“What is the matter with you?” Suzannah says, and slams the bureau drawer. “You’re really out there, aren’t you?”
“I just wondered if you wanted to talk,” Cheryl says, although she hadn’t particularly. She feels good, she feels fantastically good. She hadn’t particularly wondered anything.
“Well, no, actually, I don’t want to talk, thank you.” An infinity of Suzannahs toss their hair. “Now that you mention it, I don’t want to talk. I’m sure you want to talk, but I haven’t just put a month’s income up my nose, and I don’t actually want to talk.”
How often, particularly before the advent of Roy, would Judith dramatize herself in just this way, overstating the indignity of her situation so as to justify to herself her own lack of generosity or affection, forcing the tolerance of those around her in order to elicit a response that would validate her accusations of cruelty or thoughtlessness, defending, at her own expense, the territory to which her appearance entitled her until age shrank the margins of that territory, leaving her stranded (as who could know better than Cheryl) within the confines of her own devalued body?
The brawls that Cheryl has seen! Brawls that Judith’s memory seasons to a satirical palatability, so that her persecuting demands and the grudging male objects of them reappear anecdotally, amusing and typological, like shifty cartoon mice armed with bottles and planks, saber-toothed cartoon cats stalking them. Cheryl is enraged by this miniaturization, and she herself has no such power over the past. For her, it rises up with the force of experience and subsides dizzyingly, leaching out all colors, severing gravitational pull, setting everything flying. Recognizable terrain falls away beneath her at these times with a roar, an unstable bluff.
It crosses Cheryl’s mind that she is a coward. And certainly she has endured the coward’s punishment, waiting, always waiting, while Judith piles on the provocations, for the inevitable rotation toward catastrophe. The two of them, Cheryl and Judith, scamper into Cheryl’s focus as an awful comedy act: the panicked child, clutching at every flimsy scrap of junk as the rubble rains down, and the mother, dabbing at a last tear, ready to go out dancing.
Really ridiculous, Cheryl thinks. And in the suppleness of her mood the awful sensations attenuate and slip off. But Suzannah’s helpless brutality, treacherously familiar, compels Cheryl’s vigilance. “Carter seems like a very emotional person,” she commiserates cautiously.
“An emotional person,” Suzannah responds with scorching gentility. “An emotional person. Gosh, I appreciate your pointing that out. I don’t think anyone has ever—has ever had that insight. But you know what, see—all those emotions, those fancy little emotions of his, what they are is little circus tricks. Because that’s what Carter is—a fancy little circus animal. And when he gets bored with one trick he tries a new trick, and he practices it until everyone applauds. And when everyone applauds he’s sick of that trick, and he drops it. But if he gets scared—well! Three months he’s been back here straightening himself out, one decent offer and it all falls apart.” She wipes with her palm at the teary film glistening on her face, as if a fly had alighted there. “He got tired years ago of the bit he and I worked up together, but he still calls me in from time to time, whenever he’s planning to degrade himself in some especially terrific way and he doesn’t have a big enough audience.” She gives her shopping bag an efficient little shake to settle the contents. “A good enough audience.”
Yes, Cheryl thinks, gazing out at her Park as Suzannah cries. Her heady languor is opening out into a great, clear field. It is easy to understand that Carter would become bored with Suzannah. Even Suzannah’s flaring beauty leaves no place to rest. Still, as Cheryl understands all too well from Judith’s noisy love affairs, self-serving anguish of this sort requires cooperation, and at one time Carter must have fanned the flame. Circumstances sometimes arise in which it is made clear that Danny has no interest in, or talent for, this particular sort of romance, and at these moments Cheryl almost floats with relief. Maybe she’s not in love with Danny, she thinks, but she does value him at his worth. He is always polite, always respectful, never intrusive or careless; he believes in behaving correctly and (except for certain terrible occasions to which she has only heard allusions) does not lose control of himself; he is responsible for his actions; and he is amazingly generous. Cheryl knows he helps out Roy from time to time, for instance, and Judith, too, although certainly neither is ever able to pay him back.
Suzannah blows her nose. “O.K.,” she says in a tiny, docile voice. “Ready.”
Suzannah does not look at anyone as she retrieves her jacket from the living-room sofa, and she knots her scarf with elaborate concentration.
“I’ll go down with you,” Danny offers. “Sorry, honey,” he says to Cheryl. “I got a call. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“You could give me a lift home,” Cheryl says.
“Well, it’s the wrong direction,” Danny says. “Why not wait for me here? This is a very impatient guy.”
“Stick around,” Carter says, reaching for Cheryl’s hand again. “How come everybody’s leaving?”
“O.K., sweetheart?” Danny says, giving Cheryl a little kiss on the cheek. He turns to Suzannah. “If you’re going uptown I can drop you.”
Suzannah looks at Carter. “No, thank you,” she says.
As soon as Danny and Suzannah are out the door, Carter returns to watching himself on tape with complete absorption. Great, Cheryl thinks. Maybe she’ll just take a taxi home. Or go back to the bar and hang out with Judith and Roy. This is a frequent source of annoyance; Danny is obliged to carry his beeper everywhere. Even worse, some of his clients consider themselves entitled to a social occasion. Danny of course is sympathetic to this and sensitive to his clients’ needs, but Cheryl hopes this particular errand will be a brief one. There is a quick savage rift in her bright frame of mind: naturally Danny, who sincerely loves to be surrounded by people, never would have questioned whether Carter truly wanted her to stay, never would have suspected that he was simply profiting by her presence to dispatch Suzannah.
“Come here,” Carter says without turning around. “I want you to watch something.” And Cheryl, rocked by an unruly gratitude, sits down in the bleaching glare from the screen, next to him.
Carter fills their glasses again, and they refresh themselves, he by means of the matchbook and she by means of her little gold spoon, and then Carter plays once again the scene on the bridge. “Here,” he says after they’ve watched it several times, “I’ll show you something else.” He makes several selections from the pile of cassettes on the floor and proceeds to play moments from them. Each scene that he shows features himself, usually in a state of extreme but suppressed tension or elation, and Cheryl marvels at the difference between the man she is sitting next to and the man she is watching; onscreen Carter seems smoothed out—hard and lustrous, his complications forced back into an invisible core that radiates alarmingly into all of his actions. The real Carter, with his exhausted boy’s face, his clearly shifting uncertainties, is more interesting to Cheryl.
“You can’t see what goes into it, can you?” he says.
She looks at him, waiting.
“I mean you can’t see it,” he says, gesturing toward the screen. “I can’t see it, either. I can’t see it any more than you can. They take what I do and they pour it into this huge machine, and the incredible thing is it usually comes out just the way they want it. And that’s terrific, I suppose, that’s just great, I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m proud of it, I’m proud that I can do it. It’s difficult, it’s scary as hell, hardly anyone can do it very well. I’m amazed every time it works. But the thing I want to say is, the reason I’m proud is not because it’s a good thing to do, it’s just because I can do it, don’t you think? I’ll tell you what I think. I think that people like to do what they’re able to do. People love to do what they’re able to do. That’s what nature is, right? The expression of itself.”
What he means, Cheryl thinks, is—Wait, no, it’s obvious. But obvious the way air is obvious, and in fact the air in the room is massing and separating—part breaks off, soaring. Above her, beating dark, then bright, the shadowed undersides, bright top sides, there: she can stabilize it, it melts brightly back…
“So of course,” Carter is saying, “everyone is grateful to anyone who lets them do what they’re able to do. I’m grateful to those people out there for letting me do what I can do. And the confusing part is, those people are grateful to me, but only because I can generate a lot of money for them, and that’s a talent that they recognize. They’ve got a very pragmatic approach to talent. ‘Look, look,’ they say. ‘That looks like money. Oops, no, that’s a bottle cap. There, hey, that looks like money. Oh, whoops, it’s a candy wrapper.’ And they just throw out anything, they have absolutely no interest in anything, that they don’t know just what to do with, that isn’t already money. So they’re pretty grateful to me. But I’ll tell you something else, which is…They don’t like me! They used to like me, they used to be very interested in my opinions. About the script, about the camera angles, about the caterers, you name it. But at the moment I am persona non grata. Particularly in the editing room, let me tell you—persona non grata. And the reason is, I’m just not so grateful to them as I used to be. Because, wonderful, wonderful, they let me do what I can do, but look what it ends up as. It ends up as nothing. And it’s the same for all of us—the actors, the directors, the editors, the cinematographers, the designers. We can all do these amazing things, these incredible things, and people let us do them because it all generates money. But look at the final products: not worth spending two hours watching, let alone months and months making. Certainly not worth squandering all that ability on. Ridiculous, hollow, hypocritical, cynical, corrupt trash. And I’m grateful to do it. But the thing is, I’m trying to exert some control finally, trying to hold out for something decent. But, see, there isn’t anything decent, so you get into these habits of rationalizing: ‘Oh, it’s not really so bad, you know; it doesn’t actually glorify violence, it depicts violence.’ ‘It isn’t actually pointless, it’s a parody of pointlessness.’”
“Maybe—” But what? Cheryl’s attention has been a bright ribbon threading through this billowing newness. “Maybe you should—”
“I don’t know why I’m talking about this,” Carter interrupts. “I don’t know why I’m saying these things to you. What do you care? You probably watch all this shit.”
What? Cheryl freezes.
“You probably think it’s all fantastic—”
“As a matter of fact,” Cheryl says—normally she might not find it worth it to protest, but she feels good; she’ll be generous, help him and herself out of this—“I don’t happen to think about it at all. You think it’s big news those movies are stupid? You think you’re the only person that ever noticed?”
“I’m sorry,” Carter says. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Everybody knows they’re stupid. Nobody but you cares, is all.”
“You’re right. Listen, I’m mortified. I apologize, O.K.? I’ve got a terrible attitude, I know.” He holds up a little peace offering on the matchbook. “It’s just that I’m so used to people who take it absolutely seriously—I’m so used to dealing with these very aggressive, very combative people, who act as if this moronic shit was the most important stuff in the world. I don’t know any people like you. I’m completely out of touch with the real world.”
“You think I’m the real world?” Cheryl says. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Carter says. “Anyhow, the only living inhabitant.”
Cheryl shakes her head and smiles provisionally.
“What a smile,” Carter says. “And this play—I’ve sort of said I’ll do it, but I don’t know. I haven’t actually signed anything. I’m supposed to do that tomorrow. Tomorrow, Christ—what time is it? Today. And there are a lot of good reasons to do it. Because, for one thing, it would be something to do. And for another thing, it’s O.K. I mean, there’s nothing actually criminal about the script. Also, I haven’t been near a stage for years, and it’s a completely different set of techniques. Very interesting. Working in real time. With other performers. Everybody spinning a web of concentration. Doing the same thing over and over and making it better.” He lies down with his head in Cheryl’s lap. “Different techniques.” He grins. “Shouting.”
“Um,” she agrees contentedly.
“What do you know about it?” he says as Cheryl smooths his hair back from his face. “Don’t stop, that feels good. And at least there’s a real script, you know? Some sort of a text. Even if it’s complete shit from beginning to end, at least it’s something—it was written by an actual human being, not by a million monkeys at a story conference, with everybody else, like me, throwing in their ax to get ground. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s right for my character. My character wouldn’t do that; my character’s a saint. He might rob the bank, but he wouldn’t shoot the poor old guard, he’d shoot the shitty cop, who beats his wife.’ Hey,” he complains, as Cheryl neglects his hair in order to scoop up a little spoonful from the coffee table. “Me, too, at least. Not that this play’s Ibsen, you understand. The guy’s a novelist is the problem, not a playwright, but this is his first play, so everybody’s falling all over themselves about it. Especially him, you know? All these guys have a play up their sleeve, they all think they can write a play. But it’s a special thing, a special set of skills. Not to denigrate this guy—he’s an excellent writer. Excellent. But he just can’t write for the stage, when you get down to it. He can’t write for actors. All very static, very ponderous. Guy doesn’t have a clue. So it could be…see, you know what—” He raises his glass, looking through it quizzically, with one eye shut, as if it were a prism. Then he drains what remains inside it. “Kind of thirsty,” he says, casting his eyes sideways comically at Cheryl. “No. Thing I meant to say is, there are two sides to every issue. Got that?”
“O.K.,” she concedes.
“Wait,” he says, peering at his glass again and rotating it. “There’s one side to every issue, except it’s wraparound. Well, anyhow, never mind, my point is, there are a lot of reasons not to do this play, am I right? I mean it’s the actors that are left holding the bag, particularly on a stage. No camera, for one thing. And you can’t just waltz out onto the stage and play an idea. An idea! Because that’s what you look like—print, believe me. But the producers are crawling. I’m the only person for this role, I’ve got to do it, I’m perfect, it was written for me, it would be great for me to do stage work. But the truth is, I’m gonna tell you the truth, which I didn’t understand until this second. The truth is, it wouldn’t be great for me. It wouldn’t be great for me at all, it would be great for them; it would be great for the box office. Unless maybe I can do a little bargaining—talk to them about rewrites, because unless they do something about my part the thing it would be for me is catastrophic, because, see, the entire universe is waiting for me to make the wrong move. ‘Did he—could he—oh, no, look, I think maybe he—yes, he—oh, too bad, he sucks!’ So I can’t afford to, you know, afford to take something just because it’s respectable.”
Carter falls silent, while Cheryl drifts along on these considerations.
“You know that girl you met before,” Carter says.
“Suzannah,” Cheryl says carefully.
“Yeah, Suzannah. She practically had me talked into this thing. She always thinks I should accept offers, just because they’re there. Routine challenges. See, that’s what she’d do. Course she doesn’t have the opportunity to do it, ’cause nobody offers her anything. But that doesn’t stop her from having opinions about the way I should conduct myself on every point. Protocol for every possible contingency. What it is is she can’t take the strain of constant fluctuation. Which is what life is.”
“Maybe that’s just how you feel right now,” Cheryl says.
Carter
sighs. “No,” he says, into the sofa.
Cheryl is only briefly ashamed at having caused Carter to dispense with Suzannah this way. After all, Suzannah had been so determined to treat her and Danny like, as if they were—Cheryl doesn’t want to think what. To treat them as she had treated them, despite the obvious fact that they were invited guests, friends of Carter’s.
“What about you?” Carter says. “Here I am talking and talking. Tell me about you.”
But Cheryl’s life—a toy life, she thinks—has taken place far below, on an edge of the city which cannot even be seen from up here. “Nothing to tell,” she says.
“Come on, no holding out. Tell me—I don’t know, tell me about…oh, life with Mom, the beauty queen.”
Cheryl pauses. She is not equipped! Danny is always far too protective, far too private, to air his concerns. And Judith’s exhaustive catalogues of her own calamitous life are vehicles, weapons, ornaments, decoys—anything but confidences. Whereas Carter, she feels, has been so wholehearted, so candid, so sure of her understanding and participation. She longs to offer him an exchange of equivalent value and substance. But how can she present Judith, as a stranger, for inspection? What sound relic can she possibly reclaim from the churning chaos of her own history? She needs some likeness of Judith that she can pull out and hand over, one that will bear up, converting scrutiny to admiration. She concentrates, framing an approximation of Judith, fans it out in aspects, and reaches back, passing over the recurrent scenes, the vanity and pitiable hopes, the violent, precarious gaiety, the carping remorse—far back to when Judith was young and people were eager to give her things, to keep her happy. “It was wonderful when I was little,” Cheryl says. She hears her own voice, dropping the words one by one into the huge room. “My mother made everything into an adventure. Everything was special for her. She loved to have fun, she loved to get presents. Everyone always said that she was the child, really, and I was the grownup. It was sort of a joke. I was a very finicky little girl. Sort of disapproving.”
The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg Page 35