Trouble

by Jesse Kellerman

  Though Jonah had heard this story at least five times, it still made him smile. He said, “It’s crazy out there.”

  His father grunted, as if to say You understand.

  They mounted three steps to his office, a hexagonal addendum at the back end of the house. Normally impeccable, the room had grown a second skin of newspaper, pimpled by bottles of wood glue and thimblesize pots of paint. Pages torn from an instruction manual blanketed the desk. In the center of this mess stood a glistening blue dollhouse, three feet high and wet to the touch.

  “I planned on giving it to Gretchen before dinner,” he said. “But it might have to wait until Christmas. Still missing windows, and”—he pried up a section of cork shingles—“I can’t get these to stick, for some reason. Any ideas?”

  Jonah had no clue. “It’s stupendous, Dad.”

  “We’ve gone back in time. A hundred and fifty years ago you had to make everything by hand, or buy from someone who did. Then the world went industrial, and you got all your goods mass-produced. Now we’re back to DIY. Your sister quilts, did you know that?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She’s making a blanket for the new baby. That’s why I’m doing this for Gretchen, so she won’t feel jealous when he’s born and everyone stops paying her exclusive attention. Parents have to be careful. Your mother and I were.”

  “It’s a he?” Jonah said.

  His father’s mouth hung open. Then he said, “Pretend to be surprised.”

  DURING THE DAY he helped his mother mash potatoes, helped his father experiment with a variety of adhesives, helped his sister and brother-in-law take care of their child. In the end they’d given their au pair the day off, which did not prevent Gretchen from asking for her every five minutes.

  “You want a story?” Jonah asked.

  “Dah-lene.”

  “Uncle Jonah will read you Sadie’s Great Big Competition.”

  “Dah-lene.”

  Jonah put his niece on his lap, opened the book. Like the seats of Kate’s car, it was enlivened by bold-colored stains, emitting the sweetish odor of a diabetic’s breath.

  “There’s a whole series,” Kate said. “Sadie and her friends go on great big adventures.”

  “Ah-veh-chuh,” confirmed Gretchen.

  Sadie turned out to be a sunflower. Along with companions Desdemona the Daffodil, Gertrude the Geranium, and Carlotta the Chrysanthemum, she engaged in loony and outrageously motile activities. The Great Big Competition, volume three in a series of forty-odd, pitted the characters against one another as they strove to be the prettiest. Bedlam ensued; nobody won; the moral of the story emerged as It’s more important to be nice to your friends than to win.

  Jonah would have enjoyed reading aloud, but Gretchen beat him to it.

  “Isn’t she kind of young to be literate?” he asked Kate.

  “She’s not. She’s memorized it. Darlene reads it to her a hundred times a day.”

  “Dah-lene,” said Gretchen.

  “She is reading,” Jonah’s mother called from the kitchen. “She’s a genius.”

  “Ah-gay.”

  Kate said, “Erich and I call it Sadie’s Great Big Repetition.”

  “Dah-lene.”

  “Not today, honey. She’s home on vacation.”

  “Vaca-shuh.”

  “That’s right. And so are you. And so is Mommy, and Daddy, and Grammy, and Grandpa, and Uncle Jonah. We’re all here! Here! Where are we?”

  “Gammy.”

  “That’s right, Grammy’s house. And where do we live?”

  “Conneck-uh.”

  “That’s right! So smart. And who’s that?”

  Gretchen craned around and peered at Jonah. He opened his eyes as big as he could. “Hello, Gretchen. Do you know my name?”

  “Dah-lene.”

  “Darlene?”

  “Dah-lene.”

  “Darlene? I’m not Darleeeene.…” He swept her up, tickling her until she turned plum and kicked with delight. She rolled free and ran to shelter behind her mother’s legs.

  “She must love you. Normally she doesn’t let people tickle her. She scratches. Believe me.” Kate showed tiny white marks near her hairline. “No, sweetie, Mommy can’t pick you up, Mommy’s going to slip a disc.”

  “Dah-lene.”

  “That’s Uncle Jonah. Can you say Uncle Jonah?”

  “Sadie Gay Big Compi-shuh.”

  “Uncle Jonah will read you the book if you say his name. Can you say Uncle Jonah?”

  Gretchen squirmed.

  “Say Uncle Jonah.”

  “Hey Gretchen,” Jonah said, “my name is…Uncle Jonah!” He chased her around the living room. She spun in a circle, yelping Unka Jonah, stamping her feet and flapping her stumpy arms like an overwrought penguin.

  “Very good,” Kate said. “Unka Jonah.”

  “Unka Jonah! Raaahr. Raaaahr.”

  “I’m not sure she understands that it’s my name,” Jonah said. “She might think it means ‘Back off, bitch.’”

  “Baga, bish.”

  Kate moaned. “You can’t swear in front of her.”

  “Don’t be a tightass,” Jonah said. “Can you say ‘Mommy’s a tightass?’”

  “Ty-tah! Ty-tah!”

  “Oh brother.”

  “Bruh! Ty-tah! Raaahr.”

  They read the story three more times before dinner. Gretchen nodded off on the couch and Kate followed suit. At quarter to six his mother came downstairs, having washed up and donned a silk blouse and pearls. She lit candles on the sideboard and asked Jonah to fetch everyone.

  He put a hand on Kate’s forehead. She stirred, yawned, kissed his wrist.

  “I don’t think we can leave her there,” she said, referring to Gretchen, limp in a pile of pillows.

  “You want me to put her to bed?”

  “I’ll do it. Come with me.”

  As they went upstairs, Kate put her arm around Jonah. “This is the way it ought to be,” she said. “Just the family.”

  EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT.

  “Who wants pie?”

  “I am going to die.”

  “You’re eating for two.”

  “I ate for nine.”

  “Everything is exquisite.”

  “Thank you, Erich. Steve? Pumpkin or cherry?”

  “Both, please.”

  “And of course Jonah wants both.”

  “Just pumpkin is fine.”

  “Erich, what kind.”

  “Cherry, please.”

  “Okay. Pass to Jonah, please.”

  “Mom. I said just pumpkin.”

  “I couldn’t hear you, I must be going deaf.”

  “Here, Erich, take mine.”

  “No no no. I’ve already cut him a piece.”

  “He can have two.”

  “What are you, on a diet? Steve, Jonah’s on a diet.”

  “I’m not on a diet.”

  “You’re on a diet?”

  “I’m not on a—”

  “Maybe he has a special friend.”

  “Kate.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “This pie is exquisite.”

  “Thank you, Erich. Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Jonah?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “Steve.”

  “Mm.”

  “When you met me, did you have time for a girlfriend?”

  “I made time.”

  “Maybe his special friend is a nurse. Do you like nurses?”

  “Hey Kate?”

  “Yeah?—achhh, you shtunk.”

  “Don’t throw whipped cream, Jonah, it’s not polite.”

  “Hey Mom?”

  “Dooon’t.”

  “Jonah-face, tell us about this nurse of yours…. Wave that around all you want, I don’t care, you already ruined my pants.”

  “She’s not a nurse.”

  “Aha! Steve, you heard that? Our so
n’s marrying a nurse.”

  “She’s not a nurse.”

  “Then what does she do?”

  “She does nothing.”

  “Well she must do something. Are you in love with an unemployed woman?”

  “She does nothing, because there is no—fine. She’s a mechanic.”

  “Perfect, a doctor and a mechanic. America’s two most secretive professions.”

  “Erich, more pie?”

  “No, thank you. It’s exquisite.”

  “Thank you. Well, Jonah?”

  “There’s no one. Really.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What.”

  His mother got up. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “Jonah-face,” Kate said. “My friends from college have sisters who live in the City. They’re all editorial assistants and weigh ninety-five pounds. Interested? Where you going?”

  He did not answer her. He’d gotten up to follow his mother but stopped midway across the kitchen.

  I can’t believe he didn’t say anything.

  I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stem. I apologize. I thought he’d mentioned—dessert. I brought this for you. If it’s inconvenient—

  Not at all, not at all. Although I wish he’d said something about it. Oh how thoughtful. It’s nice to meet you. We’re in the middle of dessert right now. Come on in.

  His chest bottomed out like a flushed commode.

  “Jonah,” his mother called, “you didn’t tell me you were inviting a friend.”

  • 24 •

  “YOU LOOK SO familiar,” said Kate. “Have we met?”

  “At Yale.”

  “Ohhhhh. You’re the friend who went to Yale.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a new friend,” said his mother. “Jonah?”

  “What year were you?”

  “Same as you,” Eve said. “But I wasn’t terribly memorable in college.”

  “Everyone knows Kate,” Erich said.

  “Not everyone. But thank you, honey. What college were you?”

  “Calhoun.”

  “No kidding. Did you know Jenny Ballentine?”

  “She was Council Chair.”

  “And Robbie Sevenza?”

  “The Beer Can Eiffel Tower,” Eve said.

  Kate laughed. “Wow. How funny we never met.”

  “I graduated early. And senior year I lived off-campus, in the Grad Ghetto.”

  “Well it’s nice to meet you now. Jonah, you never told me she lived in Calhoun.”

  “You never told me she existed at all,” said his mother, smiling at Eve.

  Eve squeezed Jonah’s shoulder. “He’s bashful.”

  “Where did you meet?” his mother asked.

  “In a bar,” Jonah blurted.

  Kate snickered. “That’s so sleazy, I love it.”

  “Behave,” his mother said. “I met your father in a bar.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Your mother and I—” began his father, stopping when Kate wrung her hands. “What.”

  “Every time you start a sappy story that begins ‘Your mother and I,’ it goes on for an hour and ends up making me cry.”

  “I was simply going to remind the table that love can evolve from humble beginnings.” His father gestured around the room. “Our family.”

  “Fuck, I’m going to cry,” Kate said.

  “I didn’t know you had time for bars,” his mother said.

  “I—don’t, normally.” Under the table, Eve was raking her nails toward his crotch.

  “The hand of fate,” his mother said.

  “…I…I don’t…” Sharply, he bent one of Eve’s fingers back. She made a series of near-silent chuffing noises and withdrew. She’d taken out most of her piercings. To cover the holes she’d worn her hair loose around her turtleneck. A pleated skirt, ladylike navy stockings, burgundy penny loafers: she could’ve stepped out of Preppy Quarterly.

  “So Eve,” said Kate, “since my brother is in suuuuch a friendly mood, I’ll talk to you directly. What do you do? Are you a mechanic?”

  “I work with the mentally ill.”

  “How appropriate,” said his mother.

  Eve laughed. “Jonah and I have a lot in common.”

  “I always knew you’d find a Yale girl,” Kate said. “Didn’t I say that, honey?”

  “We all know Yale women are exceptionally beautiful,” Erich said.

  “That is the overstatement of the century,” Jonah said.

  “Jonah,” his mother said.

  “How do you put up with him?” Kate asked.

  “I like him just the way he is,” Eve said, mussing his hair as she began another round of Exfoliate Jonah’s Pants.

  “I ate too much,” Jonah said. “I’m feeling groggy.”

  “That’s the tryptophan,” said his father.

  “The turkey was exquisite,” Erich said.

  “Thank you. More pie, Eve?”

  “No, thank you. Everything’s delicious. I’ll have to get your recipes.”

  “Oh?” His mother sounded inordinately pleased. “Do you cook?”

  “Recreationally. But I’m a dilettante, compared to Jonah.”

  “Jonah cooks?” his mother said.

  “Mm. Very well.” Eve’s laugh exposed her neck.

  “When did you learn to cook?” his mother asked him.

  He had pried three fingers away. Her shoeless toes rubbed his foot. “I don’t.”

  “What else haven’t you told us?” Kate said.

  “He’s too modest,” Eve said.

  “Are you hiding other skills from us?”

  “He’s quite an artist,” Eve said. “Did you know that?”

  “I most certainly did not,” his mother said. To him: “You should share these things….”

  “How bout embarrassing Jonah stories?” Kate asked. “I’ll trade you one for one.”

  “Nothing would make me happier,” Eve said.

  “I think it’s time to clear the table,” Jonah said.

  “Oh sit down,” said his mother. “One meal a year, we get to linger.”

  “Which ones should we tell,” Kate said. “Why don’t we let him pick.”

  “How bout the time I embarrassed myself by leaving the table in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner,” he said, reaching for Eve’s plate.

  “My golly,” his mother said, “let her eat.”

  “If you’re not going to pick a story,” Kate said, “I’ll pick one anyway, and then you won’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “I have a request,” Eve said. “Tell me about his childhood fears.”

  “Where to begin,” his mother said, and laughed. “Steve? Wine?”

  “No thank you.”

  His mother poured herself a half-glass, smiling as she geared up her story. “To see him now you’d never know, but he was a very skittish boy, a regular nervous Nelly.”

  Eve demurred.

  “It’s true,” Kate said. “Everything set him off. Movies, loud noises, rollercoasters. He was such a fraidy-cat that he wouldn’t go to the bathroom alone.”

  Eve laughed and brushed Jonah’s temple. He stared at his plate.

  “Mom took us to see this traveling group do The Pirates of Penzance—you remember that? Jonah?”

  “I remember,” he mumbled.

  “I assumed it was a production suitable for children,” his mother said.

  “It was,” said Kate. “Just not for Jonah.”

  “They did a sort of gothic staging, ghoulish and spooky, cobwebs in the seats.”

  “And the pirates were dressed up as skeletons,” said Kate. “How old was I?”

  “You were…well, Jonah was two and a half, so you were about eight.”

  “After that he started seeing ghosts everywhere. There’s a big black birch outside the upstairs bathroom, and he would see things in the branches. He would sit down to make a number two, and next thing you know we’d hear him crying Help! The Pirate King! Except�
��” Kate laughed, coughed, beat her chest. “Wooo, ahem. Except, that at that age he had a wuh. So it sounded like He-wup! The Pie-wat King!”

  Everyone laughed. Eve pinched his cheek.

  “He was darling,” said his mother. “To protect himself, he would ask Katie to come with him into the bathroom and wait while he did his business.”

  “No!”

  “Yyyyes,” Kate said. “But. He was too embarrassed to go with me watching him, so I had to stand in the shower and face the other way.”

  “So together,” his mother said, “yet so alone.”

  He could not think of a way to communicate the urgency of ending this conversation without sparking a riot. He was skittish, all right, but the Stem women were human landmines. They found him funny because they were worse.

  Part of him wanted to slug Eve right there, right at the table. He doubted she would fight back, not in front of everybody else. Though he had underestimated her before, and she had the cutlery at her disposal.

  He bent back another intrusive finger.

  “And as a baby—oh…” his mother sighed. “Too much. Too much.”

  “I bet,” said Eve.

  “Are you done,” Jonah said, seizing her plate and striding into the kitchen, ignoring the swell of protest.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into him.

  He’s stressed Eve was saying. He works so hard.

  He scraped piecrusts into the trash compactor. In the dining room they were entertaining themselves at his expense.

  He would announce that he had work in the morning, studying to do. If he left, Eve would have to leave.

  Unless his mother asked her to stay. She reveled in her role as hostess, and it was conceivable that she would try to carry on without him. She might invite Eve to stay the night. We won’t allow him to be a party-pooper.

  His mother called, “Eve would like some seltzer, Jonah.”

  He went to the laundry alcove. On the floor was a half-empty case of Pellegrino; beside it, bottles of bleach, Windex, Liquid-Plumr.

  He could put something in her drink.

  Keeling over, clutching her chest as her esophagus dissolved, spitting bloody tissue out on the ironed linen tablecloth, his sister screaming and his mother screaming and his father baffled and Erich stuttering in his hyperrational way, all of them recoiling, pushing back in their chairs, knocking over the candlesticks, flinging aside water goblets and silverware with musical—