Commuters (23 page)

“I’d better see about this,” Jerry said now, pulling the blanket off his lap. He stood to go to the men.

“They’re fine,” she reassured him. “They know what to do.” He hesitated, looking back and forth between the men on the lawn and the woman beside him.

“Straighten things out,” he said, but uncertainly.

“You have,” Winnie said. “You already did. They’ve got their orders.” This last came out of the blue, but it seemed to work. Jerry sat down again, still keeping a sharp eye on the pool men, but content to stay on the patio. It was sunny, and the hedges mostly blocked the wind’s chill. The sky was a cloudless, pale blue.

“I like to watch them build it,” Jerry said in a confiding tone.

“I do, too,” Winnie said. After a moment, she asked—not being able to stop herself from giving the test—“Build what?”

But Jerry didn’t answer; he either didn’t hear her or wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the busy men: doing a job, earning a wage. That, he could understand.

February 16

Check.

The backhoe heaved and halted, tearing skid marks in the lawn. Its driver made no sign of hearing what the other man was yelling from the sidelines. Avery and Winnie stood at the living-room win
dow, a draft of cold air whispering through the lead and the glass. The arm of the yellow machine lifted and stopped, poised above the ground. Avery held up both fists, and Winnie mimicked him. She was trying to snap back into it. Why shouldn’t she? They’d been home for more than two weeks. Jerry was responding well to the medicine; everyone said that. To want more than being here together again, his brain unswollen, and Annette back in Chicago (for now) seemed like pushing it. In comparison to all that good, the matter of being called by another name was a small one, even she could see. It had taken every ounce of sheer will the one time Winnie had asked one of the doctors about it, blushing furiously. “Well, yes,” the woman had said, looking up briefly from his chart. “But we can’t have everything.” Nor could Winnie quantify, or even put into words, the things that were missing—Jerry was too tired, now, to wander the house with her after dinner, peeking in little-used rooms and telling stories about them. That night she had stood naked before him…

But that wasn’t something that could go on a chart or be measured, could it? So she was trying, in the face of a string of check days—and worse—to be upbeat. After all, Avery was here, even if Jerry had gone down for a nap just ten minutes before he’d arrived. And it was clear that he was upset about something beyond his grandfather’s illness, with that pinched
don’t-ask-me
smile and wounded eyes. So if Avery was trying, couldn’t she?

When the arm of the backhoe wavered and turned, she let out a disappointed sigh.

“Fake out,” Avery groaned. “This guy’s killing me!”

“Maybe they’ve never used this machine before,” Winnie mused.

“Maybe they have frostbite and can’t work the controls. Wait, here they go again.”

This time, the arm rose and the claw reared back, ready to dig down—but once again pulled away, at the last second.

“Oh, come on,” Avery protested. As if the driver could hear him. “You totally had it. That was the one, bro!”

Winnie wandered away, toward the base of the stairs. Did she hear him? In a heap on the kitchen table was a baby monitor setup that Rachel had brought over last week from Hand Me Down. Every time Jerry tottered past it, Winnie hastily covered the speakers and wires with a dish towel or newspaper, though he’d never wonder, of course, what it was for. She still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to install it. Was that him? She went halfway up the stairs and held the banister, which rattled now, loose in its sockets.

Several thoughts occurred to her then, in succession, each one sliding inevitably down to another. Jerry might not be waking up now, but he would soon, and there was no telling what kind of mood he would be in—relaxed and alert, sullen and confused. There was no way to know what was coming, this day or the next. That meant either that she had done all of it, the falling in love and getting married, blind to the possibility that Jerry could disappear—even without leaving—from their home, from their life; or that she
had
known pain like this existed, somewhere, and had chosen to press on despite the terror of the uncertain. Had it been a mistake? Opening herself to this kind of grief, so late in the game? Their time together was always going to be short, Winnie knew. But now she realized she had stupidly counted on certainty; she had generously traded
more
time for a higher
quality
of time that they would share, together. Winnie squeezed her eyes shut and hung on to the
banister. The sacrifice was supposed to be what they
hadn’t
shared, all those years that had gone before! It wasn’t supposed to be like this, with her alone again and so uncertain!

She stood waiting on the stairs, feet on different steps, hand on the wobbly railing, intent upon the possible cry of her nap-dazed husband. Avery shouted for her to hurry back, but Winnie was suspended between the changing present and the possible future, and couldn’t move. In this way, she missed the claw’s committing to a decision: the sudden bite into earth, the grinding gears, the beginning.

They were good at this, she and her mother: nursing men. From those first few days of Jerry in the hospital, Rachel recognized the inherent rhythms of a medical crisis, and she and Winnie seemed to pick right back up how they’d been when it was Bob in the adjustable bed, pale-faced and pinned with tubes, the subject of tests, IV drips, and hushed conversations just outside the door. The same woman was working the cash register at the cafeteria, and she even recognized Rachel, gave her a measured nod. Rachel knew the shortcuts between wings, and she remembered which color scrubs designated nurse, resident, attending. She and Winnie had taken turns at Jerry’s bedside, and they knew to feel no compunction about watching their own television shows while he slept or helping themselves to the leftovers from his unfinished lunch tray. They knew the west side of the building got better cell phone reception, and they never went into the depressing, shadowy central courtyard for a “breath of fresh air.” Rachel filled most of her shifts at Hand Me Down and drove the girls to and from their activities. In between, she called Winnie, and their conver
sations were direct, full of medical shorthand, instantly meaningful. The world had shrunk, once again, to the boundaries of Valley Park, and any minute shift in the hour-to-hour status of Room 341 needed to be reported and thoroughly discussed. By the time Jerry was allowed to go home, Rachel had already spent hours online; she’d arranged for rotating home care from a local provider, and from various other websites she ordered a collapsible cane, seat cushions, incontinence pads, no-rinse bath products, plastic plates with dividers and suction cups, and three different CDs billed as “soothing” or “calming” for Alzheimer’s patients.

Yes, she was good at this, Rachel thought, as she turned into the driveway at 50 Greenham. Winnie had a long-overdue hair appointment, and the next nurse shift wasn’t until 3 pm. Jerry couldn’t be left alone anymore—without saying so outright, everyone agreed that he had passed that point.

And it was good that she was good at it, this nursing of men, for several reasons. Rachel cut the motor and grabbed the plastic bag on the seat next to her. The reasons, in descending order of worthiness, were: because her mother needed help, and Rachel had enough experience with this exact kind of situation to be able to help. Okay, fine. Good enough. But also—less nobly, she knew—because being thrown into the crisis together with Winnie staved off the growing divide between them. It gave them something to talk about, in the same way combing through the details of Hartfield town life—whose stepdaughter got into MIT, which storm in what year had flooded the school’s basement—had always raised their spirits. And last—here was the line of thinking that Rachel, hurrying across the driveway, wanted to squelch—because she had other, less generous motives.

Well, all right, so what if she did? Did it matter what was under the surface of all the hours she spent with Winnie, coaxing Jerry back from la-la land with pills and exercises and fruitless one-sided conversation (just like with an infant, you were supposed to talk your way through every activity—“Now we’ll put your other arm in, that’s right, here’s the sleeve”)? Did it defeat the care and effort themselves, if while providing them Rachel’s heart had a different goal, if the reasons she needed Jerry to come back were not the same as the ones driving Winnie’s endlessly patient labors? Rachel wanted his wise counsel again, and his friendship; she also wanted him to offer another loan, without her having to ask. Honesty about such things was overrated, Rachel told herself. Plenty of good could come from her bedside ministrations, even if their hoped-for outcome was—well, let’s admit it—not exactly some pure, altruistic ideal.

Her mother’s front yard was a wreck. There was that god-awful hole sunk deep in the ground, and filled with all sorts of crazy boards and what looked like chicken wire. And the piles of dirt everywhere! The flattened bushes—that blue Porta-John sitting right there, out by Franklin, for anyone driving by to see! The two workers glanced up at Rachel as she strode past, staring as one foot skidded out and she wobbled sharply—undignified—but she did her best to ignore them, as she continued to ignore the entire pool project with Winnie. Why should she bring it up, when her mother must already feel ridiculous about it, must be regretting every dollar she had thrown away on this folly? And anyway, they had other things to discuss.

“They didn’t have jelly,” Rachel called, kicking off her boots in the back hall. “I got raspberry jam, though—think he’ll mind?”

“You didn’t try the Associated?” Winnie said too loudly, her faux-fur earmuffs already on. “Those seeds get between his teeth and I can’t for the life of me get them out.”

“I didn’t have time.” It was as drafty as ever in the small sitting room off the kitchen. Rachel zipped up her fleece sweater. Probably no one had caulked the windows in years.

“He’s watching the Bears game,” Winnie said, keys already in hand, hurrying to the door. “The Namenda will wear off in another hour, so make sure he takes it in the applesauce—you’ll see the tray in the fridge, it’s all set up.” Rachel pulled her mother in for a quick hug. “There was something else, what was it?”

“I’m sure you wrote it down,” Rachel said under her breath. Her mother’s endless, detailed notes were legendary. They now covered this place—Jerry’s food preferences, his medicines, his need for certain orders and routines with everything from newspaper sections to when the doorbell rang to going to the bathroom.

“Oh well, I’m sure I wrote it down,” Winnie said, reassuring herself. She hadn’t heard Rachel. “I have my cell phone, of course—call at the first sign.”

“I will,” Rachel said. The first sign of what? She ushered her mother out and shut the door on the blast of cold wind—and the sight of the pool men, and that hole in the yard. On her way upstairs to Jerry, she stopped in the kitchen. Already the house was taking on characteristics of sheltering someone who was sick. Little signs pointed to the fact that, essentially, only one person was living in these rooms—her mother’s things were scattered across the den and kitchen table, sweaters, books and eyeglasses set down on surfaces with no thought toward anyone else using them or needing space. The kitchen counters looked just as they had when
Winnie lived alone, in her apartment, messy and cluttered: there was her unrinsed mug of tea, there a notebook, a package of those scented tissues she used to have everywhere, before they must have seemed too feminine, for Jerry’s sake. Even the smell here was of Winnie, a touch of her perfume, which lingered on her sweaters, and the cinnamon breath drops she favored. A damp heap of newspapers was on a chair, each still rolled in its blue plastic bag. No sign of Jerry anywhere.

Rachel privately looked forward to these babysitting sessions, a mini-vacation from her own noisy, crowded home, a chance to luxuriate in the big, old grandeur of 50 Greenham. But now she had to avoid the sadness this all presented, the sense of her aging mother struggling to keep up with everything in this huge, empty house. She finished loading the dishwasher and wiped down the sticky table and counters. She took a soda from the fridge and a container of yogurt, and found a spoon. She did not forget to bring her purse upstairs with her, and what it held inside.

“So, any chance we’re going to win this game?” she said, knocking on the wood of his open doorway.

“Win the game,” Jerry agreed, from his bed. He was sitting up, in a blue cotton robe, unshaven and slack-faced. He raised an arm to point at the small television across the room, one finger brushing back and forth in midair, as if he wanted to say something else. But he said nothing else, only stared at Rachel. She pulled his bedside chair closer to the bed, talking emphatically about the Bears’ chances for the season (about which she knew nothing), and peeled off the top of her yogurt container. There was a TV tray set up next to him, overflowing with empty glasses, celebrity gossip magazines (for the nurses, Rachel assumed), orange pill bottles,
and a couple of deadly looking books from the library—immense histories or biographies—untouched.

He tended to go through cycles—she’d read about this on an Alzheimer’s website—and she hoped that something she said could trigger a chatty, clear-minded one.

“You feeling okay? How’ve you been, since Monday?” But this brought nothing. Jerry’s eyes were on a commercial for cat food. She took the remote from his lap—he didn’t protest—and turned the blaring volume down.

“How can you stand that racket?” She gestured at the window behind him, and the faint voices of the pool men, calling to each other. With the sycamore tree gone—she and Winnie had said nothing to each other about its absence—it was possible to see clear across Greenham and down the hill to the south part of town, where Hartfield shaded into Mount Morris. Rachel shook her head again at how brazen her mother had been in the face of so much disapproval.

“She really did go out on a limb for you. So to speak. Ha.” But using the past tense about Winnie and Jerry—she’d spoken it inadvertently, but still—frightened her a little, as did the betrayal she had planned. There was no other word for it, and as stupid and crazy an idea as she knew it must be, Rachel told herself she had no other choice. And no one would know.

She reached into her purse and felt for the tape recorder. The same one Melissa used to interview Winnie for social studies.

“Jerry?” she said, ignoring the high, nervous tone of her own voice. Maybe that could be edited or cut entirely. “What do you want to happen, with this house? Can you tell me about it?”

Two nights ago, she’d attended a cocktail party in her own
house. In Vikram’s part of the house, that is. The invitation had come through their mail slot unstamped, with a handwritten note appended:
Please try to come! Sorry in advance for any noise.

“He’s being neighborly,” Bob said, chewing his toast. It was morning, Rachel had been on her way to work, and Bob looked exhausted. He had already been up for hours, writing. “He doesn’t mean for us to come. It’s just good form—you know that.”

“Good form is warning us about the noise. An invitation is something else.” Rachel slid it under a fridge magnet that said,
PIZZA THE WAY ITALIANS DO IT
! 555–4200. “I’m going to go.”

Bob turned a page of the newspaper. “Suit yourself.”

The night of the party, she had to change outfits three times—black silk skirt, too dressy. Jeans, too casual. Finally, she’d settled on wide, swishy gray pants and a short-sleeve green top. As Rachel brushed her hair, she listened to her daughters in their room. They were trying to whisper.

“
You
go with her. I would hate it. I’d stand by myself and look like a freak.”

“Why do I have to go? There won’t be anyone our age.”

“You know why. She shouldn’t go by herself. She’ll get all…”

“I don’t want to be over there. With that Indian guy, like, hanging out in my room? No, thanks.” Rachel could hear the clicking away of the computer’s keyboard.

“He won’t be in your
room
. Duh. Parties are, like, in the living room and stuff.”

“You go then, if it’s so important. And if you want to see what
your
room looks like now.”

There was silence.

“See? I didn’t think so.”

With this exchange stinging in her heart, Rachel walked coatless into the wet night, around the side of her house, and to its front door. Vikram pulled it open at once, like he’d been waiting for her. He greeted her warmly, politely ignored her edgy babble—
I don’t even know why I’m here, I didn’t plan on it or anything, but I just thought
—and introduced her to a few people standing just inside the living room (the
dining
room, Rachel said to herself). The next hour was a blur—Vikram’s friends and colleagues were friendly and voluble. Rachel drank two glasses of merlot, fast, and ate a handful of pecans even though she detested nuts. She smiled so much her face ached, she made a joke about already knowing where the bathroom was, ha ha, and she milled and laughed and admired the art until her eyes and cheeks were burning.

But it didn’t really hurt until she overheard a couple talking about real estate in Hartfield. They rattled off sale prices higher than anything Rachel had heard and were unfazed by them. “Vik’s on to something,” the woman said, eyeing the bookcases Bob had built into the breakfast nook. She had high black boots on, and long, buttery hair. “I’ve been giving him shit for moving, but who knows, if I actually get pregnant this year…” “God,” her husband said, in his rectangle glasses and Pac-Man T-shirt. “You did
not
just talk about moving to the suburbs.” “But it doesn’t feel like the suburbs,” the woman insisted, as they moved past Rachel. “That’s the genius of this place! It’s like this little town, tucked away—you know?”

Rachel knew. She downed the rest of her wine and set the glass down hard on her kitchen counter.
Look at me,
she thought, wandering around, secretly appraising the airy kitchen, just like any other guest with a real-estate gleam in her eye. But Rachel under
stood the basic difference, though she wasn’t sure it made things any better: she wasn’t scoping out a good deal or some picture-perfect place worthy of a shelter magazine. What she longed for was her own home.

And since when did rich couples move here from the city, bringing their “green” SUVs and eight-hundred-dollar strollers and high black boots? That hadn’t been Hartfield’s way, not ever. This wasn’t Scarsdale, or Bronxville, or any of those status suburbs closer to the city. For the first time, it hit her—the bitter irony of her own grandfather’s role in connecting this small town to Metro-North, and thus to Manhattan. Without that, Hartfield might have remained isolated, obscure, borderline upstate. Is that what she wanted? It used to be that the only people who wanted to settle here were people who grew up here, like herself.

But now she saw that things were changing. Or maybe they had already changed, the terrain irreversibly shifted. That had been herself once, and Bob, on the threshold together and about to begin everything.