The radiators began to pound and clang. By evening a suffocating heat filled the house.
At bedtime Grandma locked her door. Unlocked it. Called out to Helen, who was already in bed, “Did you lock the door?”
“I locked it,” Helen called back.
“Good. I just wanted to be sure.”
The door of the guest room closed. The dresser bumped against it. Next came the scraping and dragging of the chest of drawers. But was the front door locked? Patiently, relentlessly, she dragged the dresser away from the door, opened it, and shouted into the hall, “Did you lock the front door?”
“I locked it,” replied Helen.
She was lying in the dark, her borrowed copy of Outward Bound open to her place, face down on her chest. When Grandma was asleep, she would turn on the light and finish the play. It wasn’t the sort of play she would have chosen, but she wasn’t on the committee to choose what the play-reading group would present every month. At least nobody swore in this one; she was thankful for that. She could hardly bring herself to say “damn” in front of the other women. Only Debbie Lieberman loved to swear and throw herself into the naughty speeches.
I’ll have to drop out of the group now that I’ve got Clare and Grandma to take care of, she thought.
She would miss that group. She would especially miss the women not connected with the University—women like those she’d grown up with—whose company she preferred to that of the other faculty wives.
She climbed out of bed, tiptoed over to Hal, reached across his chest, and snapped off the radio he used to put himself to sleep. He slept like a pharaoh laid out for the voyage to the hereafter; not a wrinkle perturbed his blankets. In college, halfway through his first night in the dorm, his roommate had waked him and then apologized: “I’m terribly sorry—I thought you were dead.”
She pulled the covers close to her chin. Hal liked fresh air, and he opened the window wide, even in winter; but the window opened over her bed, not his, and she felt the full force of the breeze. He was twenty years older than Helen, and there was no use trying to change him. She never knew his age till they got the marriage license, and she’d hardly ever thought of it since, except to marvel at the difference between their ages: when I was born, he was graduating from the University. When I was starting school, he was finishing his Ph.D. at Harvard. If anybody had told him, “You’re going to marry a kindergartener from Corunna …”
She felt at the foot of her bed for the comforter and pulled that over her, too.
Dear God, help Clare walk.
She thought she ought to say more, but she never prayed for more than one thing at a time, so as not to appear greedy. Besides, it was hard for her to hold more than one problem in her head at once. She prayed only for other people, and she never prayed for anything she felt was downright impossible.
The Lord’s Prayer and a poem she’d learned in Sunday school: these were the only formal prayers she knew by heart.
Once she’d heard a man on the radio urge all his listeners to pray for peace at the same time—he gave them the time and the words of the prayer—and he assured them that he would be praying too. A thousand prayers coming in at once would flood the mailrooms of heaven. A thousand identical prayers would sound like one large prayer and be easier to understand than a clutter of small ones, and God would notice and would incline His ear.
But maybe God would like the poem best? Oh, I always feel foolish saying words that aren’t my own. I sound like Clare now. I sound like that Mrs. Brewster who takes Clare to Friends’ Meeting with her on Sundays. Do I still remember that poem? Or have I lost it?
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
Good. I haven’t lost it.
Close to the window, an owl whistled. All those nights when she had gotten up to nurse Clare, she had heard the owl. No, not this owl, but its great-great-great grandfather, maybe. At the foot of the pine tree, Clare, as a child, liked to gather the white bones of ferrets and mice, small as darning needles, which the owl had picked clean.
So many things dying in that tree, or being born, coming into the world, going out of it. Never forget. No. Twenty years, but never forget. He came too early. Six months. Didn’t even live long enough to be named. She’d heard him cry. Through her drugged sleep, she’d heard the nurse’s voice: “Shall I bathe him? He’d fit in a teacup.” And the doctor: “If I were at my old hospital in Philadelphia, I could save him.” And herself in the bathroom—would she ever forget?—pumping her milk into the sink. And later, her face pressed to the glass partition behind which the preemies slept, each in its own box, begging him to stay, crooning to him the song her mother sang to her, though he couldn’t hear her through the glass:
“Here comes the sandman,
Stealing away on the tips of his toes.”
She could never sing that song to Clare. Kept it locked up inside her.
“He scatters the sand
With his own little hand
In the eyes of the sleeping children.”
Who cares for him now? Will we meet in heaven? He would be twenty years old—going off to fight, maybe. Good to be spared that. Gone.
Gone?
Sometimes a door opens in her sleep and she sees him, three years old, in a little blue coat and leggings, standing close to her. They are on a platform, waiting, and the train stops. She gets on, the doors of the car close, the train starts up, she reaches for his hand —but where is he?
She gets off at the next stop, in tears.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“A boy in a blue coat and leggings?” murmurs a man in line behind her. “Why, he’s all right. Why, he’s waiting for you.”
She catches the next train, and it goes in the right direction, but it does not stop at the station where a little boy in a blue coat and leggings is waiting for her.
“Don’t you cry,” says the ticket man. “Don’t you cry. Didn’t you know the next train will take you back where you came from?”
“Your little boy’s waitin’ for you,” says the lady in front of her. “I saw him. He’s not goin’ anywhere. He’ll be there.”
But the next train goes farther and farther away from the platform where a little boy in a blue coat is waiting for her, and she can’t find the train back, though now and then she meets someone who says, “A little boy in a blue coat and leggings? Yes, ma’am. I saw him. He’s all right. He’s waitin’ for his mama on the platform. Take the next train west and get off at the seventh stop.”
But there’s only one train going west: an express.
If I could just find my boy, said Helen to herself. Or if he could just find me.
She turned over on her stomach.
And felt, in the same moment, a small hand drawing the comforter over her shoulders.
7
Everything Looks Good
ONLY WANDA KNEW THE truth: her sons had been arguing since the d
ay they were born, bawling at each other in the crib.
In the sandpile they’d argue: Red is better than blue. No, blue is better than red. No, dummy, red is better. Better! Biking up the street in summer, it was chocolate versus vanilla. Sledding: Snow is better than ice. No, ice is better. No, snow. They agreed on nothing and they took sides on everything.
When they started getting an allowance, they had to decide: Is Kresge’s better than Woolworth’s? When baseball season arrived: Is Babe Ruth better than Lou Gehrig? Goose Goslin better than Charley Gehringer? Willie chose the quiet, steady players who could be counted on in the outfield and who caused no scandals. Ben inclined toward outlandish pitchers and crazy hitters, who narrowly escaped suspension and got fined for bad conduct, their lives one long train of pranks.
Later they argued about girls in general (how did you do it with a girl?) and then about girls in particular (with whom? when?). As Ben’s knowledge outstripped his brother’s—Willie did not date very much; girls always expected you to pay—they argued about Marsha.
“She’s beautiful,” said Ben. “She’s Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake.”
“Too much makeup,” grumbled Willie. “And her clothes are terrible.”
“She buys them in thrift shops,” said Ben. “She’s real saving.”
“Thrift shops! Her stepfather is rolling.”
“She loves bargains. She never buys the first dress she sees. She loves to shop.”
Willie stopped to consider whether this was a point for his side or Ben’s.
“What do women do when they shop?” he asked cautiously.
“They look at stuff. They—feel it. Marsha loves to touch things. Combs. Dresses. Magazines. She loves magazines.”
Not what his mother did, Willie knew. Wanda, with her grocery list, hunting down the cheapest cut of meat. He dropped the subject of Marsha and turned to Marsha’s real estate. They’d argued about this before. Which was better, the old grey duplex where Marsha lived before her mother’s divorce or the new house in Barton Hills she’d moved into after her mother married Dr. Deller?
“The new one has a lotus pond and two gardens,” said Willie. “You’d have to be crazy to choose the old house.”
“The old one had a sand lot,” said Ben.
“Marsha needs a sand lot?”
“And the new one is full of the first Mrs. Deller’s stuff. Those awful figurines on every table.”
“They’re probably worth thousands,” said Willie.
Ben parked the old Studebaker that he and Willie owned together (Wanda hated to drive) and hurried up the front walk. Usually Marsha made him wait, and Ben took it for granted that he would wait for half an hour in the library, just off the vestibule, during which time nobody would speak to him, not even the maid who let him in.
Today, however, the door opened, and Marsha slouched in the doorway. Black suit, black stockings, her huge black purse, and a white fur jacket. Her blond hair was piled high, and a diamond comb gleamed over one ear.
“How do you like me?” She grinned. “I got the jacket yesterday. It’s real rabbit.”
She pointed one toe and flashed a spiky heel studded with rhinestones.
“God broke the mold when he made you,” said Ben.
Mold! exclaimed God. I never repeat myself.
The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers, mostly middle-aged women, pushing into the store or watching the mechanical figures in the windows, swagged and wreathed for Christmas, though Thanksgiving was still a week away. A family of snowmen, nodding like imbeciles. Santa in a golden sleigh, compelled to wave. Half a dozen elves whose hands pounded and stitched and sawed, and from somewhere—a cloud, perhaps—Bing Crosby singing “Silent Night” with the little catch in his voice.
“Let’s share a room in the door,” said Marsha. She pushed Ben ahead of her into the revolving door and squeezed in behind him. The door wedged tight. Panic froze him. A man in the section behind them tapped the glass, and Marsha started to laugh.
“Ben, move your feet!”
He moved them. The door opened. Why did she like to humiliate him? I’ve got to be patient, he told himself. He had made a bargain with God: If I am kind and helpful to everyone I meet from this day forward, God will forgive me for striking down Clare Bishop, even if I don’t tell her I did it. Why should I tell? What good would it do? In his mind rose a jeweler’s balance. The words “Clare Bishop’s concussion” hovered over the right pan, and a throng of faces, known and unknown, floated in the other one, the faces of everyone he would help for the rest of his life.
They passed the perfume counter. Marsha paused at a rack of men’s leather caps.
“Nobody would know if I took one,” she said.
“Marsha, please.”
“The stuff on the main floor is overpriced. Think of all the times I’ve paid too much. I could take that cap and even the score.”
“Don’t,” said Ben. “That man is watching us.”
“Which man?”
“That man next to the bathrobes. If you wore your glasses, you’d see him.”
She shrugged.
“Some day when I’m alone in here, I’ll take it.”
“You don’t need that cap,” said Ben.
“It was for you,” she said. “I was taking it for you.”
Riding the escalator to the ninth floor, she whispered in his ear, “What I really want for Christmas is butterfly-wing eye shadow, but I don’t think it’s been invented yet.”
The dining room was nearly full. All women, he noticed, and a few elderly men. Oriental carpets, white tablecloths, French windows with drapes of rose satin—oh, he didn’t belong here. A matronly hostess showed them to a table for two by a window.
“I want a table in the middle of the room,” said Marsha. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
She hung her purse on the chair and slipped off her jacket and sat down. She had a way of taking off her jacket that made you think she was taking off everything.
“This beats taking an exam in calculus,” she said.
“Why are you taking calculus?” demanded Ben.
“Because I’m good at it,” replied Marsha.
The waiter, in a red dinner jacket and green vest, brought two menus and stood discreetly aside.
“Crab,” said Marsha, glancing at the menu. “Have the stuffed crab. I’m paying.”
Ben knew she wanted him to pay, and he knew she did not like him to contradict her. Was she testing him? Whether he paid or not, he would fail.
The waiter stepped forward, sleek as a muskrat, pencil poised over his pad, and turned to Marsha, who turned to Ben.
“What looks good to you?” she asked him.
“Everything,” said Ben. “Everything looks good.”
“I’ll have plain Jell-O and tea,” said Marsha to the waiter. “I’m on a diet. My friend will have everything.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the waiter.
“I said everything. The crab, the broiled spring chicken, the oyster croquette, the celery soufflé, the black bass baked in cream, the shrimp, the celery and pineapple salad, the raisins molded in wine jelly, the pistachio cake, the chestnut parfait. And coffee and tea.”
“That’s luncheons number one, two, three, four, and five,” said the waiter. “I think I’d better move you to a larger table.”
“I don’t want to move,” said Marsha. “You can bring an extra table over here.”
“Marsha, the crab is fine,” pleaded Ben.
But the awful feast had been set into motion. Two more waiters emerged from the kitchen bearing the extra table and three stands for the trays, which they unfolded to the left and right of Ben. The muskrat waiter brought a large bowl of shrimps on ice and set it before him.
“The shrimp,” he announced. A butler announcing arrivals. “And the sauce for the shrimp.”
“Fast service,” remarked Marsha. “Those women behind you were here before us, and they’re still waiting.”
>
The whole dining room—right down to the curtains, thought Ben—was watching them. Everything. Everything looks good. His words and their consequences were as irreversible as if he’d rubbed a magic lamp—and here they came, bass and oyster and chicken and crab, bowing down to his appetite, under their steaming silver covers.
Ben lifted the first cover. The bass was dressed for the occasion in a pewter coat striped with black. Bread crumbs nestled like sleep around its upturned eyes: a small dead prince on a bed of rice.
“You’re a real glutton,” Marsha observed. Her Jell-O and tea had not arrived.
“A glutton for punishment,” said Ben and started in on the bass.
Suddenly a woman’s voice crackling through a loudspeaker commanded their attention.
“Our model number one is wearing a navy crepe dinner dress, formalized with a lovely net yoke accented with ostrich feathers. Notice the self-buttons at the waist and wrist. The split skirt opens on a knee-length petticoat of white embossed organdy. Number one. Available on the ninth floor.”
The model swept by them. Tall. Dark. Her number flashed on a white oval plaque the size of a dinner plate that dangled from her wrist. She looked straight at Ben, twirled, struck a pose, and passed on.
“Is she for sale?” asked Ben.
“You’d buy her if she were, wouldn’t you?” said Marsha.
“Nope,” answered Ben quickly.
“She’s tall,” said Marsha. “You like tall, dark women.”
“I don’t, Marsha.”
“Like that sultry cheerleader you went out with last fall.”
“She means nothing to me,” said Ben. “There was nothing between us.”
“Our model number two is wearing a lamé peach plaid dinner dress with corseletted bodice and a trailing sash and cap sleeves,” purred the voice.
Another model, tall and red-haired, stepped up to Ben and smiled.
“Go ahead,” said Marsha. “Look if you want to.”
“I don’t want to,” he said.
“Beauty,” she sighed. “I’d kill for it. The girls at Country Day are all so beautiful. I feel like a ferret among doves.”
Things Invisible to See Page 5