30 Pieces of a Novel (16 page)

Maybe he should call right back and explain more that he didn't mean some of the things she thinks he did, but she already might be being helped to the bed, if she wasn't sitting on it when she was talking to him, or now laid back on the bed, head on the pillows, legs straightened, shoes or slippers removed, and could be too tired to talk to him. Later, tonight, better. But why'd he say all those things? Why'd he do anything to make things worse for her? Confuse her with some of the things he said, scare her, even? Why'd he say anything about her mind other than reassuring things: she's sounding bright, chipper, lively, full of energy, she's really on the ball today, not that she isn't every day but today even more than most? He doesn't know, he only wants her to feel better; those things just came out. And why'd he lie about having called her several times yesterday and they didn't answer? Shame, that he hadn't called sooner—same day he got here as he told her he would—and that he's up here and she's down there and summer's only started and the weather can only get worse there while staying pretty much the same here: a little warm some days, maybe even a few days with the temperature and humidity in the 90s, but cool every evening and, because their rented house is on top of a hill with a big clearing around it, windy, even if a warm wind, most afternoons. How could he get her up here for a week if he wanted to? He wants to, that's not the problem, and she stayed with them here for a week for ten summers straight and always had a good time and they with her, but hasn't come since she broke her hip three years ago. This time he could buy round-trip plane tickets for her and her main helper, but the doctor says she's too frail to travel that distance anymore, plane or car, so that's out. Then what's in? Nothing. It's all out for all time. So she stays there doing nothing all day, and that's why he feels so lousy for her. She goes out, in, wheelchair down the block if the weather's not too hot, up to the park where she sits in the shade, looking, yawning, maybe falling asleep in her chair there, napping at home in the cushioned chair by her bed or in the bed if she asks to, napping after breakfast sometimes, often after lunch, another nap late afternoon, eating little, napping in the wheelchair lots of times while the helper pushes it outside. Little comments to the helper through the day, same ones she's made to him the last couple of years: “This is no life … This isn't living…. I'm vegetating, not even just existing, so why can't God order my body to call it quits? … Believe me, if I was plugged in now I'd ask you to take me out, and if you didn't want to, and I could hardly blame you, then I'd somehow manage to myself…. People are lucky when they go before their health does or before they get too feeble and old to enjoy or do anything.” He and his family were in the city for three weeks before they drove to Maine, staying at their old apartment, which most of the time they sublet, and he came to see her every day but one, sometimes with the kids, took her out to lunch most of those days, later wheeled her to the park and sat with her there or stopped in with her at a coffee bar, took her out to dinner a couple of times, and once wheeled her across the park to the Frick to show her his favorite Rembrandt and El Greco portraits and the two or three Vermeers, but she wanted to leave after ten minutes because she said people were staring more at her than the pictures. She perked up when he was with her, though, more so when he brought the kids; it even seemed she looked forward to his visits, but some days she was still in bed when he got there and he'd ask the helper if his mother wasn't feeling well or didn't get much sleep last night, and if the helper said no he'd say to his mother, “Mom, why aren't you up? We're going out,” and she'd say, “Why, where're you taking me?” and he said, “For a good time, lunch, the works, wherever you want to go,” and she'd say, “I'm too tired to go out, I only want to rest,” and he'd say, “Mom, you're not sick, you got about twelve hours sleep last night, maybe sixteen for the entire day, so come on, you got to get up, showered, dressed, refreshed, I don't mean to be a tyrant but getting out will be good for you, and better now before the real heat comes, and I'm hungry,” and, if the kids were with him, “and so are they,” and she usually got up when he told her to, in fact did it every time because he was very persistent, wouldn't take a no, and she always enjoyed the lunch and park and stroll and drink and coffee and cake or whatever they'd do, and then that last time when he got her home she wanted to get right into bed without even first stopping at the bathroom, and he said, “You know, today's the last day we'll be seeing you for two months … well, less than that, barely seven weeks, though we'll be seeing you again for a few days on our return. We're off to Maine early tomorrow, so I can't even drive by before that because I know you won't be up, you're so tired now,” and she said, “You're going? So soon? It seems you only just got here,” and he said, “Do you mean about today or our entire stay in New York?” and she said, “Both. But they say if things go so quickly like that it must have been fun,” and he said, “I'm glad you think that, it's certainly been fun for us with you,” and she said, “I'll miss you all … I've grown so used to seeing you and my little sweethearts. I just feel much better when you're around, but I'll live with it; I have before,” and he wanted to say, Mom, I wish you could come with us or fly up later, but thought saying it would be worse than not saying it. He used to look forward to her visits in Maine, pick her up at the airport, show her around, invite people over for drinks or dinner whom she might like. Her younger sister would usually call him a few days after she got back and say, “Bea looks great, trip did her wonders, highlight of the year for her, she said; you're such a dear for having her every summer; I know for myself that having old people around can be very hard,” and he would say, “No, she's very easy, a big help.” When he took her back to the airport those summers he could always say, “So, see you in a few weeks—month at the most” and she'd usually say something like “This trip was just the lift I needed, so it ought to hold me for the next few weeks without all of you.” The last day he saw her he said, “Kids, come on, we're going, kiss Grandma goodbye, you won't see her for a while,” and they kissed her and he kissed her and said, “So, see you on the twenty-third of August—a Thursday, I think—and I'll call every day without fail, I promise,” and she said, “August? That seems so far away. What month are we in now?” and he said, “Last day of June, so you can say beginning of July,” and she said, “Then August and the twenty-third day of it is very far away. Why so long?” and he said, “Because that's how long we'll be away. As I said, it's about seven weeks total,” and she said, “It still seems long to me. What month are we in now?” and he said, “Mom, I told you, and you have to start remembering: it's just about July. So August is next month almost—all right, we get back near the end of it—but I'll speak to you on the phone every day, and if you need me just say the word and I'll fly in,” and she said, “No, I want you to go; it's the best thing for everybody, being away. And you work hard and have a lot at home to do and can use the long vacation, so I wouldn't interrupt it for anything,” and he said, “Really, if you need me,” and she said, “But I won't.” He broke down the last two years after he left her apartment the day before they were to drive to Maine and thought, This the last time I'll ever see her? This time, while he was still in her room—she was lying on the bed, eyes closed, near sleep or asleep; he'd helped put her there, took her shoes off, straightened her legs on the covers, made sure her head was comfortably centered on the pillows, then kissed her forehead and ran his hand along her hair and said goodbye and she didn't give any reaction like a word or nod or smile—he started to cry—kids were waiting for him outside—and thought, Why am I crying? Because I don't think I'll ever see her again? That's what I thought the last two years, and she's not much worse off now than she was then. So it's partly that and just leaving her here for two months. Later, walking with the kids down the block to the bus stop, he wondered if she'd thought something like that about them just before. Like “Will I ever see them again? I don't know. Not the way I feel now, that's for sure. But that's what I thought the last two years, and I made it through the summer and saw them again, so why not this time too? Because I'm more tired more often and for longer periods; because some days I just don't think I can get up.” Her look when they were talking about not seeing each other for two months suggested, “There's no way you can see to taking me along or sending for me midway through the summer? I suppose not because I'm supposed to be too frail to travel, but as my dad used to say, ‘If it's packed well, any bottle of wine can be shipped safely.' And I'm not sick; I'm just old and tired and bored silly and I can use a little vacation too from this place, just a last one if it has to be that. Wouldn't it be better for me, no matter how hard it is to get me there, to sleep for a week where it's mostly cool and dry and the air's real and healthy and clear and everything smells fresh and where I can see other things than this city block and the noisy avenues and the park, pretty as it is but made ugly by all the old people like me in it, and just to be with all of you for a while as I did so many summers in a row? I can come up with the weekday girl, even if I wouldn't mind a short break from my helpers too. And if there's no room for her or you don't want a stranger in the house, though she's very honest and sweet and would be more help than bother, then alone—a little extra work and inconvenience for you, since with my bad hip and brittle bones and weak bladder I'd now have to sleep downstairs on the pullout and near your one bathroom. Though for the more personal things, I can still take care of myself, and for bathing all I need is to be alone by the sink with a washrag and sponge. The food would be much better with you too. Here it's only so-so, the wrong bread, none of the exotic cheeses I used to love to eat, and I'm not particularly fond of Caribbean cooking, which is the only kind these girls do well. Or takeout Chinese or barbecued chicken from the barbecue shop or eggs, eggs, eggs, cooked the way I like them, sunny-side down, but with too much grease; and there's also not much conversation or mutual interests with my helpers, and the TV always on; and that pounding music, which you could hear through twenty doors and walls no matter how deaf you are, would drive a sane man nuts. And you'd give me a drink every day, maybe also a glass of wine or beer at dinner. Here I have to beg for one—they're looking out for my health and want me to have soda or juice—and when the bottle runs dry it takes a couple of weeks for them to buy another one. But it's tough, I know—you have your kids, and your wife now needs some taking care of, and the house has a lot of trouble accommodating more than four, if I remember it correctly, especially now that the girls are bigger, and whatever else is preventing me from going.” Now, still seated by the phone, he feels terrible about her, knows he'll feel this way after every phone talk with her the next two months, wonders what she thought soon after she hung up and why she didn't, as she usually did, say the final goodbye right after his (because she was too tired, depressed, a combination of the two, and what she thought?)—that she wishes she was up there with them or could look forward to going in a month or so, but he made no offer, though he must know what it'd mean to her, and she can't plead with him, it wouldn't be right, he'll have to come around on his own and that doesn't seem promising, so this is her lot. And then maybe what it was like when she was here: the sights, smells, quietness, sleep-inducing sounds of bugs at night, moderate temperatures, mostly low humidity, those beautiful blue Maine days, their dinners together, watching the kids play, reading the
Times
outside in the sun if it wasn't too hot—“A little direct sun is good for me,” she's said, “vitamin E, or whichever one it is, D,” and other things. And then maybe she'd feel sleepy and want to nap again and ask the helper to get her to bed, and she'd lie on top of the covers, shoes off or, if kept on because the helper would only have to put them on again in an hour, then her feet placed on a newspaper section or paper shopping bag at the end of the bed, and close her eyes and soon be asleep, the helper sitting across from her for a while and then getting up and leaving the room and closing the door till it was almost shut.

TRAIN
'
S CROWDED WHEN
he gets on, he says, “Excuse me, excuse me, just want to get to the aisle, please,” bumps into someone from behind, a woman, who turns to him and says, “What the hell you think you're doing?” and he says, “Excuse me, I was just going to say excuse me,” and the train starts and she says, “But you intentionally shoved your cock against my behind, you bastard,” and he says, “Did not, I swear, the train's crowded; I was just moving to the aisle where there's more room,” and she says, “You did too, you stuck your fucking dick up against my behind; who the fuck you think you are?” and he loses his balance a little because of the ride, doesn't want to bump into her again, that's all he needs; she's holding onto the pole by the door, other people are looking at him, some men and a woman smirking, sort of, and he says to the woman, “Honestly,” and the train lurches and he grabs the pole she's holding, his hand touches hers, and he pulls it away and says, “Excuse me, and honestly, I didn't push you intentionally. I was moving to the aisle, past you, and someone must have pushed me from behind or just jostled me—I forget—or the car's so crowded that I got closer to you than I wanted, believe me, and, well—” and she says, “Don't tell me. This isn't the first time it's happened with one of you guys. You think you can get your kicks shoving your fucking dicks around where women are going to think it's a mistake or be too scared to say anything, because who knows what kind of nut this creep can be, and so on. But I'm not one of them. My mouth is big. I don't take shit from a man. Is there a cop in this car?” she yells; “because some goddamn guy tried sticking his pelvic region into me and I want a cop to grab him,” and someone from a few people away says, “Who did what?” and someone else yells, “I saw a policeman in the next car—the one further up—when I was getting into this one, but how you are going to get him, lady, is a problem.” A woman says to her, “Good, you're doing it, that's what every woman should do,” and a man says, “Maybe he didn't mean it, accidents can happen, the train can push you,” and Gould says, “That's what happened, I swear, an accident—I was moving into the aisle where there's more room to stand, and someone from behind me must have pushed me into her and I tried pulling back, but when you start falling …” and the train slows down for the next stop and she says to him, “If you think you're getting off”—for he made a move to the door—“I'm getting off with you, because I'm not letting you get away with this crap, thinking you can shove up against whoever you please,” and he says, “I wasn't getting off, this isn't my stop; I just got on. I was only trying to move a step to grab the bar above my head instead of the pole. I feel I'll be able to hold on to it better and I also didn't want to be too near you to accidentally bump against you again when the train pulls in and maybe lurches,” and she says, “Some accident, you bullshitter, you lying worm,” and everyone around them is now looking at them, and the train stops, people get off, on—no cops, she's looking—and he says, “Honestly, miss—or missus—I didn't mean it; why would I? I'm married. I've kids. I'd never do anything like that to a woman. That's not how I get my kicks, and I'm sorry for bumping into you and I wish we could just forget it. I mean, who in this city hasn't by accident bumped into the back and front and every part of some person's body on one of these trains?” and she says, “You specifically did it. I felt your tube and you aimed straight for between the buttocks and you're a slob for having tried it. If a cop was in the car now I'd have you arrested and prosecuted and accused and everything; you're just lucky one isn't.” He shuts his eyes. It's going away. She's becoming less threatening. The words, how she says them, not as much cursing and stridence; she's backing off. She got out what she felt she had to and now she's had her fill of it and it'll soon be over with. If he got off at the next stop he doesn't think she'd pursue him, though she might yell something at him as he left the car. She for sure would yell something. So what? He'd be gone. Some eyes might be on him on the platform and then fewer eyes as he went up the stairs, and once on the street that'd just about be the end of it. Maybe one person who had come upstairs with him from the platform might still be looking at him on the street and thinking of him in relation to what the woman had said, maybe two, and maybe both from the car he was in, but then that'd be the end of it, or it absolutely would once he was a block away from the station, walking in whatever opposite direction it was from the person who came up the stairs with him. If it had been more than one who'd come up with him from the same platform or car and maybe even out of the same door of that car—well, then he doesn't know what he'd do: probably just stay by the station entrance till they were gone and then go down it to take the train. Or else—and this is what he'd do no matter what, since the woman might actually get off the train and then give up on following him and be standing on the platform—he'd take his time walking south to the next station on this line and get the train there. But the thing is, she might not have imagined what she said he did to her. He thinks he might have lost control for a few seconds and intentionally moved into her, something he never did to anyone in this kind of situation before. He was up close to her and was aware how close and also that if he didn't want to cause a commotion by touching her he should stand still and not move past her, but he continued to move toward her and thinks when he got very close he suddenly thought of his wife, or was thinking of his wife all the time he was moving toward the woman or even when he first saw her, of the times when he wanted sex and to give her some indication he did he'd jam his penis into her backside in bed or bend it back a little and spring it against one of her buttocks or legs or, if they were standing someplace, then put his arms around her from behind and press his penis against her, and around that moment jabbed his front into the woman's rear end. He was semierect or even erect when he did it—he forgets, but one of them, most likely from having just thought of his wife in one of the ways he mentioned—which the woman didn't bring up, thank God. Maybe she didn't feel his penis particularly but just his pelvic area moving into her backside, since it doesn't seem like something she'd hold back in her accusations against him. Though it could be that's where she draws the line in describing what happened in something like that and also feels that anyone listening to her could figure out or imagine for themselves what state his penis was in. Train doors open, people get off, others are waiting to get on; one man slips around some people getting off and grabs the one free seat near Gould. He thinks, while gripping the overhead bar so nobody getting off or on shoves him into her: Make a dash for it now; so many people left the train to go upstairs that he'll quickly get lost in the crowd, when a man in the car shouts “Officer … say, Officer there … over here, you're wanted, something important,” and the woman says to Gould, “Finally, now you're in for it,” and he says, “For what? You still onto that? I did nothing,” and sees a tall policeman making his way through the car from the direction the man before said he saw one. “Step aside,” the policeman's saying, “please, folks, move, move, I gotta get through.” He could still make a dash for it, policeman might not be able to get to the door in time to stop him, and if he was caught on the platform or stairs or even on the street by this policeman or another one—for this one could radio to another transit cop or even to a regular city one about a bald white guy in green corduroy jacket and chinos and button-down blue shirt getting away—he'd stop and say … he certainly wouldn't put up any resistance if one of them approached or ran after him or ordered him to stop, but he'd say … well, he could give several excuses why he was trying to get away: the woman was bothering him, cursing at him, harassing him, even—the train would have left by then, he thinks, so there'd be little chance, if she got off it with the policeman, that she'd have any witnesses—“I just wanted to be rid of her. Believe me, I wasn't six inches from her”—not six inches—“I wasn't anywhere as near to her as she says, but she jumped on me like I was the worst masher there was; something must be wrong with her and what I think it is I won't go into, but I swear to you, Officer, I swear…. “Train goes, he's still clutching the overhead bar with one hand, book's tucked under his other arm, woman's telling the policeman what happened, policeman interrupts her and says, “Too bad I didn't know beforehand what it was, I would've asked you both to leave the train and all the witnesses to the issue, pro or con, to join us. But this is not something to discuss in a crowded car while we're still going,” and Gould says, “I agree. Besides that, what she told you is absolutely the biggest crock of—” and the policeman holds up his hand for him to stop and says, “Save it; don't make things worse for yourself, that's my advice. You've something to say? Later. Now, you and the lady and me will get off at the next station with any witnesses to the incident, if one occurred,” and looks around and nobody volunteers, and he says to the people standing and sitting near them, “Excuse me, folks, I don't want to take you out of your way. But are there any witnesses to what this woman's claiming? You heard what the charges are if you were around then, and it's not within my jurisdiction to repeat them. So did anyone, I'll only say, see anything for or against what she claims about this man?” and some people shake their heads or quietly say no, others just stare back blankly or turn away or look at their newspapers, and the woman says to a woman standing beside her, “You were here when it happened; you had to see him do with his front what I said he did,” and the other woman says, “I was here, all right, but I didn't see anything. I only heard you saying it. I'm sorry, I wish I could help,” and the policeman says, “So just the three of us will get off and we'll settle it there, or if there's any rough talk, then in the transit police station on Thirty-fourth,” and Gould says, “No rough talk from me. My argument is simply that I didn't do it. I was moving to the aisle for more room and to read when I accidentally must have brushed up against her when either someone pushed me from behind or the train suddenly shifted or did something, but where I lost my balance, causing me—” and the woman says, “You bullshitter,” and the policeman says, “Please, the two of you, we'll talk off the train. And
you”
—to Gould—“I thought I told you to save it for later.”