30 Pieces of a Novel (5 page)

He knew it—didn't he?—that it wouldn't turn out right but was somehow worth the risk, or he didn't know it but somehow sensed it; maybe that's what the stomach pains were about, the nervous churnings: a warning not to make the call because he'd be embarrassed by it after, for it was crazy, really too crazy, and the call could be traced—he hadn't thought of that before—people have the technical means now, the caller's number showing up somewhere on the phone called, he's read about it, remembers seeing in the article a photo of a little box like an electric shaver with numbers in a narrow window, and telephone operators have been using this equipment for years and the very rich would probably be the first home customers to have the device installed, not only because they could afford it, though he doesn't know if it costs that much, but also because they might think that since they've more money to lose than other people they're more likely to be the targets of cranks and criminals and solicitors over the phone and so on, but it was a public phone he called from—he's in his car now, heading for a local produce stand that sells good bread—out of view of almost everyone, including the service station attendant inside, so he's sure nobody saw him by the phone and there must be a dozen cars like his of the same color around the area, and even if someone did see him, just about no one around here knows him—he's a summer renter who comes to town now and then just to buy a few things they can't get at a big supermarket somewhere else and use the library and have his car serviced once a summer at the other station and maybe every other week a pizza and things at a restaurant with his wife and kids—and it was exciting, making that call, more in the expectation than the doing, and gutsy in a way, so he got that out of him … got what? Just proving he can do it, stupid as it was, but we all occasionally do stupid things, don't we? or something like it—well, maybe not, and not at his age, but no harm done in the end, he's sure: the mother will speak to Sage, maybe even today, maybe even use his call as an excuse for calling her, if she needs one—they might be very close, talk on the phone several times a week—and Sage could say “What man was he referring to? I know no fifty-eight-year-old man except one of the cooks at the restaurant, and he's gay and I think is even married to his mate—anyway, they both wear the same wedding bands,” and her mother will believe her, that's the kind of relationship they have, he could almost tell when she said, and now he's sure it was said cynically, “My, my, not Sage”: absolute trust, honesty, et cetera, between them, daughter confiding in Mom and even Dad for years; Sage could then talk of her boyfriend—he's sure she has one, it'd seem that every pretty girl at every summer job away from home like this would—saying she's taking every precaution regarding birth control and disease, but about that silly call: “Don't worry about it, Mom, I've had things like this to deal with before, you know that,” and her mother will say, “The price of being so beautiful. Remember what your granddad used to say to me—it doesn't apply to you in this situation, so it isn't a criticism, it just popped into my head—‘If you got it, don't flaunt it.' Do you know, I don't think I know what the actual dictionary definition of the word ‘flaunt' is—do you, my darling?” and Sage will say, “Why, though, are you telling me this?” and her mother will say, or
could, could:
“As I said, I don't know; it just came to me, and it probably means wave, wouldn't you think?—flutter, flap,” and Sage could say, “By the way, Charlie sends his love,” meaning her boyfriend, a waiter at the place, and her mother could say, “And give Charlie my very best and tell him to always be exceptionally good and, if the situation ever calls for it, protective of my lovely daughter,” and Sage could say, “Mommy, I can very well look after myself, so I don't have to tell Charlie that. Besides, if he isn't good, in all ways, out he goes,” and her mother could say, “Still, insist on the best treatment possible—you deserve it—but give as well as you get … oh, I am sounding trite today and not truly giving you your due … goodbye, my dearest,” and Sage could say, “One more thing. Who the heck could that man be who called you, and how would he know how to reach you? He must work here—someone who's made a move on me or something and I told him, or said with a look, ‘No chance.' I better find out. A person like that could do a lot of damage before the truth's found out. You said he had a mature voice. Do you mean like an older man's?” and her mother could say, “Yes, I think so, but I seem to forget now,” and Sage could say, “No, no older man would do that. It has to be one of the jerky boys here, acting old but doing it convincingly. Two of them are studying to be actors, but they're too nice and sophisticated for that and we like one another, so I know it can't be them. Maybe one of the busboys who has a crush on me—a couple do, or look as if they do—and he spoke to you in a faux older man's voice. Or someone not even from here—why didn't we think of it? Possibly from school, a fellow who has a grudge against me for some reason—a grad student, even—and he knows I'm here and probably having a great time. That's most likely, and I think I've a good idea who it is. Good, I've solved it for myself, so you don't have to be concerned about hiring a personal bodyguard for me,” and her mother could say, “The thought never entered my mind. Both your father and I know you can take care of yourself. But you can understand why a parent would get somewhat worried over such a call, though I gave no hint of it to that ugly man.”

He buys bread and drives home. His wife asks what he did in town besides photocopying, and he says, “Oh, the copying; I forgot. But why, was I gone so long?” and she says, “Longer, I'd think, than it takes to buy a loaf of bread, if that's what you have in there, not that I'm accusing you of anything,” and he says, “Ah, you know me. Thought I'd be back sooner after buying the bread”—pulls the Russian rye out of the bag—“but had a coffee at the Pantry; helped myself to a free second cup—you know, but not because it was free. Read part of today's
Times
. It was just sitting there; a tourist must have left it. The world, for all the recent developments, is still, I can safely report, much the same. Went to the library to do the copying but got distracted at the seven-day shelf. There wasn't anything for me, and I also didn't want to take out another old video there. And then to the bookstore, but there wasn't anything there I wanted either. Maybe one, but it was a hardcover and too expensive,” and she asks, “What?” and he says, “A novel; it looked good. Slaslo was his name, or Laslo: his first name, and not with a Z. Author I never heard of. But what do you say we go swimming? I still have two hours before I pick up the kids,” and she says, “Good idea, I'll get ready,” and he says, “Unless you want to do something else, and even then we'd have enough time for a swim,” and she says, “You know me, usually willing. But maybe you could give me a rain check on it. I've been housebound for two days and I'm dying to get out.”

HE LOOKS AT
the postcard she must have written last night before she came to bed; her handwriting's changed from what it used to be a year ago—now it's squiggly like the old often write and most of it in block letters and in places the ink's weak and parts of some of the letters are missing and he can hardly read it—and he thinks, Oh, God, if only I had the power to just say, “May she be well again,
poof!”
and she was well from then on.

There's a thump against their bedroom door, the door swings out into the living room, she struggles out of the bedroom pushing her wheeled walker, one shoulder so much lower than the other that her shirt and bra strap have fallen off it, and says, “Back from taking the kids?” and he nods and is about to tell her what their younger daughter said on the way to the camp bus pickup spot when she starts teetering, one of her stiff legs shaking, and he rushes to her, holds her steady till he's sure she's not going to fall and her leg's stopped shaking, pulls her shirt and bra strap onto her shoulder, and says, “Why don't you use the wheelchair more? it's safer,” and she says, “The bathroom door's almost too narrow to get through, sometimes; you don't remember when I got stuck between it?” and he says, “The time when I—?” and she says yes and he says, “Then I've the answer,” and waves his hand over her head and says, “Heal, I say let thee be healed,” and she says, “What are you doing? This is no joke, my condition, and I have to get to the toilet,” and he says, “I know … wait, or don't wait, I can do it while you're walking, and it could work, and I'll skip the ‘thee' and say ‘you.' But you've tried everything else, haven't you? Acupuncture, macrobiotics, chemotherapy, various other drugs the doctors have given you … what have I forgot?” and she says, “Don't rub it in,” and he says, “Massage, physical therapy, bee-bite therapy for just a few stings, not equine therapy, was it called? for you were afraid of getting on a horse … swim therapy you're doing now, and I know there have been a few others over the years. But faith, miracle, an out-and-out act of God or whatever it is but done through the intermediaryship of your husband, Gould, son of Victor who's son of Abe?” and she says, “Listen, you want me to pish right on the floor here and you'll have to clean it up? Let me pass,” and he says, mock reverently, “By all that be holy, let this babe not only pass but be healed—at least let her walk again, I mean it, and on her own; this is serious, now, I'm not joking; please make her healed, my wife, Sally, let her be healed,” and looks at her, for his eyes were closed while he said the last part, and she snaps her head as if just awakened from something, she seems transformed—her face, the way her body's no longer bent over and slumped to the side and straining but is now standing straight—and she says, “What”—startled—“what happened? I feel different, what did you do?” and lets go of one side of the walker, and he says, “Watch it!” and she says, “Watch what?” and doesn't totter and lets go of the other handle and is standing on her own, something he hasn't seen her do in three to four years and he doesn't know how far back it was when he saw her stand like this for even this long, and pushes the walker away—“Wait, not so fast”—and she says, “I'm telling you, something's happened, what you did worked, I feel totally different: strong, balanced, my legs not stiff but functioning normally again, I'm almost sure of it; I feel they can do everything they once did,” and he says, “No, please, don't take any chances, what I did was just kidding around, as you said, but serious kidding, expressing my deepest hopes for you and that sort of thing, but I've no power like that, nobody does, nor am I an intermediary for any powers, all that stuff is malarky, bull crap,” and she says, “Watch,” and walks. One step, then another, and he says, “Hey, how'd you do that?” and she says, “It was only after what you did, and said, that I could; I had nothing to do with it,” and he says, “I can't believe what I'm seeing, goddamn, two steps—by God, let's dance,” and grabs her waist, and she says, “Hold it, I'm not used to it yet, I don't think,” and he says, “The two-step, we're going to dance it to celebrate those steps, you know how long it's been since I've wanted to do it—not ‘want' but
could
do it?” and takes her in his arms, spins her around, she spins with him; he doesn't have to spin her, he finds, and he says, “The tango, that'll be the best proof yet—big steps,” and puts his forehead against hers, gets them both into the opening position, and shoots a leg out and she does too, and they keep shooting their legs out together doing the tango till they get to the end of the room, swivel around, and in the same position do the same steps back, and he says, “This is almost I-don't-know-what,” and she says, “It's more than that—it's miraculous, but I still have to pee,” and walks into the bathroom, door stays open as it always did when she went in with the walker or wheelchair, grabs the toilet-chair arms he installed, then says, “What am I doing? I don't need these,” and lets go of them and pees, gets up, wipes herself—“Look at me, wiping while standing, something I never do anymore … I want to do all the things I haven't done since I really got hit with the disease,” and goes into the bedroom and gets a shirt with buttons and puts it on and buttons it up, puts her sneakers on and ties the laces, goes outside and walks around the house and then into the field and picks lots of wildflowers and brings them back and gets on her knees in the kitchen and pulls out a vase deep in back of the cabinet under the sink and sticks the flowers in and fills the vase with water, then says, “I want to do some gardening, not have you or the kids do it all for me,” and goes outside and crouches by the flower bed that lines the front of the house and pulls up weeds, waters the plants, snaps off a flower, and sticks it in her hair; when it falls out she catches it with one hand and sticks it back, says, “See that? When I caught it I didn't smash it with my hands. I want a real workout now,” and does warm-up exercises and then runs down their road, probably all the way to the main road and on it; anyway, she comes back in a half hour with the mail—“Got it all myself, even opened one of the envelopes to me without tearing the flap to shreds … but I'll read it later. Who cares about mail now? I'm sweating like crazy and want to shower, but without holding on to the grab bars and sitting in the tub with the hand spray,” and goes into the house and showers standing up; he watches what little he can see of her where she didn't pull the shower curtain closed and then undresses and steps under the shower with her, and she says, “Please, grateful as I am for what you did before and what you've done the last few years, covering for me with the kids, et cetera, this could be dangerous, two of us in a slippery tub. It'd be ridiculous for it all to end now with a terrific fall. But more than that, I just want to shower the first time like this by myself,” and he steps out, she soaps and rinses herself several more times and then shampoos—“Whee, this is fun and I feel so cool”—and gets out, dries herself, and dresses—“Now I want to try reading without glasses, since my awful eyesight was brought on by the disease too”—and opens a book—“I can read as well as I used to, I think”—sits down at her desk and types and says, “It's no strain, fingers feel free and flexible, and I can type with more than one finger at a time, though I'm a little rusty at it … . I'm going to get some work done while I can, in two hours do what I couldn't in ten, or even twenty,” and works a few hours, takes a break to make them lunch and eat, and after she works at her desk another hour she stands and says, “Oh, brother, my lower back aches but I'm sure this time only from typing so long and hard. This is great. I don't know what you did or how you did it, Gould, but you certainly did,” and starts stretching till her fingers touch their opposite toes, and he says, “As a reward, other than for seeing you like this … ahem, ahem, excuse me, but just as a reward for all I've done—a single one?” and she looks up and sees his expression and says, “Oh, that,” and points to him and says, “You got it, anything you want within reason. I'm as curious as you to see how it goes, besides, of course, which would be nothing new for me, wanting to. But first let me wash the dishes, now that I can reach inside the basin, and clean the house and also see what the kids' room looks like, as I've never been upstairs in the four summers we've rented this place,” and does all that and other things and then says, “Okay, I'm ready, and I worked so hard I had to take another shower,” and they get on their bed, he doesn't have to pry her knees apart to get her legs open, she moves around agilely, jumps over him, jumps back, gets on top, and then turns them over so she's below, later says, “Did I miss moving around like that and all the exuberance that goes along with it? You betcha. And to think I can do it like that, if all goes well or stays put, again and again and again,” and they fall asleep.