
Her dad, Roy, was a policeman.
Her mother, Helen, stayed at home.
Under the watchful eye of the policeman and his wife, Morley grew up in a home of order.
The mornings belonged to Roy. Roy got up first. By the time Morley and Helen came downstairs, he had coffee in the pot and oatmeal on the stove. He would make the coffee and set the oatmeal simmering and then he would sit at the table and open the morning newspaper. Helen would serve what he’
d made. Oatmeal with brown sugar, toast with jam. Roy read the sports, Morley read the comics, and Helen stood by the sink.
Dinner was at six: meat, potato, and veg. Except Saturdays, when Helen would let loose with a casserole or, if she was feeling wild, macaroni and cheese.
Mondays was laundry. Tuesdays ironing. Fridays Helen vacuumed and dusted.
They lived a life of routine that extended into civilities and leisure. Roy would compliment Helen’s every meal. “You’ve outdone yourself again.” Helen would ask Roy if he wanted dessert. He always wanted dessert.
Morley was unaware that things worked differently in other homes—until she went to school and began her independent life. She entered the knockabout world where children chase each other from room to room and hair is pulled and toys fought over, where beds are left unmade and clothing piles up on bedroom floors. The world where mothers shout at children and fathers bark at mothers.
Her first encounter was at Jenny Birrel’s house. She was asked to stay for supper. It was so exciting, so grown up, so sophisticated to be sitting in their basement watching television, waiting to be called to the table. And then Jenny’s brother Geoffrey came in. He wanted to watch something else, and he just changed the channel. There was a knock-down, full-on, hitting, screaming battle, with Morley standing on the sidelines, utterly bewildered.
Nothing like this ever happened in her life.
In Morley’s house there were no siblings to squabble with, no enemy to divide and conquer. Arguing about the rules had never occurred to her. The rules in Morley’s house were unassailable. Immutable. They weren’t even rules. They were simply the way the world worked. They were—life.
Her world was peaceful and quiet. Her parents a united front.
Then came the election.
The four-term mayor was standing for his record-setting fifth term and the police union was lined up solidly behind him.
The son of Greek immigrants, the mayor was a salesman both by birth and occupation. His family owned a car dealership. His father had made a name for himself driving a 1928 Cadillac Town Sedan once owned by Al Capone. The mayor booted around in a gleaming Thunderbird he claimed had belonged to Marilyn Monroe.
He was a glad-hander. A booming, self-promoting, cigarchomping cartoon character. And for the first time in his undistinguished career, he had a challenger. A university professor. A good-looking man. Like a young Jack Kennedy—toothy smile, thick hair. Helen knew his family. Without asking, she let them put a sign up on the front lawn. Without asking Roy, I mean.
That evening, Morley, draped over the back of the living room sofa, watched her father pull into the driveway, get out of the car, walk across the lawn, and stare at the sign with his mouth hanging open.
While he stared, the car began to roll slowly back down the driveway toward the street.
Morley knocked on the window and pointed. Roy waved back. Morley waved frantically. Roy glanced over his shoulder. He ran back to the car. A car, incidentally, that he’d bought from the mayor’s dealership.
When Roy got to the car, he ran around to the back and leaned on the fender—as if he could stop its roll with his body. Then he hopped back to the driver’s door and jumped in. The car shuddered and stopped.
Morley watched him get out of it a second time. He waved at her a second time, marched back to the sign, pulled it from the ground, and carried it toward the house.
He walked right into the kitchen. “What are you thinking?” he said to Helen, holding the sign up. “He’s going to close down the department. You want me to lose my job? How are we going to survive if I lose my job?”
For Roy, being the breadwinner was a point of pride.
More than once he’d told Morley, “Your mother has never worked a day in her life.”
He didn’t mean it critically. He loved her dearly. What he was trying to say was that he looked after her, and that he always would.
It never occurred to Roy that Helen might like a job. But then, it hadn’t occurred to Helen either.
Until recently.
Betty Friedan had just published The Feminine Mystique. Helen hadn’t read it. In fact she hadn’t even heard of it. But there are some books whose message is going to get through to you whether you read them or not.
Pat Mulligan had just quit the PTA and taken a job at a downtown lawyers’ office. Everyone was talking about it.
Helen had wondered about getting a job herself. But working in an office held no appeal, and, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, she had no burning desire, at this point in her life, to start a career. But news of Pat’s move had made her restless. It was the restlessness that had nudged her toward politics. She began listening to the election coverage on the radio, seeking out articles in the newspaper. She became convinced that young John Chazeralla would be a better mayor than the glad-handing, cigar-smoking, four-term car salesman.
“He won’t close the police department,” she said to Morley as she put her to bed. “That is just foolishness.”
She called the Chazeralla campaign office the next morning and told them to put up another sign.
“Mine was vandalized,” she said.
“We’ll report it to the police,” said the people from the campaign.
“Good idea,” said Helen.
“You’re being ridiculous,” said Roy when he came home that night. “Do you want this city to fall apart? Do you want our taxes to go up? Do you want me to lose my job? Criminals running free in the street.”
Helen didn’t want any of those things. But she didn’t want to take the sign down, either.
Morley saw the flush rise in her mother’s cheeks. And then she watched in amazement as her mother heaved the watermelon she was carrying across the kitchen at her father.
“You cut this,” said Helen when she tossed the watermelon. It was a friendly throw. To him, not at him. Underhand. He should have caught it. But he wasn’t expecting it. Who would expect that? And anyway, the throw was short. Morley watched in disbelief as the watermelon exploded on the kitchen floor. The three of them stared at the pink juicy mess of it for a silent moment, and then Helen stormed off. In tears!
Morley, who was sitting at the kitchen table, looked at her father.
“Why is Mommy mad?” she said.
And so the sign stayed up. Roy knew when to give in. Sometimes the only way to win was to concede victory to the other side. But he wasn’t happy about it.
The next day he came home from work with a bigger sign. For the other guy. The incumbent. Morley watched from the living room as he pounded it into the lawn.
A certain tension settled on the house.
Morley was seven years old. She had never seen her parents like this. She lay in bed at night and fretted.
She had no one to talk to. If she had had a brother or a sister they could have talked about it. But she was all alone.
It was clear to her that her mother and father were about to get a divorce. Just like Cathy Reddit’s parents.
And just like Cathy, she’d be called into a courtroom where she’d have to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and they’d make her declare with whom she wanted to live. Or worse, the police would find out about the watermelon, and take Morley away, and she’d have to live in a foster home. She would have to be careful not to mention the watermelon in court.
A week before the election, Roy went to Niagara Falls. It was the annual Police Association convention. Usually Morley’s mom packed her father’s suitcase.
“Pack your own suitcase,” said Helen.
“I don’t know what I wear,” said Roy.
Morley sat on the end of her parents’ bed while her father pulled clothes from his dresser.
“Do these go with brown pants?” asked Roy, holding up a pair of white socks.
Morley shrugged.
He left Friday morning. By Friday night a giddy, carnival-like atmosphere had settled upon the house.
On election eve, the reality of the situation hit Roy like a flying watermelon.
The three of them were getting ready to leave for the school where Roy and Helen would cast their ballots when Roy, who was sitting on the hall stairs tying his shoes, had his revelation.
Helen was about to cancel his vote.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” he said.
Morley could see her father trying to stay calm. He led her mother into the kitchen and began to explain it to her.
“This is a democracy,” he said. “If you don’t vote for the mayor, my vote isn’t going to count. You’re going to cancel my vote.”
Morley saw her mother shrug her shoulders. She was rummaging in her purse. She didn’t even seem to be paying attention.
“Don’t you know how important it is for each vote to count?” said her dad.
Helen didn’t say a word.
Morley stood by door twisting her hair. Their house was beginning to feel like the Birrels’.
“Let’s go,” she said.
But when Roy stormed past her, he was by himself.
“Is he coming back?” asked Morley.
Morley and Helen walked up to the school and Helen voted. When they got home Roy was sitting at the kitchen table.
“Dinner’s late,” he said.
After they ate, Roy washed the dishes as he always did. When he was finished, they gathered in stony silence in front of the television to watch the election results.
“This could be the end of everything,” said Roy when the special began.
It wasn’t.
The cigar-smoking, car-selling incumbent won.
“See,” said Roy. “I told you.”
“But your vote didn’t count,” said Helen.
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