This Vacant Paradise

by Victoria Patterson

  Esther had rehearsed for weeks in preparation for her check; she’d been counting on it. Characteristic of someone who had once had money, she had the habit of freely spending it. Although she went without the facials, waxings, and weekly hair salon appointments of her peers, she had the added responsibility of her brother. All she wanted was $10,000 of relief.

  Even before her family had woken, Esther had made her way to the Christmas tree, under the pretext of getting a drink of water, and with the sun rising, casting a dark pink glow across the living room, she’d seen the blinking lights and the Southwestern ornaments mocking her—no check, no check, no check—reminding her of what it had felt like as a girl to be crushed when she’d learned that Santa was a myth, an invention, and a lie that grown-ups used to manipulate children.

  While her need was a practical necessity, the others were frightened because it proved that they didn’t know what was going on inside Grandma Eileen’s white-haired head, and thus what alterations she might make in her will. She could feel them questioning: What does she mean by this? What could she possibly mean? Adding to the mystery, in place of the checks, Grandma Eileen had given them identical clay football-size sculptures: a vagabond wearing a top hat, his pants belted with string, leaning over to feed a bluebird from the palm of his hand. Possibly a mass purchase from the Home Shopping Network.

  The distress was palpable, and Grandma Eileen, surly and impatient, provided no explanation. She cast a discouraging glance at her family. Her head dropped and she stared at the table. She wore a snowman brooch that at the slightest touch jangled out various Christmas melodies, and she kept touching it accidentally, sending it into a lighted frenzy. While she usually gave Esther preferential treatment—at the very least, a signal to the others that Esther was favored—she was aloof.

  The family was expunging its fate with wine, and had already killed three bottles. Rick was the only one not partaking; he had already made plans to borrow Grandma Eileen’s Mercedes so he could attend one of his Narcotics Anonymous meetings later in the evening.

  “They’re not called Orientals anymore,” Aunt Lottie said bitterly, way after the fact.

  Grandma Eileen’s head came up, but she didn’t say anything. In the candlelight, her rings and necklace shed a soft brightness.

  Aunt Lottie was a little slurry. “You should be more worried about all those Mexicans.”

  The flap of wrinkled skin at Grandma Eileen’s throat looked as if it had grown. Her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as if she were making sure it still worked.

  George placed a hand on his wife’s knee as a show of support, but Aunt Lottie made a point of removing it. When angry, Aunt Lottie could be as cruel as Grandma Eileen. Esther was sorry for George: he’d married Aunt Lottie with aspirations of an easy, moneyed life, unprepared to contend with Grandma Eileen’s viselike grip on her daughter. He looked from one face to the next, not knowing what to say or do, and finally settled for staring at a candle flame at the center of the table. His body shape, large lower extremities, thickened ankles and thighs, narrowing all the way to his head, reminded Esther of the Weeble Wobble toy she’d had as a child, and she thought of the song from the commercial: “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.”

  Uncle Tim was quiet, as usual, and when he stood to pour Esther more wine, his crotch was in the direct line of her vision; he tottered before steadying himself with a hand on the table. She knew that as a result of prostate cancer, he wore an infant diaper under his briefs to guard against loose urine splatterings; it created a soft, unisex pouch. By being Gurney and Eileen’s eldest son, he’d been in line to take over the business, but everyone understood that he was a failure (“One gay, the other useless”), and that Aunt Lottie was the one with a talent for numbers and how to increase them. He’d taken too many drugs in the sixties, and his vocation was to live off his family’s fortune, as those before him had. His wife, Mary, was the greedy one, not to be trusted.

  Uncle Tim sat back in his chair and lifted his wineglass, filled to the brim. He took a long sip, his eyes directed at George. “Sorry for being a shit on the golf course this morning,” he said—but he didn’t appear sorry, his eyes hard and direct. By being the newest arrival, George was the brunt of the family’s antagonism.

  Grandma Eileen responded by sucking on her rose-tipped cigarette. “Why don’t you just shut up with that crapola,” she said, smoke spiraling from her nostrils. “I’m just so tired of this life,” she continued, and then she said something else, but she mumbled it so that no one could hear. She stubbed her cigarette in the crystal goblet, and it continued to give off a sharp-smelling smoke. Rick poured water into the goblet to kill it.

  Grandma Eileen’s hand rose from under the table; she reached it across the table and set it on top of Esther’s, like a cape, and then she sighed heavily. Her diamond was turned under, cool against Esther’s skin.

  The others watched, their communal disappointment aggravated. When Esther was a child, she had wanted to change her name to Eileen. When she and Eric would visit their grandmother, they didn’t have to knock on the door or ring the doorbell. (She met Grandpa Gurney only once; he was never there, and then he was dead.) Their father would open the door with his key.

  Eric would hang back, but she would run into the house, looking for Grandma Eileen, and then, upon spotting her, she would run even faster, her heart drumming with love, inevitably knocking against the sofa or a table. “Clumsy-Wumsy,” Grandma Eileen would say, but her arms would stay open to receive Esther.

  Once, after such a greeting, locked safely in Grandma Eileen’s arms in a prolonged hug, Esther looked up at her and asked, “Why are people so afraid of you?”

  “Who’s afraid of me?” Grandma Eileen said, letting her go and turning to get her cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table. She seemed genuinely shocked and hurt.

  “Everyone.”

  “I’m not scary,” Grandma Eileen said, lighting up a Pall Mall. She paused, thinking. “I don’t know,” she said, and then she inhaled her cigarette deeply and gave Esther a crazy grin. “Maybe because I have so much money,” she said, waggling her cigarette-free hand, as if to spook Esther, while letting the smoke come out of her mouth.

  Esther looked out the window to the pink-and-silver sunset, the colors spread across the pond. Why did she crave family, even when family hurt her? The sprinklers clicked off, misting to an end.

  Grandma Eileen stood, inadvertently knocking her snowman brooch, which lit up and jingled “Deck the Halls.” Rick stood on cue and placed a palm on Grandma Eileen’s elbow.

  “You barely ate,” Aunt Lottie said. Ignored by Grandma Eileen, she turned her attention to Rick. “She barely ate.”

  Rick appeared to commiserate, but his allegiance was to Grandma Eileen, and as she moved her chair aside and clamped her way with her cane toward her bedroom, he followed close behind.

  The door that separated Grandma Eileen’s half of the house from theirs slammed shut, as if Grandma Eileen were making a final point, and for a moment, all those left at the table stared at each other in hurt wonderment; then, as if providing the soundtrack to their situation, they heard the familiar music from Jeopardy from behind the closed door: nee nee nee nee, nee nee nee . . . bump badamp bump bump.

  11

  LYING IN A fetal position on the white leather couch, trying to watch It’s a Wonderful Life on the enormous flat-screen TV, Esther heard Aunt Lottie and George arguing in the kitchen. Over the noises of their washing the china (water slopping in the sink) and storing the extensive country club leftovers (cabinet doors, refrigerator being angrily opened and closed), she was having trouble concentrating. She’d already turned the volume up twice with the remote and didn’t want to risk Grandma Eileen’s wrath.

  Esther used to watch the movie with her father, and he’d quote from it (“You want the moon, Esther? I’ll give you the moon.”). She was doing her best to sink into the relief, the feeling it used to give
her. But after hearing Aunt Lottie—“You bastard. You bastard, bastard”—and then, minutes later, the sound of George’s Jeep Cherokee, wheels peeling against the street as he made an angry exit to who knew where, Esther decided to abandon the movie and retire to her bedroom.

  A half hour later, while the others no doubt slept, Esther sat on her bed, wearing her silk robe, lightheaded and slightly intoxicated, listening to the soft thump of the washer and dryer near her room, and considered the aftermath of her spoiled Christmas.

  With Grandma Eileen, the equation was simple: Money equaled Love. The only way Grandma Eileen would be generous was if Esther’s actions were in alignment with Grandma Eileen’s wants—but what did Grandma Eileen want?

  And then Esther tried to remember what she’d received last Christmas from Grandma Eileen, and what she’d given—a bottle of perfume? A gift certificate for Neiman Marcus?—but all she could remember was the check.

  On her dresser was the sculpture of the cheerful homeless man. She thought of Eric, stooped below the bench at the bus stop, his one gray sock, the bruises, the scrape along his elbow, his smell.

  She opened her drawer and set the sculpture inside, its back to her, the bluebird obscured. The drawer wouldn’t shut because the sculpture stuck out.

  She remembered watching It’s a Wonderful Life with her father while he was in the hospital, and how everything had flipped: how she had seen him in his illness, his poverty, his uselessness, his clinging to a mother who had disowned him, his conformity (even in his rebellion), and his aching need to be loved. And how she’d become the parent, looking down at him in his hospital bed and grieving for him.

  The check was payment for being in this family—appropriate reimbursement—and she’d been robbed.

  She didn’t want to fall into a hopeless despair, and attempted to concentrate on her resentments, but she had the sensation of being buried alive, consumed by her family.

  One consolation: She was meeting Paul’s parents at the country club for brunch tomorrow, for which she’d already selected a modest dress and shawl, hanging from a cushiony hanger on a hook outside her closet—a definite move in the direction of marriage.

  She imagined soaring beyond her daily humiliations: the friction of unpaid bills, the invariable temptations to spend, and the constant servitude to those who didn’t deserve her. But she didn’t want to think about Paul either.

  As a diversion, she channeled her thoughts to Charlie. By becoming Brenda’s friend, she’d become her playmate: accompanying her on errands and getting manicures and pedicures together (paid for by Brenda). Because Brenda was still interested in Charlie, it was natural that he would be a frequent topic, as they discussed what concerned Brenda.

  Brenda’s frequent vocal analysis of Charlie—his various character deficiencies, as well as his positive qualities—had rekindled Esther’s imagination.

  “He’s deeply sensitive,” Brenda had said, as if still working out the puzzle of their breakup. “He couldn’t reconcile being with me. He doesn’t feel at home in the world.”

  Brenda dwelled on the minutiae of Charlie: his hair (“Have you noticed how when he’s nervous, he flips it from his eyes?”); his body (“Even with his clothes on, you can tell he works out.”); and his eyes (“When I look into his eyes, that’s when I can tell he experiences things more deeply than we do.”).

  And while Brenda spoke, Esther remembered her walk on the beach with Charlie, the way he had looked at her in his car.

  And she remembered how when they had dated, she had allowed his hands to explore her breasts, an energy radiating from his fingertips. Their long kisses, his mouth indistinguishable from hers.

  She could spend hours kissing him. And at night as she lay in bed, she touched herself, her hands his hands.

  Everything took on an inspiring component, enhanced by the fact that she was keeping information from Brenda. She found herself thinking about certain things Charlie had said, or what Brenda had said he’d said, or even what she anticipated he would say.

  Unlike with Paul, when Charlie talked, she was surprised, challenged, frustrated, upset, amused, and rarely, rarely, rarely bored.

  “Don’t underestimate,” he’d once told Esther, “the sheer hatred behind class envy, the disillusionment it can bring when, despite what the American Dream tells us, the discovery is made that class can’t be crossed because of certain inevitabilities—the color of our skin, the social class of our ancestors.”

  And another time: “We live in a small, privileged enclave, Esther. Monotonous, rigidly limited, no interest in art or literature or music. A well-to-do, well-ordered, conformist, exclusive, safe, unimaginative little world. We’re concerned not with our fellow humans, but with beating out our fellows—winning, appearing to be the best. Selfish entitlement and mediocrity. The appearance of wealth is primary: You don’t have to be wealthy, but you have to look like it. I’m interested in what false values do to us, the limited possibilities and the loss that success means—both for women and for men.”

  And of his own profession, he’d said, “Professors are some of the biggest cowards and class climbers I know, Esther. Don’t be impressed.”

  But she was impressed. Her preoccupation had to do with the light he shed on her own situation. Once, he’d asked her: “Who are you? Who are you, really?” And when she hadn’t answered, he had told her that she was selling herself short, even if she couldn’t see it yet.

  Having been trained for a life of privilege, she began to understand that her maturity might have been stunted and her existence limited. This was mixed with her growing sense of an alternative that seemed possible only through Charlie.

  Most of her life, she felt, was spent trying to learn how to be brave. She’d been raised to believe that her worth was her beauty, marriage her ultimate goal, but Charlie offered a wider perspective.

  Although she longed for something different and tried to imagine it, she couldn’t see it. She was thrown off, vacillating between questioning the premises she’d always held and longing for security. And a romantic vision was developing, a belief that Charlie could liberate certain undeveloped powers within her.

  The dryer emitted a long buzz, and she heard Rick, home from his NA meeting, moving through the hallway. She wondered what he had to say, and beneath her curiosity was loneliness, aggravated by her lasting inebriation.

  Her bare feet were soft against the carpet. As she approached Rick, she saw that he wore a Santa hat. Because of the darkened hallway, there was a furtive quality to their meeting. He smiled when he saw her. “George’s car is gone,” he said, complicit while soliciting information.

  She told him about Aunt Lottie and George fighting in the kitchen and George’s sudden departure.

  His mouth pursed in concern, but there was a light in his eyes. Then she decided to change the subject.

  “You must miss your family,” she said. “I mean, especially at Christmas.”

  His expression was blank, and for the first time, he had nothing to say. He took off the Santa hat and placed it on the dryer.

  She wondered why he didn’t talk about his family. They were quiet as she helped him fold and stack towels, the tree lights providing a blinking glow. Their positions were similar, when she thought about it, in that he lived off Grandma Eileen, but he got a monthly paycheck for his trouble.

  “Shh,” he said, pressing a forefinger to his lips, letting her know he was about to tell a secret. And then, “Don’t tell anyone”—he smiled—“I’m Jewish.”

  She felt a quiver down her spine, knowing that she could get him fired. Grandma Eileen wouldn’t stand for it. It occurred to her that he might be lying.

  “Eric saved my life once,” he said. She disliked when he talked about her brother. When she didn’t say anything, he explained in a deeper voice, “Those were my bad drug years.”

  She smoothed her hand along the towel, refusing to comment. The towels that she had folded were in a lopsided stack. She
wasn’t accustomed to domestic chores, having been raised with maids, and she was continually aggravated by the amounts of labor needed to produce even the most rudimentary surroundings.

  She noticed that he had a book with him, and he took it from his jacket pocket to show her: How to Win Friends and Influence People.

  “I read it once a year,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “‘The more you get out of this book, the more you’ll get out of life!’” he said, reading a blurb from the back of the book. He could see that she wasn’t interested, so he put it back in his pocket and continued to fold.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  She told him nothing—nothing of her past; nothing of her father’s illness; nothing of her grief; nothing of her hopes. But the silence wasn’t strained.

  “I want you to know,” he said, pausing in his folding, and with great concern in his demeanor, “that Grandma Eileen is going through a really, really, really rough time.”

  Alarm spread through her, but she wasn’t sure why. “What can I do?” Her alarm became an annoyance that he would be a Grandma Eileen expert, as he was not even a family member.

  “I just want you to be aware,” he said enigmatically, his eyes filled ostensibly with his emotion for Grandma Eileen.

  Grandma Eileen needed to hurry up and get it over with—die—so that they could all get their share and get on with their lives. Esther had no illusions: As soon as Grandma Eileen expired, Esther would be dismissed, as smoothly and as efficiently as Aunt Lottie had terminated the gardener last month, when she’d caught him and his bong behind a wall of bougainvillea. They were “family” for only as long as Grandma Eileen was alive. She was tired of watching her grandmother finish herself off incrementally with booze and drugs and cigarettes. And she was being dragged down, as if her grandmother had an irreversible hold on her—a death grip.

  They continued folding, and, after a long pause, Rick asked, “How’s Paul?” She resisted the temptation to confide. “I fall in love all the time,” he said, proving that her nonresponse wouldn’t impede their intimacy.