30 Pieces of a Novel (15 page)

“I don't know why I did that with my muscles before,” he tells the girls a minute later. “I'll have to think about it,” and Fanny says, “You wanted to get it over with because we've bothered you about it for so long, that's all,” and he says, “No. Anyway, enjoy your food,” and Josephine says, “Why don't you ever have something but black coffee? You never eat anything when we come here or go out anywhere for snacks,” and he says, “I have a good time just watching you two eat it all up.” When he looks over again, the couple's gone. “I know why,” he says to the kids. “So the man won't call me Fritz again, not that I didn't like it—I'd love it as my name,” and Fanny says, “But what about?” and he says, “These,” crossing his arms at the wrists to point to his biceps.

HE CALLS UP
his mother. He's in the country; she's in the city. Said he'd call the day he got here, and it's been three days and it's the first time he's called. Her helper answers, and he says, “Hi, it's Gould,” and she says, “How are you, sir?” and he says, “Fine, thanks, how's Bea?” and she says, “Who?” and he says, “Bea, this is her son,” and she says, “I know that, sir, she's told me about you, but I didn't know she went by that name. I thought ‘Beatrice.' She's well as can be expected,” and he says, “Why, anything wrong? I tried calling a couple of times yesterday but nobody answered, so I suppose you were out,” and she says, “No, yesterday we didn't leave the house. It was too hot; she only wanted to rest inside,” and he says, “Is it still hot? It was quite warm up here the last two days—humid, even, which we don't get much—but cooled off today, strong winds and a cloud cover, so no hot sun,” and she says, “Very hot: steaming, the TV said.” “Oh, I'm sorry, I know how miserable it can get there,” and she says, “It's New York, the summer, so you live with it. Your mother—what an attitude!—she keeps saying it can't last forever. Here, I'll get her,” and she says, away from the receiver, “It's your son, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “Who?” and the helper says, “Your son, unless you have two alive ones, and you told me he's your only one,” and his mother says, “What?” and the helper says, “Beatrice, listen carefully. He's on the phone waiting, and long distance—your son, Gould; speak to him,” and his mother gets on and says hello, this slow hello, not sickly, just weak, and he says, “Mom, hi, how are you?” and she says, “I could be better … who is this?” and he says, “Don't you recognize me? Gould. I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well; what's wrong?” and she says, “What?” and he says, “I said what is it that's bothering you?” and she says, “What?” and he says, much louder, “Do you have your hearing aid in?” and she says, “I heard that. Yes, I think so. Is my hearing aid in?”—away from the phone—and the helper says, “I put it in before and checked the battery; it's all working,” and his mother says to him, “This nice girl—I don't know what I'd do without her, she's a real doll—she says my hearing aid's in,” and he says, “Good. Now, is it anything in particular that's bothering you—any ailment?” and she says, “Yes, I can hear you normally now. I don't know why; we didn't do anything new to it,” and he says, “Maybe you're concentrating better, because after a minute or so you're more used to the phone. So tell me, why aren't you feeling well?” and she says, “No, not particularly. I just feel weak, which I should expect, I guess, when you get this old,” and he says, “Why do you say that? You have lots of good days, when you're out and around and your voice is strong and peppy. But today, what is it specifically that's ailing you?” and she says, “What?” and he says, “Ailing, bothering you,” and she says, “I heard that too. I have no energy. I just want to rest in bed; that's not so bad,” and he says, “But unless you're really sick, which you don't seem to be, you should try to be up, exercise, walk around some, and in regular clothes. Are you still in your bedclothes?” and she says, “Yes, I know, maybe you're right, I'm not sure. But how are you and the kids?” and he says, “We're fine, thanks, and Sally too,” and she says, “Yes, how's Sally? She's all right? And where are you, in the city where you live?” and he says, “No, nor in New York. I left you, said goodbye, me and the kids, two days ago, or three. But we got here in Maine two days ago,” and she says, “How was your trip?” and he says, “Without incident,” and she says, “What happened?” and he says, “The trip to Maine was fine, easy, fast, no problems,” and she says, a little alarmed, “You're not holding anything back from me? Something in your voice says you are,” and he says, “No, really, the trip was … it was easy, smoother than usual,” and she says, “You didn't drive too fast?” and he says, “I never do. I listen to you. You tell me not to, that it could be dangerous, so I don't,” and she says, “I feel better, thanks for asking. Just hearing your voice does that. But I still think something must be wrong with this hearing aid. No matter how many times the company fixes it for me, they can never get it right. Here … miss,” she says, away from the phone, “could you see if this thing's in right?” and the helper says, “It's in fine, I saw to it. And I turned it on, checked everything, the little battery screeched, so unless you switched it off since then …” and his mother says, “I don't think I did. Is that what you said? But could you check it?” and the helper says, after about a half minute, “It's fine, look, it's on, my finger just felt it,” and his mother says to him, “I don't know what's wrong. I know it's not working properly. Usually my hearing's much better. But everything in this house is falling apart, including me. At my age, the eyes, the ears go; sometimes I don't know what the hell the use is in living. But it's nice hearing your voice. That for me always makes everything okay. But I haven't seen you and your family for a long time; is anything the matter?” and he says, “I saw you just three days ago. I came with the kids; we took you out to lunch,” and she says, “We had lunch? Seeing you I sort of remember, but not the lunch,” and he says, “At Ruppert's. You pushed your wheelchair almost the entire way, but not back. And you had your usual, eggs and bacon, the eggs turned over, and a Jack Daniels with a lemon twist and water—before the meal or during it—but you finished everything,” and she says, “If I finished the drink then I must have been feeling good, because they make a strong one there. But then I always feel good with you and the girls. How's Sally—did I ask about her?” and he says, “She's okay, preparing her course for next semester, or starting to, since we only just got here … she sends her love to you,” and she says, “I know, I'm not my regular self today, but I'll get better. And the girls … they back in school? Did it start yet?” and he says, “It just ended for them, Mom. It's the beginning of summer. Don't even mention school to them; they've two months off from it,” and she says, “I didn't know; what month we in?” and he says, “July second; in two days it'll be the Fourth,” and she says, “July? God, where have I been? Well, I was never sharp with dates. And Sally?” and he says, “She's fine, really, working hard, feeling okay,” and she says, “That's all that matters,” and he says, “What about you? Is there anything you can do to feel better?” and she says, “What can you do? It's just a case of no get-up-and-go. Mostly, I just feel weak,” and he says, “You mean most of your waking time you do?” and she says, “But I'm not so bad off compared to most people my age. When I go in the park with the girl and see them sleeping in their wheelchairs where we stop, they look more dead than alive. But maybe I do to them too, though I tell the girl if my mouth opens and doesn't shut when I'm asleep outside, to close it for me. It's no good to be vain, it's no good to have once been considered pretty, but that's the way I was. Everybody told me and boyfriends entered my photo in beauty shows, and now I look at myself in the mirror and I'm such an old hag I don't want to be seen on the street. I can see how everybody stares at me,” and he says, “Not true. You're still very pretty and elegant. Listen, maybe you're only feeling weak because you just got up from a nap. Is that what you did?—though you are speaking more clearly than before,” and she says, “No, it's all right, thank you, dearest. I hate to complain and I don't like complainers. And anyway, it's not that,” and he says, “What isn't, the nap?” and she says, “I forget. What were we talking about before? I think it was leading to something,” and he says, “What about your eating? It's okay?” and she says, “I was never an eater. Even as a girl, food never meant anything to me. But don't worry, I've enough of an appetite for the little I do all day,” and he wants to say, Mom, I wish there was some way we could get you up here for a couple of weeks, but I don't see any way to do it, and says instead, “Mom, I wish I was in New York to come by every day, take you out to lunch, things like that,” and she says, “That's all right, I could feel better, but you have a good time,” and he says, “Did you hear what I said?” and she says, “Sure, why do you think I didn't? I'm not stone deaf. But the air conditioner here. Maybe you can use it,” and he says, “No, I bought it for you, and why would we need it in Maine, if that's what you're saying?” and she says, “Then take it with you when you come back,” and he says, “Come on, you'll need it for September and next year. Is it on now?” and she says, “I think so. Just a minute,” and says, “Miss—I'm sorry, I don't know your name, what is it?” and the helper says something and his mother says, “Angela. Thank you. Is the air conditioner on?” and the helper says yes and his mother says to him, “She says it's on. It does feel cool, so I should have been able to tell. But it's not that. I don't know what it is. I just don't feel like getting up,” and he says, “But you should. For a walk or in the wheelchair, if it's not too hot, or to sit in front of the building awhile,” and she says, “I don't think so, but I'm not sure,” and away from the phone, “Have I been out today?” and the helper says, “You said you didn't want to, didn't have the energy, but if you want to go I can get you dressed and outside,” and she says to him, “No, I haven't been out today, this nice woman says. But I'll get there yet; I've time,” and he says, “Do it now before it gets too hot. Take a shower first. Tell Angela you'd like a shower and to get dressed and go outside. It'll be okay out there if you get right to the shade or the park,” and she says, “The park can be so nice, very beautiful. We go to the spot you always take me to, with plenty of shade and long benches,” and he says, “Good, just so you do something different. You need that variety; you can't just stay inside. Or have lunch out with Angela—at Ruppert's. I won't mind if you go there with someone else. Or go out just for an ice-cream bar at the corner. But you can't stay in your bed or your room all day, it isn't healthy for you. You can get bedsores, if anything. The fresh air outside, even if it's a bit humid—” and she says, “You're right, you always make good common sense for me. I'll try, dear, but I don't know if I'll be successful at it. Excuse me, is it all right if I get off the phone now? I'll call you later. I have your number? Wait, the girl will take it down for me,” and he says, “You have it, in the address book on the side table by your bed,” and she says, “What's the best time to reach you?” and he says, “Anytime, we're in Maine, I'm not going anyplace,” and she says, “Mornings or evenings better?” and he says “Really, Mom, anytime you want. If I'm not in, one of the kids or Sally could be and they'll give me your message and I'll call you right back, but I'm never out for that long,” and she says, “No, you call all the time; I've gotten lazy at it, so I'll call you,” and he says, “Okay, fine; evenings, after six, is probably better and you get a better rate too,” and she says, “I have your number?” and he says, “In your address book by your bed. Do you see it? It's pretty big, has an Impressionist painting on the cover—Renoir, I think; we gave it to you last Christmas, it's from the Met,” and she says, “Is my address book here with my son's phone number in it?” and he yells, “An address and daily calendar book, actually. And it's a Pissarro on the cover—Camille, Camille Pissarro—last year's was the Renoir, I think,” and the helper says to her, “Is this it?” and his mother says, “It must be; was it on my side table?” and the helper says, “Your regular helper said all your important phone numbers are in it: doctors, ambulance service, everything. And your son's, wherever he is; so if he's in Maine, it's in there, by alphabet, his last name,” and his mother says to him, “You in Maine?” and he says yes, and she says, “When did you leave?” and he says, “Three days ago. I came over with the girls the day before; Sally had a last-minute doctor's appointment, but she saw you the day before that,” and she says, “Tell me, how's the family?” and he says, “We're all okay, Sally too; nothing's changed with her,” and she says, “With me, seems as though everything's going wrong,” and he says, “What particularly? That's what I want to know,” and she says, “I can't even point it out. A time comes for everyone; I think that's what they say,” and he says, “Don't think like that, Mom. You're just tired, or a little weak today—maybe from the heat—but the next time I call I'm
sure your voice will be bouncy and chipper again and you'll feel—” and she says, “I remember now you going. You came over with the girls. You see, I can remember when I want to. But I have to go now, sweetheart. Give my love to everyone,” and he says, “I will, and much love from us to you, and I'll call tomorrow,” and she says, “Oh, one more thing. Usually before they go I give them each some money for their birthdays,” and he says, “Their birthdays aren't till November, same month as yours,” and she says, “Did I this year?” and he says, “Yes, in November, you were very generous. We came in especially for your birthday and you gave them each ten dollars,” and she says, “Only ten? Usually I'm a much bigger sport. Why'd I give so little?” and he says, “Because that's all I wanted you to give. You're trying to cut down your expenses, and besides, I don't want them getting too much money at one time. They'll just spend it,” and she says, “So, they're girls, what's wrong with that? They like to buy pretty things,” and he laughs and says, “I'm glad your sense of humor's back,” and she says, “Why, did I lose it? I'm losing everything these days,” and he laughs and says, “Good, you're feeling better. And you're right—next time give the girls what you want; from now on that'll be just between you and them,” and she says, “But did I before you left?” and he says, “Mom, their birthdays are in November; November, same as yours. You have more than four months to think about giving them a birthday gift, just as we do for you,” and she says, “I don't want anything; what could I need? But November. What month are we in now?” and he says, “What month do you think?” and she says, “I think I know; I'm just not sure. You tell me and we'll see if I'm right,” and he says, “The beginning of July,” and she says, “July? Don't fool me,” and he says, “You mean you don't think so?” and she says, “No, I mean how could it be?” and he says, “Look, maybe your apartment's so cool you think it's also cold outside or something, late fall weather—is that it?” and she says, “But it just doesn't look anything like July,” and he says, “What do you mean? The sun, when the sun's out; just the brightness, which you never get any other time,” and she says, “Not to me,” and he says, “Mom, stop, think; how could it not look like it? All right, so your eyes aren't what they used to be. But when you go outside, then: the heat, the humidity, the intense sun, the kids off from school and that you go to the park in light clothing, but also that I'm calling from Maine. So more than just looking and feeling like summer, you know we never come up here except around the first of July. And you've been here maybe ten times, so you know we only come to Maine during the summers. And I said goodbye to you day before we left, came over with the kids, and Sally saw you the day before that,” and she says, “So what are you saying, that I'm crazy?” and he says, “Of course not; I meant nothing like that. I was only saying that it's got to be July. The summer, the park and trees and weather. The kids off from school and my being on vacation and the light clothing everyone wears and so on. These are all things to help you remember what month, or season, at least, we're in,” and she says, “Well, they're not doing such a good job. And don't talk to me as if my mind's gone. It's not perfect, but it's far from finished. I remember most of it; it isn't that I don't. It's summer, and July. You said so, so it has to be, and not only that, it is, and not just because the newspaper I read every day says so too. And that's right, I remember now too. How sorry I was to see you go, for my sake, but glad for yours—that you'd all be away from the heat. But I have to get off the phone now,” and he says, “Look, I'm very sorry; I don't want to leave it like this,” and she says, “Like what?” and he says, “That you, you know … I don't want you to feel bad over anything I said,” and she says, “Why do you think I do? I don't, I just feel tired, suddenly; I have to rest. Goodbye, dear,” and he says, “Me too, goodbye, and my love to you, and I'll call again soon,” and she hangs up.