by Neil Hetzner
The soda’s silence would signal the approach of day. As night lightened, as the architecture of the sick returned, as the druid’s circle of pill vials emerged on the bedside table, as the monoliths of books and the clear columns of brackish fluids rose out of the night, as her life of sickness was reconstructed by a dawning sun, she would go blind again in rage. Time would fly again. In a twist of covers and a blink of pain another day of her life would be taken from her.
Bett settled herself under the mess of covers. She reached out to the nightstand for something. Her hand wandered and finally her eyes turned to look, but she could find nothing to free her from her feelings.
The phone was off. Let him call. Let him worry. A nap filled with feverish dreams and he would be home. A groaning weight upon the stairs. A well-signaled anticipation. That smile would precede that look. Neither would be forthright. She disgusted him. He knew she knew it. False smiling, he would fear her fury. How was her day and was there anything he could do for her? Was there anything that she thought she might be hungry for? Was today’s discomfort any better than yesterday’s? Had she gotten any rest? A litany of questions that were meant as declarations. Of his love and concern and goodness. Why couldn’t he just ask what he really wanted to know? Are you closer to death? Is it coming? How long before it’s here? How long must I pretend? How long before I can return to my life? Bett was sure that if she were to look into his face that that would be what she would read. She would read the same questions there that she constantly asked herself. How long? How long? How long? How long?
How long. How long.
How?
Too longgggggg.
* * *
Ellen’s only surprise upon entering Bett’s room was at how cold it was. She had guessed it would be hot and airless. She stood looking through the gloom to the shapeless, sleeping, susurrating mound on the bed. She walked across the room and pulled the cord on the curtains.
Weak northern light eddied into the room. Amorphous forms gained corners and colors, but the light was too weak to waken Bett. Ellen left the room. When she returned she was carrying a tray filled to a delicate balance with teapot, cups and saucers, milk, lemon, ginger, sugars, honey, butter, two jam jars, plates, and a plate of toast points. After setting the tray down on the scarred top of an old red paint blanket chest, she stood over Bett staring at the baldness and the furrows and troughs of her face.
Before leaning over to rub Bett’s brow, Ellen whispered to herself, “Break a leg, kiddo.”
“Hello, my dear, sorry to wake you, but, if we’re to have tea, we need a hostess. ‘The sad and solemn Night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light.’ Bryant. Of course, it’s not light, but rather a light tea, I’ve just made toast, that we would have you be host of. And, of course, it’s not a heavenly host that we be seeking, but rather an earthly, even earthy, one. And if it’s not too forward of me, a quick look around this room suggests that we do have that. I wish I had a better quote, but it’s the only one I can think of that uses host. Or, hostess, for that matter. Arise, my sweet, and eat my crumbs.”
Bett’s hands emerged from under the covers. She grasped the satin blanket tape as if it were a bar which she would use to pull herself from sleep. Her eyes slowly opened. Her mouth unlocked, then, closed as if she had forgotten what she meant to say.
Ellen’s small hands, as bony and blue as pullets’ wings, grasped Bett’s hands.
“A bit disoriented are we? That’s fine. That’s commendable. It used to be such a feminine thing to be. My dear, I’ve come to rob you. I cased the joint, thought you might be feeling peckish, and I just waltzed through the door. You must lock your locks if you wish to avoid me. Which, I suspect, you may have been, are now, or surely soon will be wishing. Well, I’ve broken and entered and now will rob you of your sleep and, perhaps, a certain kind of consciousness.
“Now, although you are the hostess in principle, I shall be the hostess in fact. I know everything may sound terrible so I brought a choice. Do you care for lemon, sugar, honey, crystallized ginger or castor sugar with your tea?”
Bett shook her head back and forth against her pillow.
“Wincing is fine. It’s all terrible, I know. Just tell me which is least terrible.”
After waiting through a half-minute of silence, Ellen turned to the tea tray.
“Choice overwhelms. I’ll just make you a small cup. With lemon and ginger. I’ve made toast from some bread I baked. Nothing like kneading to firm the underarms and raise the bosom. Sweet memory that it is. No butter, unless you beg. There’s cherry rhubarb jam or my own lemon curd.”
When Ellen turned back around with a cup of tea in her hand she found that Bett had lifted herself into a half-sitting position. Bett’s face was turned toward the open curtains.
“Winter’s poor, pale orb.
“Please drink, my dear. This room’s so cold it will cool in no time.”
Bett took the cup and saucer from Ellen’s hands. She rested it on the ridge of covers that crossed her lap.
“Thank you.”
Ellen curtsied.
“You’re welcome, mum.”
Bett set the cup back down after having just touched the rim to her lips.
Ellen nodded, “Brass tack time, my dear. You feel terrible. I could be polite and concerned and ask you how you feel, as if I were some damned ninny who had failed to notice the decor.”
Ellen’s airy wave took in the pill containers on the bed table.
“I could ask you with heartfelt concern how you are, but I’m sure you’ve been asked so often that my sympathy would only anger you. You feel terrible. You look terrible. You want to act terrible. It’s all very understandable.
“Try the toast, dear. It’s made with…”
“Stop! I don’t want toast and I don’t want tea. I want to be left alone.”
Bett was pleased at the strength anger gave her voice. She looked to see what response would shade Ellen’s face.
“Yes, I know, my dear. That’s why I’m here.”
“You know what?”
“That you want to be left alone.”
“Then, why are you here?”
“Sheer spite, my dear.”
Ellen came close to the bed and set a plate of toast onto Bett’s lap.
“Pure pleasure, my dear. I’ve told you before that I’m quite defiant. Hurt and helplessness bring out caring in most people. I see helplessness and I want to get close and rap it with a stick. Partly, just to be sure that it’s helpless. Mostly, because if it is helpless, it can’t do anything back to me. As I’ve grown older and weaker in so many ways, I’ve found it to be quite a treat to find a victim I needn’t fear.”
Despite her intention to remain silent, Bett said, “You can’t mean that.”
“Can’t I?”
Ellen fierce bright eyes looked directly into Bett’s eyes until Bett was forced to break off from her gaze.
“Just why couldn’t I mean that? Because it’s not becoming, or not Christian, or not in character? But what is character? Can circumstances outweigh character? Has your character changed recently or has it been overwhelmed by circumstances? Is it cancer or character that’s dictating your behavior?”
Ellen pulled a honey-colored comb-back Windsor chair next to Bett’s bed. As she moved the chair and then her cup and saucer, she continued to talk.
“When we were thrown together in the hospital the thing that most drew me to you was your character. It helped to see me through and I was sure that it would do the same for you. The last time we met, when you came to my house after Christmas, I began to have my doubts. There seemed to be some cracking at the edges. From our phone calls—the ones we’ve had and, especially lately, the ones we haven’t had—I became worried.
“My dear, I know people—my sister-in-law, for example—who go to pieces when two loads of laundry stack up. I know so many people who become overwhelmed by a faulty car, an unruly child, a delay
ed doctor’s appointment. You are not like that and, from what you’ve told me of your past, never were. Your parents died when you were young and that was a tragedy, but it seemed to have toughened you up without making you tough. Life on lie’s terms. Until now. I think you’re overwhelmed and, what makes it worse, you’re even more overwhelmed by the idea of being overwhelmed. It’s not enough that your body has betrayed you and allowed some cells to grow willy-nilly. What’s worse is that in the moment when you need it most, your character, by being overwhelmed, has betrayed you, too. In a way, I’m not too surprised. You’ve had damn little practice at being overwhelmed since that early tragedy. For someone of your years, you’re singularly ill-prepared for setbacks.”
As soon as it became obvious that Ellen had finished speaking, Bett became interested in her tea and toast.
Two minutes and then a third crept by.
Finally, in a voice so low and flat it didn’t seem possible that it was hers, Bett heard herself say, “Please, just leave me alone.”
Ellen looked at Bett, gave a slow nod, gathered up the dishes and loaded them on the tray. Standing in the doorway holding the tray in her taloned grip she said, “Should it become important again, my dear, remember that I am your friend. A friend who is not overwhelmed by the changes taking place in you. Not the cancer, nor the baldness. Not the anger, nor the meanness. You have my love, my dear.”
* * *
After a sleep filled with chopped and churned dreams, Bett woke to a darkened room. She was sure Neil was not home yet. As she sat in the dark with her eyes flitting around the room looking for something new, Bett resolved that when he came to her she would set her anger aside and treat him with love and respect. However, as soon as her decision was made her resolve was tested by a million ugly thoughts buzzing around and biting at her like the worst of June’s deerflies.
When Neil came up to ask her about her day and what she wanted for dinner, Bett told him that the thing she most desired, and that no one seemed capable of giving, was to be left alone. He apologized and left.
By nine o’clock it felt as lonely as three in the morning. Bett got up and wrestled herself into her robe, then changed her mind and climbed back in bed.
Change took too much energy. Her time was fleeing too fast for regrets or repairs.
Chapter 21
“Are we racing?”
“What?”
“Just that. Are we racing?”
Peter gave Raoul a puzzled look.
“Petey Sweetie, you’ve had five. About twice your limit, I’d say. And I’m on my fourth.”
The maitre d’ tipped his glass to his mouth and held it there until there was nothing left but ice.
“What a night. Just where did all those people come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t know that we made bosomy buddies of all of them. I can’t remember a worse night. What was going on in there?”
Raoul nodded toward the double swinging doors which separated the dining room from the kitchen.
“I was off.”
“Off like Marat Sade and Jeffrey Dahmer? It was like the Random Restaurant out here. Steak rare? Bier sur. And lazy lobster shows up. An hour later. Chicken Provencal? Toute suite, monsieur. Except when it finally comes it’s painted in veloute’ sauce. Tomatoes and onions gone to Lalaland. If I’d been smarter I would have put the plates on the sideboard and just let everyone file up and take a look. Like luggage at the airport. Or a dim sum or dessert cart. Or a tea dance or midnight meat walk at Town Hall. Which is where I should be right now. Looking for my Isolde. Or I could have put on cake walk music and let Euterpe decide who eats what. Speaking of which. What—and don’t lie, I know it’s what and not who—has been eating you? Is all this confusion mama?”
Peter shrugged his shoulders as he raised his glass toward his lips.
“Look, Angel Eyes, not tonight, not with me. No shrugs. Have a coma, I don’t care. On the beach—fine. At home—such as it is—fine. I really don’t care. But not in the kitchen. When the coma comes to the kitchen, I care. ‘Cause I get the problem. You’ve been bad all week. I don’t know how many rare-ordered, medium-delivered steaks I’ve tried to explain away by the color tones in the lighting. Even the interior decorators doubt me. Bad all week; terrible tonight. Something’s wrong. Although I’ve been in on more than my share of launches, I’m still not a rocket scientist, but it seems, a’moi, that there just might be the teeniest and tiniest of links connecting the chaos we had out here tonight and the trouble that’s been going on in mama’s world. How is she?”
“Okay.”
“Okay? How delightfully splendid.”
Raoul got up and wandered around the dining room putting salt and pepper cellars on a tray for refilling. As he walked he talked quietly in a sing-song voice, “Okay? Okay. OKAY. Has a nice medical ring to it. What were the results of the laparosplenectomy? Okay. And the craniectomy? Okay. And the radical prostatectomy? Okay. Oh, no. Just okay? C’est dommage. We were hoping for at least an okey-dokey.”
Raoul changed the pitch of his voice.
“We’re outside Walter Reed Army Hospital. Doctor, what is the President’s condition? Okay. Okay? Why, that’s splendid news for America. We have experts standing by to explain the prognosis. Back to you, Dan.
“Okay. His mother’s okay. She has cancer, but she’s okay. She’s okay, so he’s okay. She’s so okay that he couldn’t get an order for ‘three with onion’ out of a hot dog stand. But that’s okay. After all, it’s only our livelihood.
“Okay. Okay, already. Enough. Leave it alone. It’s his life. If he wants to keep it bottled up, it’s his right. Put it in a container of nice chef-checked pants and a nice white shirt. Pull that ravishing toque down tight. Bottle it up and cork it with a toque. Or torque it with… Be nice. Be nice. It’s okay.
“Everything’s okay. Oh, yes, we had the teeniest tiniest of wars. Two million folks playing hide and seek in the sand. One hundred thousand dead in the trenches. Hey, howzabout that war? Okay. Howzabout that collateral damage? Okay. Correctimundo. That’s the answer we like to hear. Howzabout those dysenteric babies? Okay. Howzabout those starving Kurds? Okay. Okay. Okay.”
Raoul set the tray down by the kitchen entrance. He retraced his steps until he was standing directly behind Peter. In a monotonic whisper, he continued, “Okay, okay already. Whatever happens, it’s okay. There’s something inside your mother that’s eaten her breast. And, although you haven’t said so, I’m guessing it’s eaten her leg, too. Did it, Peter? Did she have the fucking amputation? A leg just bitten off and that’s okay? Little mustached guys in dirty clothes vaporized in sand and that’s okay? Everything’s okay. Always was and always will be. Gaby trotting out the door, wedding picture in hand. That was okay. Boys seen week-to-week like some television program. It’s Sunday afternoon. The Kosters are on. And that, of course, is okay.”
Raoul put his hands on Peter’s shoulders. He bent over until his lips almost touched Peter’s ear.
“Petey, sweetie, honey, dear. It’s not okay. Death and destruction are not okay. Loneliness and loss are not okay. Pain and suffering are not okay. Hurt and fear and disease and dismemberment, whether the member is limb or loved one, are not okay. I’ve had thirty-one friends die is six years. I don’t even want to think how many more are sick. Of all those deaths, not one has been okay. Each one’s going has been exceedingly not okay. They want to be here. They cling. To everything around them. To their families. Even those that never knew or refused to hear. To their friends. To me. Death pulls. They cling. And those remaining, me, I, get shredded. I get torn and twisted by the sharpness of their desire to stay here. To be alive. To be healthy. That hurts. But, you know, what hurts as much…no, what hurts more, is you. Watching you. With your desperate calm. Your suicidal acceptance. Life crashes all around your head and you, stoically, sit there like some idiot savant scholar conjugating verbs as the parade passes. ‘He goes, she goes, they go.�
�� They all go and that is just okay.”
Peter’s shoulders rose up in protest against the pressure of Raoul’s fingers digging deeper into their flesh. His ear tried to pull away from the viper’s hissing whisper.
“I’ve watched you for almost fifteen years. I’ve seen such sweetness and goodness that it used to shame me. But, lately, the more I’ve watched the more I’ve wondered how much of that goodness is choice and how much is just rote and ritual. Are you good because that’s all you know, or because you’re afraid to be otherwise, or are you good by choice? The more I’ve watched the more I’ve come to guess that your goodness is unreasoned. Whatever happens, be good, be calm. Just float. Accept. Stay on the surface. Go with the flow. Let it take you. And on and on and on.
“Oh, Peter. The flow can take us terrible places. I think you’re drowning. I think you’re weak and tired. Exhausted from your frantically calm floating. Worn out from habitual goodness. Petey, sweetie, we can only float when we’re free. You’re not. You’re burdened. God only knows with what kinds of weights.”
Raoul put his hand on Peter’s cheek and pushed his head until Peter’s ear touched his lips. His whisper was barely audible to himself.
“You can’t float with the weight of the world on your chest. Things are not okay. They are horrible. Let them go before you drown. Let go.”
Peter pulled Raoul’s hand from his face. He sat completely still for a moment gathering his strength. The moment didn’t work. When he rose, he lurched. He grabbed the edge of the table for balance.
“Petey, sweetie, you are blotto. All my words wasted. Here, let me help.”
Raoul stepped from behind Peter’s chair to offer his boss his hand.
Peter turned and flailed before capturing Raoul in a clumsy bear-hug. He tucked his face into the curve of Raoul’s shoulder.
“Well, they say one ligature’s worth a thousand words.”