by Neil Hetzner
“You’re too much.”
“Well, don’t forget, I’m just a poor fag. I don’t know about these things except what I hear at the salon. Forgive me. I thought women always came back to their ex’s for more money.”
“She didn’t want money.”
“Then, what?”
“I don’t know. To say hello. To see you.”
“Oh, yes, correctimundo, that must be it. To see me. Her old and most dear ami. Get real, sweet eyes.”
“She always liked you, Bob.”
“Well, I always liked her until she trundled off with the soul of my master and those ingenuous monsters he calls his sons.”
“She did what she thought she had to do.”
“You know, if I knew more about the hours, the wages and the fringes, I might suggest you go into the canonization business. Although, with Sodom Insane and all the little Sodomites, the business may be going to hell. Too many martyrs in queue to get your case heard. It’s unbelievable to me that a man who gasses thousands of his own people, invades a neighboring country, or, more aptly in this instance, country club, and who lobs missiles at a neutral country can sell himself, successfully, as a saint.”
“The media.”
“You’re probably right. They pitch the ball however they want. But, they’re such cute boys. Walking around in their little bush jackets, like they think they’re on safari. I think they watched too many movies on Saturday TV. Sooo cute. And sooo earnest. My God, are they earnest. And, seemingly, regrettably, not very bright. Plus, when and how do they have time to do any reporting? They have to jump in front of a camera at any second. Plus what percent do you think speak Arabic? Try zero. They can’t even listen in on a conversation on the street, but sooo insightful. And, sooooo cute. So cute that they’ve distracted me from canonization. ‘We have a position open. Will you apply? You have all the qualities we’re seeking. Quiet, gracious, somewhat attractive suffering. A just cause. A distracted kind of humility. And most important, an incapacity, an inability, an absolute unwillingness to avoid one’s fate.’
“Now, I see your head start to wobble. Attends, un moment. Don’t decide just yet. Think about it. Sleep on it. You could end up the patron saint of troubled resort restaurateurs. Imagine your face, touched up a tad and air-brushed, of course, appearing on one of those little holy day cards with your beatitude batting stats on the back. Imagine little saintlets in the halls and on the playgrounds of parochial schools around the world. ‘Hey, Vinnie, I’ll trade you a Francis of Assisi and two Veronica’s for a St. Peter of the Perennial Retreat.”
“Why do you think she was here?”
“Lumpkin, limpkin, is this deja-vu or, better, déjà entendu? Not too many minutes ago I’m sure I heard myself ask the same question. Dearie, it wasn’t rhetorical. I don’t know. Despite the encroaching paunch, and fussy know-it-all-ism, I’m not Miss Marple. All I know is that she was here for a reason. Her being here means something. What, I don’t know. We didn’t talk. We only chatted. What did she talk about with you?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Oh, yes, of course. And it’s just that same nothing that makes you avert your eyes. It’s all right. I’ve become used to it. All you hets, with your strange, little, secretive subculture, do it. I understand. You fear the light of day. You fear our rejection. You don’t want to be outed.
“Oh, God, this is positively the last little bit of green I’m ever eating. I swear it. I hate spinach. I hate the work it takes to be beautiful. I’m off to chez moi to become old and ugly; who’s going to the bank?”
“I’ll go.”
“Tra-la, lovie. Pleasant dreams of you know who and I know what.”
“Good night, Bob.”
“Pou.”
Chapter 17
“What a surprise.”
“Ellen, I should’ve called.”
“Don’t be silly, Bett. You’re always welcome. Come in. How are you? It’s been too long. How were the holidays?”
As Bett followed Ellen down a dark blue and rich red oriental runner into a parlor with brown and gold-colored upholstered Windsor back chairs and pie crust tables she said, “The holidays were fine. At least until this banking crisis began. How have you been?”
“My pipes are a little noisy, but other than that things are going along pretty well. I’m scheduled to go back in in a couple of weeks to see how well the healing has gone. If it has made as much progress as they hope, then, they’ll set a date for the reversal. Pull the bag. Re-stitch the bowel. Send me on my merry way. No more gurgling. ‘In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.’ Isaiah. Thanks you, Isaiah. Looking forward to it.
“How’s Neil been doing?”
“He’s been wearing himself out. I’ve never seen him work this hard, not when he was young, not even a couple of years ago when times were so good, during the real estate boom. I hardly see him. Besides being closed, the bank has a number of big developers close to defaulting. He may have to pull the rug out from under a number of old customers who had just been hanging on. Some good loans are going bad because the people who owe them money can’t pay, even when they have the money, because their accounts are frozen, too. The politicians and the newspaper act as if things will start to sort themselves out in a few weeks or, at most, in a couple of months, but Neil thinks it could be years. He and Kenyon have been going crazy trying to get the FDIC to look at them. He’s sure they’ll qualify, but everything’s taking so long. I’ve never seen him like this. It worries me.”
Ellen had been nodding her head as Bett talked.
“I know it’s very hard, but it had to come. With good states having trouble, you could guess that Rogue Island would have a catastrophe. We’ve had quite a few friends who have been caught. It’s been so hard for friends our age who’ve been using interest to supplement pensions and Social Security.
“Do you want some tea? We could drink a cup and listen to my plumbing.”
“Tea sounds nice.”
After realizing what she said, Bett laughed. Ellen waggled a finger at Bett.
“You may change your mind after you hear it steep inside me.”
Bett sat at the kitchen table while Ellen put water on and got out several cans of tea, tea balls, a teapot, a creamer and sugar bowl and cups and saucers.
“I love tea. It can be such ceremony. What kind would you like? I have keemun, lapsang souchang, oolong, jasmine, and lots of herbals, including ginger.”
“I like oolong.”
“So do I. It’s so smoky it makes me think of campfires. It’s probably a sin. Which of course makes it nicer. A day without sin is a day without sunshine.”
“It that your secret?”
“Bett, it’s not a secret. Everyone knows what a pick-me-up something forbidden can be. Don’t you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“And I took you for such a sensible girl.”
Bett laughed, Ellen joined her, and then, continued.
“When we were little children there were all those things people and parents and teachers told us we couldn’t do. Then, when we were adults, as young and, then, not-so-young parents, there were all these things we told ourselves we shouldn’t do. And, now, as we begin our slide into home-base, there are all these people around again telling us what we can’t do. Doctors and nurses and AARP and our children and nutritionists and bankers and insurance agents and God only knows who else. When I was a little girl I was a sweet little thing. I ‘yes, ma’amed’ and ‘no sirred’ everybody with shoes, and when no one was looking I did exactly as I pleased. I do the same thing now. The doctors tell me to eat this and avoid that. I nod these silver curls as sweetly as when I was a child. Then, I do exactly as I please.”
“Don’t you worry that you’ll harm yourself?”
“Not enough to change my ways. I think everybody is so afraid of making a mistake that they err on the side of safety. I choose to operate outside the zone of insurance the experts have
set for themselves. When I eat a little of this forbidden fruit and avoid a little of that recommended exercise, I just feel better. I feel good from having made my own decisions, better from having denied the bogeyman authority, and best, I think, from assuming that this recalcitrant body of mine is not such a fragile vessel. Some people would have all of us in rockers living on bran from sixty-three onward. Moderation in all things, Bett—especially in doing what someone thinks is good for you.”
“It’s funny to hear you say that. Over Christmas one of my daughters, my middle one Nita, was trying to explain the Golden Mean to Kate, Dilly’s younger girl.”
“That’s parental heresy. Did Dilly protest that Nita was subverting her authority?”
“Dilly wasn’t in the room.”
“Thank God. The Golden Mean is a terrible thing for a child to learn if you’re that child’s parent. Free will. Choice. Reason. All anathema to authority.
“Well, this should be sinfully rich by now. Black or white, my dear?”
“Black, please.”
Ellen passed the small flowered cup and saucer to Bett.
“Ohhhh, such daring. Now, you’re getting it. A bold blackguard. I toast you. To our resilient health and indomitable spirits.”
Bett slightly lifted her cup toward Ellen. Ellen dipped her head in appreciation then asked, “And, now, having toasted, perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re so squinched up around the eyes. Bad news? You came through the door looking like you were carrying more weight than just your purse.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“My dear, I plan to be one of those old ladies who knows everything. Kind of a Miss Marple type. Casing the neighborhood. Inquisitioning the neighborhood children. Keeping tabs. Nosing around everybody’s business as my own gets less interesting. And all the while being old-womanly, snappishly direct. As now. What’s wrong?”
“Everything is starting over.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just came from the doctor. I had a terrible check-up. They want me to do more radiation and probably chemotherapy.”
“I’m so sorry, dear. Here, let me hug you.”
Ellen stood and walked the two steps to Bett. Bett remained seated for a moment as she fought the urge to push away from Ellen’s affection. When she finally did stand Bett kept her head down and her arms as limp at her sides as a guilty child.
Ellen tried to look under Bett’s brow to find her eyes.
“Oh, I can tell that this is going to be satisfying.”
Ellen dropped her voice an octave and barked, “C’mon, Koster, get those arms up. If you want to surrender, do it at the end of the war, not at the beginning of the fight.”
Bett started to murmur something.
“Don’t be sorry. Just hug me.”
Ellen wedged her shoulder and hip against Bett and squeezed her tight. After a slight hesitation, Bett felt strength come to her arms and she squeezed Ellen back. In her ear Bett heard Ellen whisper, “Not too bony?”
“No.”
“Damn bag. All my intimacies have to be tangential. All right, break free, gentlewomen, and go to your corners.”
After Ellen sat back down, she stared at Bett with a warm eyes and a firmly set mouth for a moment before asking, “Now, what did they say?”
“They’ve found a tumor in my leg.”
“In your leg?”
“In my femur. They say it’s not unusual. A lot of breast cancers metastasize to the bones. Supposedly the tumor is not that big so they’re not surprised the bone scan I had in the fall didn’t pick it up.”
“How bad is it?”
“They never really say, do they? Or maybe they think they do, but they say it in such a way that you’re not sure what you’ve been told. Because of the jargon and probably, to be fair, because it’s so hard to hear what they’re saying. But, obviously it’s not good. Bone cancer doesn’t sound very good to me.”
“What do they want to do?”
“Be aggressive. Isn’t that always the watchword? They want to do more radiation and, maybe, chemotherapy. They said it’ll probably be harder this time. Because the dosages will be increased. And because I’m already worn down.”
“But no surgery.”
“No, no surgery.”
“No green Jello.”
Despite her feelings of being overwhelmed, Bett laughed.
“No, no green Jello.”
“Maybe you could have it at home. I could bring it to you. As we well know, nothing is a stronger incentive to get well than green J E Hell-double L No. Do you suppose they ever take one minute in medical school to discuss the impact of hospital food on the patient?”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
Ellen picked up a spoon, held it close to her mouth as if it were a microphone, and lowered her voice. “At Kill’em hospital today two more patients went into gelatin comas. Scientists say that the vibrations of the brightly-hued colloid as it’s wheeled into the patient’s room may be setting off a concatenated vibration inside the patient’s skull. The evidence to date seems to suggest that the longer the stay the stronger the vibratory response. Dr. Dessertthevurst theorizes that the longer the patient is hospitalized the more his brain is apt to turn to Jello both from too much television and the large intake of the synthetic sweetness of the staff. He posits that when gelatinous food is added to the patient’s desuetude the two variables interact to turn the poor slob’s brain to gray J E L—well, you know what.”
Bett smiled. Ellen caught her eye.
“Koster, I’m working pretty hard here. Could you give me a little more positive response?”
As Bett widened her smile and began to nod her head up and down, tears formed in her eyes.
Ellen reached her liver-spotted fingers out to hold Bett’s hand.
“Let it go. Cry all you want. I even think I’ll join you.”
The tea was cold and Ellen’s hand felt prickly numb and her ring finger ached from being gouged before Bett’s silent weeping was complete.
“I don’t think I would feel this badly if I hadn’t felt so good over the holidays. You remember how badly I felt all through November and into December? Then, it all that went away. I felt like my old self. It was wonderful. I had energy. I wasn’t exhausted. The burning went away. I think I used all those good feelings to convince myself that everything was over. I’d done my part and I’d won.
“A couple of weeks ago I started to get a lot of pain in my leg, my right one. I thought it might just be my varicose veins, or weather or tension from worrying about Neil. I never even considered that it might be something bad. Well, not much. I told the doctor. He ordered another bone scan and found the growth.
“I almost wish that I hadn’t felt so good. I let my hopes get the best of me.”
Ellen shook her head at Bett’s conclusion, “Hope’s about the only fuel we can travel on when we’re fighting something big. Don’t you dare chide yourself for being hopeful. Hope made those days even better.”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t. Not after the news you’ve gotten today. But, I do know. Hope helps and you’re going to need help. You’re going to need all the hope that you can muster. I want you to know that in my heart of hearts I know you’re going to be all right. I feel that very strongly.”
“I don’t, Ellen. I’m not sure I’ve got much left with which to fight.”
“You do, Koster. Believe me. You do.”
For the next two hours Ellen and Bett drank tea. Ellen did almost all of the talking. Most of her stories were about singing and dancing for the GIs in France and Italy during World War II. She used those stories because they were old stories—carefully crafted, oft-told—which freed her mind to think on Bett. She worried Bett might not make the strongest fight for her life. She had known many people who had had so much practice at success they had never had the opportunity to train for failure.
Chapter 18
Lise
rang Dilly’s doorbell. No one answered. She rang several more times. No response. She could hear numerous sounds coming from inside the house. She tried the door. It was unlocked and she walked inside. The television was on in the family room, but there was no one watching it. Except a rabbit which, from its random, violent hopping, seemed to have been imbued with some of the same energy that motivated the Saturday morning cartoon characters flickering on the screen. From the back of the house came the sound of the dishwasher. As Lise approached the kitchen doorway she noted the point where the violent spray of water thrashing around inside its metal box overwhelmed the television’s noise. The kitchen was unoccupied. She theorized about the physics of a family expending energy without even being present. In the second’s lull as the dishwasher switched cycles, she heard a distant drone. She opened the scarred door and picked her way up the book and bottle and toy and shoe laden back stairs. The cataract roar of the dishwasher was overwhelmed by the high-pitched shriek of a vacuum sweeper. Lise imagined molecules dancing faster and faster in a heated retort. The sound deepened and hollowed as the metal sweeper head left a rug and was pushed across bare floor. Lise could see the head banged against the side of the door frame several times before being followed through the door by the silver wand and then by the ward of the wand, Jessie. Lise had to get right next to her niece and yell before Jessie noticed her.
“Hi, Jessie, how are you? Where is everybody?”
Jessica mouthed words which seemed to carry no sound. Lise cocked her ear in question. Jessie’s mouth moved again. Despite her concentrated effort to hear the sounds and see their shape as they formed upon Jessie’s mouth, Lise understood nothing. When Lise shrugged her shoulders, Jessie stood on tiptoe and shouted, “Czczchhyppnnggg.”
Lise pointed downstairs. Jessica raised her eyebrows, smiled a beatific smile and went back to work vacuuming up the radon and lead-laden dust and making sure she got all of the chips of paint and splinters she was banging loose from the baseboards and door frames.