And besides, I said.
Bill did something with his jaw that made it click. There were dust covers over the chairs. He pulled one aside and sat down. Then he got up and pulled another aside for me. When did she stop going out? I said. When did she stop going out, he said, hooking the words up like the cars of a little toy train, when did she stop going out. When she stopped being able to walk, Lucille? After her first stroke? Kind of hard to get around if you can’t walk.
Well, I guess I assumed she’d use a wheelchair or something, I said. Or that someone would take her. A driver, or someone.
Anyhow, she didn’t want to see anyone, he said. I told you that, I know I told you that. And more to the point I suppose, she didn’t want anyone to see her.
Bill was looking stricken. The fact is, Nana was an amazing person, even if she had been pretty rough with our father, who obviously deserved it anyway. She had seen a lot in her life, she’d experienced a lot, but from all those experiences there weren’t going to be many, you might say, artifacts, except for, oh, the tea service and maybe a bit of jewelry and a few pamphlets or little books, I guess, that she’d written for the institute (foundation?) she worked with. At. With. At. The tradition of liberal humanism, I remember Dad saying once, with hatred, as though something or other. Anyhow, there wasn’t going to be much for the world to remember our shiny Nana by, except for example her small, hard, rectangular book on currency. It’s incredible, I can’t ever quite wrap my head around it—that each life is amazingly abundant, no matter what, and every moment of experience is so intense. But so little evidence of that exists outside the living body! Billions of intense, abundant human lives on this earth, Nana’s among them, vanishing. Leaving nothing more than inscrutable little piles of commemorative trash.
I could see that Bill was suffering from those thoughts, too. I put a hand on his arm and said, She didn’t want people to see her, but she let you see her.
Bill flushed. I don’t count, he said.
As far back as I can remember, he was subject to sudden flashes of empathy that made him almost ill for a moment, after which he was sure to behave as if someone had kicked the kick me sign on his rear end. Anyhow, you and I have to make some decisions, he said. Like what? I said.
He gave me plenty of time to observe his expression.
Do you know how much this sort of private care costs? he said. Sure, she was well-to-do by your standards. And by mine. But you might pause to consider what will have happened to her portfolio in this last year or so. Mine will go back up in due course, yours will go back up—Portfolio? I said. But hers won’t, Bill said. She doesn’t have the time. In another year, if she lives, she’ll be propped up over a subway grating in the freezing cold with a paper cup to collect change. So the point is that every single thing here has to be decided. And it has to be decided either by us, or by me. None of it’s going to happen automatically. Honestly, Lulu—you still don’t seem to get it. How do you think Nana came by her nurses? Do you think they just showed up on the doorstep one morning?
Bill rubbed the bridge of his nose as if I were the one having the tantrum. The point is, he said, there seems to be no chance of significant recovery. So what will happen with her things, for example? Who will go through her papers? Can we find a better place for her to be? These are decisions.
These were not decisions, I didn’t bother to point out to Bill, who was looking really so pathetic with his silly jacket and premature potbelly, they were questions. This is Nana’s apartment, I said. This is where she lives. We can’t just, what, send her off on an ice floe.
I appreciate your horror of the sordid mechanics, Bill said. But stay on task, please, focus. I mean, driver! Good lord, Lulu. What driver? You know, Geoff is a fine man, I like Geoff, and it’s a big relief to see you settled down, finally, with someone other than a blatant madman. But Geoff is as impractical as you are. More impractical, if possible. He takes an extreme view of things, and I know he encourages you in that as well.
I’m capable of forming my own extreme views, I said. And if you’re referring to the tree painting project, it was hardly extreme. We all just picked one tree that was going to be deforested, and commemorated that particular tree in paint. I don’t call that extreme.
I agree, Bill said. It’s perfectly harmless. And that’s great, because you have to be prudent. Courage is one thing, and simplistic rashness is another. There are lists, you know. Lists, lists, lists.
Simplistic rashness? I said. You know what Jeff has been doing, you know what he’s been studying! I was shouting at Bill but I was thinking about poor Jeff, lying in bed this last month or so, scrawling on sheets of paper. When I’d urge him to eat, he’d start intoning statistics—how many babies born with this, how many babies born with that. I know, I said the other day, I know; don’t tell me, tell them. We’ve told them, he said, that’s why they cut off the funding! He did manage to write a song or two about it, at least, and he sang one on his friend Bobby Baines’s 6 a.m. radio slot. You’d be surprised what Jeff can wrap a good tune around. I wish he’d get back to his music. It used to be so much fun, hanging out with his band. My mouth was still open, I noticed, and yelling at my brother. The funding’s been cut off, my mouth was yelling. For the whole study! And now they’re saying, Depleted uranium, wow, it’s great for you, sprinkle it on your breakfast cereal! Is it any wonder Jeff isn’t a barrel of laughs these days? Is it any wonder he’s on a short fuse? Extreme! You’re the one who’s extreme! I can absolutely hear how you’re trying to pretend his name is spelled! Jeff is Jewish, okay? Do you think you can handle it? His name is Jeff with a J, not Waspy, Waspy Geoff with a G, but every time you send us so much as a note, it’s Dear Lulu and Geoff with a G!
Bill was just standing there with his arms folded. At least I send the occasional note, he said. And please don’t pretend you don’t know what a portfolio is. Please, please don’t.
We looked at each other for a long, empty moment. The Corot will have to be sold, he said.
Sold, I said.
Well, I don’t know why it should have made a difference to me. Sold, not sold—it wasn’t as if I could have hung the thing up on our stained, peeling wall or whatever. But still! That word—sold! It’s like inadvertently knocking over a glass!
Sold, Bill said. The jewelry’s already been sold. Eek, I said. Who knew. Oops, sorry, you did, I get it, I get it, I get it, I abase myself and so on. Bill cleared his throat. Anyhow, he said.
He gestured at the cloth-draped room. Obviously, there’s a lot of stuff left, but none of it’s worth anything to speak of. Peggy’s researched pretty thoroughly. Still, if there’s anything you want, now’s the time to claim it.
Now’s the time. Now’s the time. Who wants to hear that about anything? Thanks, I said.
Was there anything of Nana’s I’d ever particularly coveted? I closed my eyes. Wow, to think that Nana had been showing Eileen that clipping of me and and my tree and my painting! Okay, so maybe the project hadn’t been so effective, but at least there’d been a clipping! Had Nana been proud? Did she think I looked nice? Wait a minute, I said, Nana’s still alive! You get no argument from me there, Bill said. But how much of this stuff do you think she’s going to be using from now on? Do you think she’ll be using the tea service, for example?
The tea service? I said. Do you want the tea service? he said. The tea service! I said. That great, big, hulking, silver thing? What on earth would I do with the tea service? How on earth do you think Jeff and I are living, out there in the woods? Calm down, Lucille, Bill said, for heaven’s sake. Please don’t go Dad’s route.
Why on earth are we talking about the tea service? I yelled. Excuse me a minute.
I went into the kitchen, where Eileen was sitting, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and clattered some ice cubes into it from a tray in the freezer. Excuse me, I said. Help yourself, dear, Eileen said.
There was a printed notice stuck to the door of the fridge with a magnet tha
t looked like a cherry. Do Not Resuscitate, the notice said. Oh, shit, I said.
Eileen nodded. She’s a lovely lady, your grandmother, she said, but I just kept looking at her, as though I were going to see something other than a nurse in a white uniform sitting there.
When I went back out to the dining room it appeared that Bill had gone back to the others, so I made a pit stop at the cruh-den-za to fill my glass and returned to the living room myself.
Anyhow, we weren’t talking about the tea service, Bill said, you were talking about the tea service.
The tea service? Peggy said.
Want it? I said.
That’s so sweet of you, hon, Peggy said.
Bill flashed an expression just like one of Dad’s—pure gleeful, knowing malevolence. He’d obviously stopped by the good old credenza himself again and was gulping away at his tumbler. Eileen came in and helped Nana drink a glass of water with something in it to make it thick enough for her to swallow, and gave her a pill. A little water dribbled from the corner of Nana’s mouth. Nana didn’t appear to notice it. Eileen wiped it away, and then wiped at something leaking from Nana’s eye. Melinda had her hands over her ears. Those airplanes! she said, I can’t stand the sound of those airplanes! Why are there so many airplanes here?
Oh, don’t fuss, Melinda, Peggy said, there are airports in New York City, and so naturally there are airplanes. And in any case, that’s a helicopter, Bill said. Is it going to drop a bomb on us? Melinda said. Don’t be silly, sweetie, Peggy said, they’re not dropping bombs on us, we’re dropping bombs on them.
Helicopters don’t drop bombs, Melinda, Bill said, they’re probably looking for someone. Who? Melinda said. The police, Bill said, hear those sirens? No, but who are the policemen looking for? Melinda said with her hands over her ears again. How would your mother and I know who the policemen are looking for? Bill said. Some criminal, I suppose.
Melinda flopped over, facedown onto the sofa, and let out a muffled wail. Just calm down, please, Melinda, Peggy said. You’re upsetting your great-grandmother. Melinda cast a glance at Nana, who was gazing levelly at the images I’d seen earlier of the gracefully exploding building. I wondered where the building was—what country, for instance.
Things were always occurring suddenly and decisively inside the TV. Another building, for example, was just getting sheared off as we watched, from an even taller one standing next to it. Why is everyone always so mad at me? Melinda said.
I’m not mad at you, I said. Are you mad at Melinda? I asked Bill and Peggy. Of course not, Peggy said. You are, too, Melinda said. We are not angry with you, Peggy said. And I’ve told you repeatedly that when you pay for the paint job, you can put tape wherever you like.
I was doing it for you! Melinda said. I was just doing it for you! She turned to me. It said to do it, she said. It said to get tape and put plastic over the windows because of the poison, and my sitter was up in my room with her boyfriend so I got the tape from the drawer and some garbage bags, and then Stacy was mad at me, too, even though I didn’t tell that she and Brett were upstairs having—
I don’t want you talking like that, Peggy said. About Stacy or anyone else, young lady. Girls in real life don’t behave like television floozies. I’m limiting your viewing time.
What did I say, what did I say? Melinda said and lapsed into loud, tearing wails that sounded like she was ripping up a piece of rotting fabric. Stop it, Melinda! Peggy said. Stop that right this instant—You’re getting hysterical!
She’s so theatrical, Peggy said to me, rolling her eyes. She put her arms around Melinda, who continued crying loudly. There’s no reason to get so excited, Melinda, she said, you’re just overtired.
Soldiers were marching across the screen again. Peggy was gazing at them absently, her chin resting on Melinda’s soft hair. Was Melinda going to be a numbskull like her parents? I wondered, but then I reminded myself how much stress Peggy and Bill were under, worrying about Nana all the time, and whatever. Peggy was looking so tired and sad, just gazing droopily at the screen. She sighed. I sighed. She sighed. Do you remember when people could have veal chops whenever they wanted? she said. Bill had a yen for veal chops yesterday, so I went to the market and I practically had to take out a mortgage.
Are we poor? Melinda said, and hiccuped. Ask your mother, Bill said, looking like Dad again. Peggy glared at him.
I was trying to remember what Nana wrote in her little book on currency…fixed, floating, imports, exports, economies…And then I tried to remember what exactly had happened in the last wars we’d fought, or anyhow, in the last vaguely recent ones—just who exactly was involved, and so on. So many facts! So much new information always coming out about these things, after they’ve occurred. It’s pretty hard to keep straight just what’s been destroyed where and how many were killed. Well, I guess it’s not that hard for the people who live in those places. And Jeff always has a pretty solid grasp on that stuff, and Nana sure used to…I wondered what she thought she was looking at now, if she thought she was actually seeing back, seeing pictures from her own life—memories, the inside of her own head…She seemed to be focusing on the screen so intently, as if she were concentrating on some taxing labor. Really working out what that screen was showing. Well, that was Nana! Always work work work work work. There was the sheared-off building, and the tall one still standing right next to it. I wondered what that tall building was, and I wondered what she thought it was. It looked like an office building, with black windows. Maybe Nana thought Death’s office was there, behind those black windows. Maybe she pictured Death as a handsome old man in uniform, sitting at his desk and going over his charts and graphs. Behind him she’d be seeing a huge map with pins in it and his generals, with those familiar, familiar faces. He’d look tired—so much to do!—and sad. He wouldn’t notice the glass tear leaking from his glass eye.
Guess we’ll all be going together one of these days, Bill said. Swell, I said. You know, guys, I’m really tired. I’m going to go back downtown to Juliette’s. We can talk over everything tomorrow, okay?
Do you have enough money for a taxi, Lulu? Bill said.
Do I have enough money for a taxi? Of course I have enough money for a taxi, I said. I was wishing I hadn’t spent most of my last check before Jeff’s funding was cut on those white Courrèges go-go boots. But discounts are about the only perk of my job, and I do have to say that the boots look pretty fabulous. Anyhow, I said, I’m going to take the subway.
The subway! Peggy said. Don’t be insane, Lulu.
Don’t die, Aunt Lulu! Melinda said.
For pity’s sake, Melinda, Peggy said. No one’s going to die.
Was I ever hoping that Wendell had finished trying to tenderize Juliette and I could just flop down on her futon! No rest for the wicked, Dad used to say, chortling, as he’d head out for a night on the town. (Or for the saintly, is what Jeff has to say about that, or for the morally indecipherable.)
Oh, look—Peggy said, pointing to the screen, where a grinning person in a white coat was standing near some glass beakers and holding what looked like a little spool—I think they must be talking about that new thread!
What new thread, what new thread? Melinda said.
That new thread, Peggy said. I read an article about this new thread that’s electronic. Electronic? I think that’s right. Anyhow, they’ve figured out how to make some kind of thread that’s able to sense your skin temperature and chemical changes and things. And they’re going to be able to make clothes that can monitor your body for trouble, so that if you have conditions, like diabetes, I think, or some kind of dangerous conditions, your clothes will be able to register what’s going on and protect you.
That’s great, huh, Granana, Melinda said. She threw her little arms around Nana, who closed her eyes as if she were finally taking a break.
The Flaw in the Design
I float back in.
The wall brightens, dims, brightens faintly again—a calm pulse, whic
h mine calms to match, of the pale sun’s beating heart. Outside, the sky is on the move—windswept and pearly—spring is coming from a distance. In its path, scraps of city sounds waft up and away like pages torn out of a notebook. Feather pillows, deep carpet, the mirror a lake of pure light—no imprints, no traces; the room remembers no one but us. “Do we have to be careful about the time?” he says.
The voice is exceptional, rich and graceful. I turn my head to look at him. Intent, reflective, he traces my brows with his finger, and then my mouth, as if I were a photograph he’s come across, mysteriously labeled in his own handwriting.
I reach for my watch from the bedside table and consider the dial—its rectitude, its innocence—then I understand the position of the hands and that, yes, rush-hour traffic will already have begun.
I pull into the driveway and turn off the ignition. Evening is descending, but inside no lights are on. The house looks unfamiliar.
It looks to me much the way it did when I saw it for the first time, years ago, before it was ours, when it was just a house the Realtor brought us to look at, all angles and sweep—flashy, and rather stark. John took to it immediately—I saw the quick alliance, his satisfaction as he ran his hand across the granite and steel. I remember, now, my faint embarrassment; I’d been taken by surprise to discover that this was what he wanted, that this was something he must have more or less been longing for.
I can just make out the shadowy figure upstairs in our bedroom. I allow myself to sit for a minute or so, then I get out of the car and close the door softly behind me.
The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg Page 85