A Slipping-Down Life

by Anne Tyler

  “We went adding on the divide.”

  Evie listened without changing expression, clutching her coat around her for warmth.

  She thought she might be pregnant. She pictured her stomach as a thin, swelling shell, like a balloon, and since something so fragile had to be guarded with a half-drawn breath, she put off going to the doctor and she said nothing to Drum. It was too early yet, she told herself; and then, as she reached the end of the second month, it was too late. How could she explain keeping it a secret so long? What held her back was this thin-skinned feeling. The baby, she thought, was a boy, still and grave and level-eyed like Drum, and the picture of those eyes in such a small face made it seem necessary to protect him in fierce silence every second of the day. She made a circle of herself, folding more and more inward. She carried herself like a bowl of water. At moments when she opened her mouth to say, “Drum? Guess what,” the sense of something spilling or breaking always changed her mind.

  In department stores she picked up free magazines for expectant mothers and studied every word. Babies, it seemed, nested in vast jungles of equipment, wheeled and decaled and safety-railed and vinyl-covered. She had never been exposed to babies before, and she was not sure how much of the equipment was essential. Would it take a Jolly Jumper to keep him happy? Was it true that babies needed to ride their mothers’ backs in canvas carriers in order to feel secure? And if so, how would she ever buy it all? She put her name in a drawing for an English pram, and she clipped a newspaper coupon for a free week of germ-proofed diaper service. Like a mother cat, she wandered through the house counting up bureau drawers and staring for long periods of time into corner cupboards. She hung over the toilet bowl in the mornings, sick and dizzy, and worried about finding the money for a tip-proof high chair with a snap-on tray and safety straps.

  Meanwhile Drum sat in the bedroom chair with his feet slung over one of its arms, and for hours on end he played his guitar. He sang very softly, reaching for notes deep on the scale. Even Evie could tell the songs weren’t rock. “St. James Infirmary” he sang, and “Trouble in Mind,” and something called “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.” The words slid about more, the beat was not as clear, and the tunes were sadder. Evie said, “Did you make these things up?”

  “Shoot, no,” said Drum.

  “They’re not rock, are they?”

  “Shoot, no.”

  It had been weeks since he had written any rock music. At the Unicorn he did the same pieces he always did, but at home he played nothing but these new ones. Evie began to recognize them. She could pick out the patterns, the verses that recurred with only slight variations from song to song. The parts that she liked she sang alone in the kitchen, with the tunes all wrong:

  One morning you’ll wake to an empty bed,

  You’ll bury your eyes and bow your head.

  But she never told Drum she liked them. If he started playing those things in the Unicorn it would be the end of him. How could people dance to “Nobody Knows You”?

  “You never write any songs these days,” she said.

  “I’m getting weary of them.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. Seems like I am always pushing to lift something I don’t have the muscles for. Every song I wrote, I thought, ‘This is it. This is something singular,’ I thought, but later I see how it is no different from anyone else’s except maybe worse. Little old crabbed, stunted lines. Nothing new. Same old beat. Now, why would I want to write more of them?”

  His lashes cut across his eyes, straight and even; his pupils seemed pricked by tiny points of gold. Evie touched the hand that lay nearest her on the couch. “Everything will work out,” she said. “This is just a low period. What you need is publicity.”

  “Publicity. Huh.”

  “Let me think about it a while.”

  “Forget it, I tell you.”

  “Well, it’s for your own good, Drum.”

  “Not for my own good, no ma’am,” Drum said. “I hate it.”

  “How will you get ahead, then, if nobody knows your name?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “It’s mine too. It was me you were complaining to.”

  “I wasn’t complaining, I was talking,” said Drum. “And you weren’t listening. You were thinking about publicity, which makes me tired. And I am tired too of getting nagged at all the time and having to face that nagging forehead of yours. I don’t know why you don’t wear bangs anymore.”

  “I don’t wear bangs because I don’t back down on things I have done,” said Evie. “And I have never said a nagging word to you in my life.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “Have I?”

  “No, forget it. I was just talking. Evie,” he said, “where has my luck gone? When am I going to rise above all this? Am I going to grow old just waiting?”

  But Evie couldn’t answer that. All she could do was sit quiet, leaning gently toward him as if that would do what words could not, watching him run his fingers through the slant of his hair.

  That Sunday David came over for lunch. While Drum was in the kitchen opening beers, Evie said, “Listen, David. What would you think of Drum getting kidnapped?”

  “Huh?”

  “For publicity.”

  “Evie. You couldn’t even fool a traffic cop with a stunt like that.”

  “I know we couldn’t,” Evie said. She looked toward the kitchen, checking on Drum, and then she came to sit beside David on the couch. “But listen to what I have in mind. It wouldn’t be a serious kidnapping, nothing to call in the FBI for. He would be spirited away by fans, that’s all, just for a couple of hours. What would be the harm? And still the newspapers would pick it up.”

  “Sure,” said David. “Nothing wrong with that at all, except it’s too much work. It’s not worth it.”

  “It is to me. I will do the work. I’ll get Violet and maybe Fay-Jean Lindsay, she’ll do it if she thinks it’s tied up with the Unicorn. And Fay-Jean might have a friend. I’ll arrange the whole thing. All right?”

  “You can’t arrange Drum,” David said.

  “Drum?”

  “He will never go along with this, you know that.”

  “I’m not going to tell him about it.”

  “Oh, well, wait now.”

  “It’s for him, David. I know he doesn’t like things like this, but I don’t like seeing him just curl up around the edges, either. What else can I do? Besides, I have to think about the baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “I believe I might be having one,” said Evie, and she felt something lurch inside her just the way she had expected it to.

  “Oh,” David said. “You are?”

  “Don’t tell Drum.”

  “Well, shouldn’t—”

  “Evie,” Drum called, “what have you done with the beer-can opener?”

  “Coming,” Evie said. “Listen, David. If I did the work, would you go along with it?”

  “Oh, Evie, I don’t—”

  But at the end of the afternoon, when Drum and Evie were seeing him to the door, David said, “Evie, you know I would always try to help you in any way you wanted.”

  “Well, thank you,” Evie said.

  “What was that about?” Drum asked when they had shut the door.

  “I don’t know,” Evie said.

  In the library she looked up Fay-Jean’s number and then reached for the telephone. Even before she had dialed, her throat prepared itself for the tone she wanted. She slipped into it like a needle into a groove: the sure and reasonable voice needed to lay plans before people whom she did not expect to agree with her.

  On Tuesday evening at seven, Drum said, “Why are we waiting so long to eat? I’m starved.”

  “In a minute,” Evie said. She stood in the living room window, pressing her face against the glass so that she could see past her own reflection.

  “You ain’t even started cooking.�
�

  “In a minute, I said.”

  A pair of headlights swung up the road, recognizable even at this distance. The headlights were round and close-set, like the eyes of some small worried lady. They floated gently up and down, bouncing on the uneven road. “Who’s that coming?” Drum asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s it look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Drum sighed and moved up next to her. She could smell the marigold smell of his skin. “That’s David’s Jeep, as any fool can see,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  The Jeep parked in the dirt yard, but the lights stayed on. A minute later there was a knock at the door, and when Drum said, “Come in,” the three girls entered first—Violet, Fay-Jean, and Fay-Jean’s sister Doris, all dressed up. David came behind. “Well, hey,” Drum said. He nodded to Violet and Fay-Jean, and then looked toward Doris and waited to be introduced. No one bothered. The three of them kept walking until they had surrounded him. Then Fay-Jean brought out a shimmering length of nylon cord and reached for one of his hands. For a minute it looked as if it would be as easy as that—just tie him up while he stood waiting. But as her fingers were circling his wrist, Drum said, “What in—” and jerked away. “What the hell’s going on?” he said.

  “They’re kidnapping you,” Evie told him.

  “They’re—”

  “Kidnapping. It’s only for publicity.”

  “Are you out of your head?”

  “Now wait,” David said. “It’s not such a bad idea, Drum. We’re taking you to my shed. Evie will tell the police a bunch of crazy fans got you, and then you’ll be returned. No more than an outing.”

  “You have went too far this time,” Drum said, but it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to David or to Evie. He backed away, holding both arms ready at his sides, while the three girls advanced. “I would help you,” David told them, “but it wouldn’t look right.” Fay-Jean made another pass with the nylon cord and Drum lashed out, clipping the side of her face with his forearm and sending her crashing into the wall. ‘Ouch,” she said. “Get him, Doris!”

  But it was Violet who got him. All she did was fling herself against him like a pillow, knocking him flat on his back. She set her one hundred and eighty pounds squarely on his chest. Even though he was still hitting out at them, Fay-Jean and Doris between them managed to tie his wrists together. Then they all sat there, breathing hard, and Drum lay scowling on the floor. “This is laughable,” he said.

  “Well, sure,” said Violet. “So laugh. Enjoy yourself. We’re only going for a little ride.”

  “Oh, no.”

  He heaved until they couldn’t sit on him any longer. He tripped Violet with one kick of his foot and rammed an elbow into Doris’s stomach. “Now, you better stop that,” Doris said. Her voice was on the edge of tears. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to go hitting girls?”

  “Here,” Violet said, and tied his feet together with enough space between them so he could walk. Then they raised him up, keeping tight hold of his elbows.

  “Evie,” Drum said.

  Evie pressed both hands together and shook her head.

  “Now, Evie, I know this was your idea. It couldn’t be nobody’s else’s. You tell these girls to let me go, right this second. I don’t adapt well to being kidnapped.”

  “It’s only for a while,” Evie said.

  “I mean it, Evie.”

  “I packed you a supper. It’s in the Jeep. A brown paper bag.”

  “David?”

  David hesitated.

  “The worst part’s over anyway,” Evie told him.

  “She’s right, Drum. No point untying you now. If I’d of known you’d take it so hard I would have said no, but what have you got to lose? You’ll be back by bedtime.”

  Drum seemed to have nothing more to say. When David had opened the door, the girls led him out with no trouble at all.

  After the Jeep had driven off, Evie sat on the couch for a while with her hands pressed together. She had not expected a kidnapping to be so difficult. The room was a shambles—furniture kicked over, cushions and papers scattered across the floor. When she finally crossed to the closet for her coat she nearly tripped over the rug, which lay in a twisted heap. She closed the door behind her before she had even put her coat on and ran toward the Volkswagen.

  More headlights floated down the road, wide apart and rectangular. While she stood waiting beside the VW the other car drew to a stop, and a man said, “Evie?”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s me. Mr. Harrison.”

  “Oh, Mr. Harrison,” Evie said. As if this evening had been none of her doing, she felt shaky and relieved at the sight of him. “Drum’s been kidnapped,” she said. “Not for real, but a bunch of fans got him. What’ll I do? I’m getting worried.” And she was. Her throat muscles knotted, and that uneven heartbeat was beginning in her ears again.

  “Drum can wait,” Mr. Harrison said. “Your father’s sick. I want you to come with me.”

  “Drum’s been kidnapped.”

  “Evie, we haven’t got time for that. Your father’s in the hospital.”

  “Will you listen?” Evie said. She had drawn closer to the car now. Her hands clutched the window frame; she felt them trembling. “Drive me to where Drum is. No, never mind, I’ll drive myself. Do I have the keys? Tell my father I’ll be there soon. It doesn’t matter about the police, just tell my—”

  “Your father,” said Mr. Harrison, “has had a heart attack and is dying. I didn’t want to say it but I see I had to. Climb in. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

  He opened the door on the passenger side, flooding the car with a dingy yellow light. Evie circled the car and climbed in slowly.

  “Hospital,” she said. Her voice was as clear and sudden as if it were an order, but she was merely echoing him without any idea at all of what to do next.

  15

  In the hospital lobby, on a sectional vinyl couch, sat Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Willoughby, the old lady who lived next door to Evie’s father. They stood up when Evie entered—a bad sign. Evie and Mr. Harrison clicked toward them across polished tiles, between potted palms and standing ash trays. As they came up to the two women, Mrs. Harrison tugged her skirt down and straightened her belt and smoothed the gray pompom of hair on her forehead. “Evie, dear—” she said. Her tone made everything clear, there was no need to say more, but Evie was in the grip of a stony stubbornness and she refused to understand. “How is he?” she asked.

  “He passed, dear,” Mrs. Willoughby said. Mrs. Willoughby was as small and as dumpy as a cupcake, raising her creased hands to her bosom and furrowing her powdery face into sympathy lines. Everyone else was small too. The scene was miniaturized and crystal-clear, like something seen through very strong prescription glasses. Lights were sharp pinpoints. Sounds were tinny.

  “Would you like to see him?” Mrs. Harrison asked.

  “No, thank you,” said Evie.

  “It happened not long after you left, Bill. I wished you had known, so as to prepare Evie. I thought of coming out after you.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Harrison. “This is very very sad news. Very sad. Sam Decker was as fine a man as I’ve known. How long have we known him, Martha?”

  “Oh, years. Since back before—Evie, we will expect you to come stay the night. You don’t want to go all the way out to your place again, do you?”

  “I think I’ll go to my father’s,” Evie said.

  “Oh, no, dear. Not alone.”

  “I’d rather.”

  “Well, anything you say. If it were me, though—”

  They drove there in Mr. Harrison’s car. Mrs. Willoughby sat in back, and Evie was urged to wedge herself in the front seat between the Harrisons. Touches kept grating against her—Mr. Harrison’s elbow as he shifted gears, Mrs. Harrison’s sharp-edged purse, her cold gloved fingers patting Evie’s wrist. Every now and then Mrs. Harrison clicked her tongue a
nd shook her head. “Such a patient man, he was,” she said. “Oh, and all those troubles. First his wife passing—well.”

  “He was just leaning across the fence, like,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “He said, ‘Mrs. Willoughby, all my potted plants are dying. I don’t understand it.’ ‘It’s that maid of yours,’ I told him. ‘Not that I have any proof, but in my heart I feel she neglects them. Yellowy leaves never pinched off, a sort of unwatered look to the soil. I could be wrong,’ I said. Or meant to say, but then he took in a breath and opened his mouth and slumped over. I couldn’t get straight what had happened. I said, ‘Mr. Decker? Why, Mr. Decker!’ The fence held him up. He seemed to be resting.”

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Harrison.

  “ ‘All my potted plants are dying,’ he told me. Oh, little did he know!”

  “Now, now.”

  They stopped in front of Evie’s father’s house, where all the lights still blazed. At first they planned to come in and keep her company, but Evie wouldn’t allow it. “I’d rather be alone,” she said.

  “Oh, no, dear, not at a time like this. I know it seems you’d rather. But we’ll be quiet as mice. I’ll just make tea and not say a word—”

  “No. I mean it.”

  “Well, maybe Mrs. Willoughby, then.”

  “Oh, I’d love to!” Mrs. Willoughby said.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Whatever you say, of course,” said Mrs. Harrison. “I would think, myself—but that’s not important. Just try and get some rest, and we’ll be by to talk about the arrangements in the morning.”

  “Arrangements?” Evie said. She thought of song arrangements, then furniture, then flowers in vases. Meanwhile Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Willoughby looked at each other in silence, as if there were no possible synonym they could think of to offer her. “Oh. Arrangements,” Evie said finally.

  “Will you call us if you need anything?”

  “Yes. And thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “He was a mighty fine man,” Mr. Harrison said suddenly. He coughed and looked down at the steering wheel.

  Evie and Mrs. Willoughby climbed out of the car and watched it drive off. Against the lighted house Mrs. Willoughby was only a silhouette, topped by a scribble of hair. Charms jingled when she moved. “There is the fence,” she said. “He was leaning over it, like. I was standing in that patch of earth, wishing it was spring and time to plant petunias. He came up slow. Leaned his elbows on that fence and said …”