The Smart One

by JENNIFER CLOSE

  WALKING AROUND CAMPUS, Cleo just watched everyone and thought, I fucked up more than you, and more than you, and more than you. It was like nothing she’d done up to this point mattered anymore. Everyone else was free and she had a human growing inside of her.

  Every day, Cleo thought about what it would be like after they told everyone. Max’s family would hate her for sure. And Elizabeth was going to be so mad, she couldn’t even imagine. She’d always talked about birth control, always made sure that Cleo knew what she needed to know. It was like she was telling her, You were a mistake and believe me, you want to make sure you don’t do what I did.

  Maybe they were some sort of hyper-fertile family. It was possible. She could tell Elizabeth that it wasn’t her fault, it was biology. That would go over well.

  Cleo hated when people were mad at her. She couldn’t stand to disappoint anyone. The thought of Elizabeth and Max’s family being so thoroughly disappointed in her made it hard to breathe.

  Elizabeth used to always tell her she needed a thicker skin. “Not everyone is going to like what you do all the time,” she’d say. “Sometimes you have to say, screw you, and do it anyway.”

  Senior year in high school, Cleo had decided not to play soccer. It had gotten to be too much, and she liked her other activities better, so it only made sense. She was sleepless for weeks, knowing that she’d have to tell the team, knowing that the girls and the coach were going to be disappointed in her. She hated disappointing people.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Cleo,” Elizabeth had said. “This is your life. You’re the one that has to live with the decision you make, not anyone else. Just remember that. What you do in life is yours and it doesn’t matter what other people want from you.”

  It was sort of funny, actually, that for the first time in her life, Cleo was going to take Elizabeth’s advice, that for once she was going to do something that was going to make everyone around her angry as all hell. She repeated Elizabeth’s words to herself every night. What you do in life is yours.

  Cleo thought that maybe when she told Elizabeth, she could point out how ironic it all was, how she was finally doing just what Elizabeth suggested. “That’s the thing about giving advice,” she could say. “It might come back to haunt you.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Martha’s new job smelled like death. Or actually, it smelled like dying, which was worse. Death was at least clinical and final. Dying lingered. It was urine-stained couch cushions and shirts with drool on them. It was labored breathing and fake cheery voices that tried to distract the patient from the fact that this was it—his life was coming to a close.

  Her first day, Martha showed up to find Jaz scrubbing the wood floor in the den with Pine-Sol. “Just a little accident,” she said. Her voice was pleasant and no-nonsense, the kind of voice you would use when dealing with a child, to let them know that accidents happen, but they’re nobody’s fault, and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

  Mr. Cranston sat in his chair and stared straight ahead, not acknowledging Martha or Jaz’s comment. Martha, unsure of what to do, stood in the corner and folded her arms across her stomach. “Accidents happen every day,” she’d said. Then she wanted to die, because Mr. Cranston gave her an accusing look that meant he thought that either she was a moron or she was against him.

  “Mr. Cranston loves to read his papers first thing,” Jaz said. She wrung out her rag into the bucket. “Why don’t you go grab those for him—they’re by the front door—and go ahead and put them in the sitting room? When we’re done here, I’ll show you how to get breakfast ready.”

  Martha nodded and almost ran from the room to the front of the house, where she picked up the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, and the Philadelphia Inquirer. She was so grateful to get out of that room, that she almost hit her head when she opened the door.

  When they met in the kitchen, Jaz told her not to get overwhelmed. “I’m going to be here with you for a couple of weeks until you get it down. Any questions you have, you just ask. I’m not going anywhere, so there’s no reason to get nervous, okay?”

  Martha nodded and swallowed. Ever since her stupid comment about accidents happening every day, she felt like she might start crying. But Jaz was kind. And for that, she was very grateful.

  “Okay, now. First thing you’ll do when you get here in the morning is make breakfast. It’s the only meal you’ll have to make, but he’s pretty particular about it. He has the same thing every day—two soft-boiled eggs and a piece of whole wheat toast. He used to have bacon too, but that ended about five years ago, when his cholesterol went through the roof. Every once in a while he can still have it, but don’t let him fool you into thinking that he gets it every day, okay?”

  Martha nodded again. She was trying to remember everything that Jaz told her, and then, without a word, Jaz handed her a black leather-bound notebook and pen. The breakfast was just the beginning of the instructions. Lunch and dinner were prepared by a cook who came in a few times a week, and stored the meals.

  Jaz opened the big shiny refrigerator to reveal shelves full of delicious-looking meals, stored in clean, labeled Tupperware containers. It was the kind of refrigerator that Martha would love to have, full of meals that made her hungry just to read the labels—cold salmon and homemade mayonnaise, mini beef tenderloin sliders with horseradish sauce, fresh arugula with shaves of Parmesan, and little lamb chops, tiny and perfect.

  “Don’t worry about getting the food ready,” Jaz said. “The cook writes everything down on this pad over here, and you just follow her instructions. It’s easy. Also, there’s always plenty, so help yourself to whatever you want.”

  Martha wanted to stand and stare at the shelves all day. They were so neat and orderly. Imagine having this be your refrigerator! You’d never find an old peach or a soft sweet potato in there, never find a block of moldy cheese and have to wonder when you bought it. Martha was still staring as Jaz shut the door.

  The instructions continued. Mr. Cranston could go to the bathroom by himself, but he sometimes needed help walking there, or getting up from his chair. He did not want or need help once he got there. “For now,” Jaz said.

  He read all three papers every morning. He did not like to watch TV, except for the seven o’clock news, and sometimes Jeopardy if he was in the mood. If he was extremely tired, you could sometimes persuade him to watch a show; just suggest it like it was something you’d heard about and thought he would like. Nothing popular. No sitcoms. He did not like to watch shows where groups of adults lived together in the city and whined and acted like children. Stick to things like BBC miniseries, as long as there wasn’t too much melodrama.

  He was an avid reader and would (at least twice a month) make a list of new books that he wanted. The local bookstore could be called—they had his account information—and they would drop off the books the next day. He had a computer, although he didn’t use it all that often. He did not e-mail. He did sometimes ask to dictate a letter, to an old friend or work acquaintance, which he would want typed up so that he could sign it. “He had a secretary for years,” Jaz explained. “It’s just something he’s used to.”

  Mr. Cranston enjoyed crosswords sometimes, and did not like to be interrupted while he worked on them. He did not like to go outside, but Jaz insisted that he get out at least once a day, to go for a walk in his wheelchair. It made him feel like a baby, to be pushed around the block, but Jaz was firm. He needed fresh air and he knew it. If you were firm with him, he would be okay. Just a quick walk, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, down the street and maybe over by the park, but not in the park, because there were almost always children there, and they were so noisy, and he didn’t like to see the way that children were raised these days, like wild animals let loose. Why did they always have snacks with them, their grubby hands full of yogurts and drinks and crackers, like they were going to starve before they got home? “Just trust me,” Jaz said. “Stay out of the park.”

 
Ruby came over a couple of times a week, whenever she felt like it, really. She usually brought some sort of gift, a book, or a pint of frozen soup that she picked up. “She tries to help, bless her,” Jaz said. But Ruby was often in the way. She insisted that he go on an outing with her, to the store, or maybe to a restaurant for an early dinner.

  “Even when he was healthy as a horse, Mr. Cranston never shopped. Never. And he never liked eating out,” Jaz said. “That man would rather eat a peanut butter sandwich than sit in a restaurant.”

  His son, Billy, usually came only on the weekends, so Martha would probably never see him, but when he did come he just liked to sit with his father and wasn’t a bother.

  Martha wrote everything down. It was a lot of information, but she felt like she could get a handle on it if she could just write it down. The nurses came at night, and as soon as she let them in at six o’clock, she was free to go.

  “Don’t take it personal if he gets crabby,” Jaz told her. “He’s an old man and he’s used to having things his way. And now his body’s failing him and that’s hard for him to handle.”

  “Okay,” Martha said. “That’s so sad.”

  “It’s sad, sure. But it’s just life. We’re here, we live, and we die. Not much you can do about it, so we might as well enjoy it while we can. No use worrying about that.”

  Martha couldn’t believe that Jaz really thought this. Who in their right mind wasn’t afraid of dying? She was probably just putting on a brave face so that Martha would feel better about the whole thing. She must be.

  Jaz moved around the house with so much purpose. Martha watched as she informed Mr. Cranston that it was time for lunch, suggested that he’d like to take a rest, announced that it was time for a walk. Martha walked behind her, afraid of what Mr. Cranston was going to say, her feet following Jaz’s, stepping right where she had stepped, hoping that this would give her some sort of strength.

  When she got home at night, she was so tired she could barely move. The first week, she was in bed by nine each night. She resolved every night as she went to bed that the next day she would act just like Jaz. She would be firm and purposeful. But each morning she woke up and she was still herself—nervous and unsure, following behind Jaz, afraid of upsetting Mr. Cranston.

  “IT’S SAD,” MARTHA TOLD HER FAMILY at dinner. “It’s like everyone is just waiting for him to die, including him! Like they’re just killing time. Literally.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Claire asked. “You knew you were going to be a caretaker for an elderly person. It’s not like there’s a lot of different endings to that story.”

  “I know, I was just saying that it’s hard. That’s all.”

  If Martha was being honest, she missed J.Crew. She missed bossing people around the ribboned shirts and sparkly scarves. She missed her work smelling like new clothes. It had been so clean at the store. There’d been an order to the polos, a calmness to the khakis.

  Every night, Weezy asked her how her day had gone as soon as she walked in the door. She asked it nervously, like she was waiting for bad news.

  “I think people are waiting for me to fail,” Martha told Dr. Baer.

  “Are you waiting for yourself to fail?” Dr. Baer asked. “Do you think you want to fail?”

  “No, I don’t want to fail,” Martha said. “Of course I don’t want to fail.” Sometimes Dr. Baer was an idiot.

  Martha found herself losing patience during her sessions. I’m a patient losing patience, she often thought when this happened. Dr. Baer didn’t seem all that impressed that she had a new job, that she was practically back to nursing.

  “Well, I don’t think that people are waiting for you to fail,” Dr. Baer said. “I think you have a good support system around you, and when people ask you how things are going, they’re really asking just that and nothing more.”

  “I guess so.”

  “So, how do you feel at the end of the day with Mr. Cranston?”

  “Good, I guess.” The truth was that sometimes it was very, very boring. Martha sat still and watched the clock during the days, just waiting for the next activity.

  “That’s great,” Dr. Baer said. “It sounds like this job was the right move for you then, something to challenge you a little more.”

  “Retail is very challenging,” Martha said. She tried not to sound too offended. “People don’t understand that, but it’s not easy. You don’t just show up and sell things. Plus, I was a manager, which entailed a lot of responsibility. So actually, I don’t think that this job is more challenging in that sense. Not at all.”

  “That’s a good point,” Dr. Baer said. “I guess what I meant was that it’s different and new. And new things are always challenging, especially when you’ve gotten comfortable somewhere.”

  “Right, I guess that’s true. New jobs are hard,” Martha said. “Actually my sister just got a new job too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she’s temping for an agency, and they already placed her somewhere for a few months.”

  “You sound impressed.”

  “With Claire? No. I mean, not that I’m not impressed, but I’m not surprised, I guess.”

  “No?”

  “No. She wanted a job and so she got one.”

  “That’s all there was to it?”

  “Pretty much. Things come pretty easily for her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’ve told you that before.”

  “You have,” Dr. Baer said. “I just find it interesting that you’re still so sure of that. She’s had a tough year, hasn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but still. It’s not like things have happened to her … She’s made the decisions. She ended her engagement, she quit her job, she moved back home. I mean, it’s a lot of changes, but it’s all stuff she wanted to do.”

  “But haven’t you made your decisions too?”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Claire has more choices?”

  “How so?”

  “She just does, she always has.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I just think you can’t be so quick to be so sure of other people’s situations. Examine your own situation. You also have a lot of choices. It’s not always easier for other people. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Sure it does. A lot of times it does work like that.”

  “Well, sometimes, I’ll admit it might seem that way. But things aren’t always what they seem.”

  After that session, Martha thought about her choices. She thought that maybe she should have been a therapist, so that she could say things like, “Your life isn’t so hard,” and “I see,” over and over again. Now that seemed like an easy life.

  NOW THAT CLAIRE WAS TEMPING and she was at the Cranstons’, they were getting up and getting ready at the same time each morning, which they hadn’t done since high school. Sometimes Martha knocked on the bathroom door, pretending to be in a hurry, so that Claire would let her in and they could brush their teeth together, put on makeup side by side.

  MARTHA LOVED WHEN RUBY CAME to the Cranston house. She was the prettiest person Martha had ever seen in real life—she always looked a little bit tan, her hair was always shiny. Once, when Martha commented on how glamorous Ruby was, Jaz said, “She should be. She works at it like it’s a job.”

  Sometimes, Ruby would sit in the kitchen with Martha and have some tea. Martha always made it, but she didn’t mind. Ruby sort of seemed like a little kid that needed things done for her. The first day that she came, she kept staring at the teapot and saying, “I’d love some tea,” like it was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. Finally, Martha got up to make the tea, and Ruby smiled at her like she was relieved.

  Now Martha offered as soon as Ruby walked into the kitchen, setting out cookies and starting the water boiling. Then, Martha would sit and wait for Ruby to start t
alking—Ruby loved to talk—hoping that she was going to spill some family secrets.

  “We’re not speaking,” Ruby said one day. “My brother and me, I mean. We’re on upsetting terms.” Ruby had a strange way of talking, of putting words together, almost like English wasn’t her first language, or like she wanted people to think that. She dotted her sentences with random phrases, arranged verbs and nouns in odd places, throwing them wherever she pleased.

  “Oh really?” Martha asked. She didn’t want to sound too eager, but she was dying to know about Billy.

  Ruby sighed. “He’s impossible, if you must know, my brother. He thinks of himself as the most important person in the world. Or rather, he thinks he’s more important than he is, in truth.” Ruby paused to think this over. “I don’t know which one it is, or if there’s even a difference. I’m just telling this to you, so that you understand why we won’t be in the house at the same time. This is why the schedule exists.”

  “Of course,” Martha said. “I mean, I understand. Has this been going on for a long time?”

  “Forever, it seems like. But in actual time, only a few years. Since my mom died, really. Billy thinks he’s in charge of everything.”

  “Families are tricky,” Martha said.

  “Isn’t that the truest thing,” Ruby said, and Martha felt like the cleverest person in the world.

  MARTHA LOVED SENDING HER COUSIN CATHY long e-mails about her job and the Cranstons. She told her about Jaz and Ruby, and talked about how degrading it must be for Mr. Cranston to basically need a babysitter at this point in his life. Cathy loved hearing about her work, always responded by telling her how funny and insightful she was, sometimes suggesting that Martha should be a writer, which always thrilled Martha.