Early Warning (49 page)

“You know what for,” said Debbie, and of course now she did. This was where Henry took over. “Really, Lillian, I can't believe you've let this go this long, and even though normally I would not consider it any of my business, I do think it's critical that you see someone.”

“We've made you an appointment,” said Debbie.

“How dare you!” said Lillian, but that was what an intervention was for—the same thing had happened to Betty Ford, though about drinking, not about going to the doctor. Lillian said, “Arthur has to go, too.”

“I'll go with you,” said Arthur.

“No, I mean, you have to go for a checkup, too.” She said, a little self-righteously, “He hasn't had a checkup in a decade.”

Then, seeing his downcast face, she was flooded with regret.

The doctor was in the city; they took the ferry the next morning. Hugh was to keep the kids, and Debbie was to wrangle Lillian, as if she were a rogue calf heading for the back pasture. But Lillian gave her no trouble. As long as Arthur was along. And of course the whole experience was torture, starting from the moment they squeezed her left breast and then her right one into that machine, the way the nurse kept pushing her in more tightly until the platform was digging at her ribs, the way she had to hold her breath and stand absolutely still, and the nurse barked at her every time she had a stray thought—stray thoughts apparently caused her to twitch. Her breasts ached—not equally, but equally enough so that Lillian convinced herself for about five minutes that nothing was wrong with the one that wasn't wrong with the other. The nurse wouldn't allow Arthur into the mammography room, and then the doctor came out and invited him into the consulting room, looking him in the eye, but not Lillian. That was the clue right there. Young doctor—Neil Feigenbaum. Maybe forty, maybe not. Debbie remained in the waiting room, as if guarding the door. Yes, there was a large mass; yes, they needed to do a biopsy. Today was Monday. Would she mind coming back the next day? He was associated with NYU; they could have the biopsy done
there. Arthur, that old betrayer, kept nodding, and saying they would be there at eight in the morning. Finally, Lillian said, “That means a six a.m. ferry.”

Arthur gave her a long, strict, and affectionate look. He said, “We'll think of something.”

When they returned to the waiting room, after signing some papers, Debbie was just hanging up the phone the nurse's station had let her use, but Lillian didn't think to ask whom she had been calling—no doubt Hugh. It was not Hugh, though—it was Andy. As soon as they emerged into the heat of First Avenue, here came Andy, and Lillian realized that Dr. Feigenbaum must be Andy's gynecologist. Andy gave her one of her limp hugs and said, “Oh, let's have lunch.” She walked them along, chatting the whole time about Emily and Janet and Michael and Loretta (“My goodness, she keeps him in line”) and Richie and “that nice Jewish girl.” (“So ambitious. I'm sure our bloodlines could stand an invigorating infusion of Jewish blood. But I say nothing. I just bite my tongue.”) The restaurant was dark and old-fashioned, with elderly waiters who did everything with a napkin folded over one arm; Lillian half expected their attentive eighty-year-old to wipe her chin. So it was true, she thought, and now she would have to go through the five stages of grief all over again, or maybe only four of them, because she didn't foresee any opportunity for denial, now that Debbie knew, and Andy, and soon Henry and Frank and Claire and Janet and Hugh and Jared. Arthur did not let go of her; even sitting at their table, he was practically on top of her without perhaps realizing it. Andy and Debbie kept talking—Andy about Emily, and Debbie about Carlie and Kevvie. They sang a sort of chorus. Everything Andy said about Emily reminded Debbie of something about Carlie or Kevvie, and so they traded solos. Lillian ordered the crab cakes with aioli, and Arthur (she watched him closely) ordered the scampi, and it was good, so he ate almost all of it. Debbie ordered something and wolfed it down. Andy ate a single artichoke, very delicately grasping each leaf between her fingernails, plucking it off, and dipping it in pure olive oil with just a little sea salt added. For dessert, she did a kind thing, Lillian thought—she ordered two helpings of the crème brûlée and four spoons. Crème brûlée seemed designed to promote denial.

They put Debbie in a cab to Penn Station—she wouldn't get back
to Fire Island now until after four. Then Andy said, “Oh, heavens, you should stay at the Waldorf,” and Arthur said, “Why not?” and gave her a big smile, and Lillian was already into the grief part by the time they were walking through the lobby.

—

RICHIE ROLLED OVER
and nearly fell out of bed, because Ivy had disappeared. He stopped himself, though—his reflexes were pretty good even when he was mostly asleep. He thought about three things before he thought about the election: He thought that he had to get up right now and take a piss, which he did. He thought that it was already seven-thirty and he was supposed to be at work by nine. He wondered whether Ivy had made coffee. Then it occurred to him to wonder who had won, so he wandered into the living room. Ivy was standing in front of the TV, her robe hanging open, weeping. He said, “Reagan really won, huh?”

Ivy could only nod. After a moment, she said, “I knew I shouldn't have voted for Barry Commoner.”

In the kitchen, the last bagel was gone, but there was bread for toast and a piece of apple pie, always good for breakfast. He had adopted the safest course, given the friction between Ivy and Michael—he had not voted at all.

The phone rang—Loretta, who sounded happy, although she said nothing about the election, only, “You guys want to come over for dinner?”

Richie got along pretty well with Loretta, who had a better sense of humor than either Michael or Ivy. He said, “Well, we haven't heard from you guys in a month. You going to rub our faces in the dirt?”

“Not right away.”

“When?”

“When you least expect it.”

“What are you serving?”

“Humble pie.”

“We don't like that.”

“Okay. Lasagna.”

“Still in the Italian-cooking class?”

“Eighth week.”

“I need something more Tuscan than lasagna.”

Loretta was silent for a minute, then said, “Tagliolini with new olive oil and fresh herbs? Then some veal medallions with a walnut sauce?”

Richie said, “I'll work on her.”

“You should know that I forgive her.”

“The question is whether she forgives you—” But then Ivy appeared in the doorway, and he said, “Bye,” and hung up. Ivy didn't ask who it was, but he volunteered, “Mom says hi.”

“Hi, Andy,” said Ivy.

Richie went over and put his arms around her. He gave her a very good hug—she melted into him. He said, “You feel cold. Your feet are freezing.”

“I've been up since four. I should have gone to bed before the results were in. I might have at least gotten one last good night's sleep.”

“You think he's going to start a war right now? He doesn't get inaugurated for another two months.”

“Stop joking.”

“Did you talk to your mom?”

“Mom and Dad. At about six.”

This was a bad sign. Ivy had met his aunt Eloise, so he did not criticize her parents, who, although very left, had never actually belonged to the CPUSA or been questioned by HUAC, and anyway were twenty years younger than Eloise. But they had both gone to City College, though they now lived on Long Island. They acted as if social programs like food stamps were automatically good and Wall Street was automatically bad. Like Aunt Eloise, they tossed around terms like “working class” and “bourgeoisie” and “capitalism.” Their messy house was littered with old copies of
The Nation, Dissent
, and
Mother Jones.
Both Alma and Marcus liked to finish every family dinner with a cigarette and a political discussion; they were aggressive about making everyone at the table, including Richie, define and refine their arguments, and Richie had to admit that, usually, his arguments boiled down to “mere instinct,” as Alma put it, shaking her head. They were fervent believers in rationality. Alma was harder on him than Marcus, who most often ended up saying, “Alma! Leave the boy alone! She likes him, then she likes him!”

“How can I leave him alone?” Alma would exclaim. “That's his problem. He's been left alone for all his life!”

He had to admit that, for all her eye rolling, Ivy agreed with her parents' views. The problem was their style—Ivy thought they were loud, messy, and rude. She loved them in private, but would go nowhere with them in public, not even to a deli.

He kissed her on the forehead, then more slowly on the lips, then took the corner of a dish towel and dabbed lightly at her eyes to wipe the tears. He said, “The only reason Reagan got elected was because Carter was such an incompetent. My uncle Joe, who is the nicest guy in the world, thinks this grain embargo is going to bankrupt him. It's like every single thing Carter did was wrong. That was Reagan's point.”

“He's too smooth! He's just a mouthpiece for big business, like when he was on that show and then he was a governor! My God, he was awful in California.”

Richie said, “Give him a chance. Let him be the best of a bad lot, okay? Just let him be that for a while.” But he didn't dare bring up the dinner invitation. For all her good nature, he knew that Loretta would, indeed, demand some humble pie—she was like that. And they couldn't just put it off: Loretta never forgot, and she kept score. The election, say, gave her ten points, but not showing up for dinner and “taking your medicine” would give her a point, too.

When he called Ivy at lunchtime, she said, “Okay, we can go.”

He said, “Go where?”

“Their place.”

“They invited us?”

“Richie, I know she called you this morning and invited us for dinner. She called me at the office just to make sure you told me.”

“She really is like the CIA, isn't she?”

Ivy laughed, which meant she was getting over the election.

Richie said, in a wheedling voice, “What difference does it make who won? They're all the same, really.”

“You're hopeless,” said Ivy.

“We only see them four or five times a year. It's like a penance. Or maybe like interest payments. We may both hate to visit our families, but we owe something every so often, don't we?”

Ivy said, “Oh, okay. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Four hours. I can take it.”

When the argument started (after the veal, before the Sambuca), the girls were like trained debaters, and Richie and Michael kept exchanging looks. Ivy went first: “Whatever you say, just don't start with me about Adam Smith. He did not trust merchants. He thought they would get together and shit on everyone else if they possibly could.”

Richie said, “I would rather talk about the hostages in Iran than this.” They ignored him.

“Adam Smith?” said Michael. “Was that the guy you slept with last summer?”

Richie kicked him under the table—rather hard, in fact. Michael said, “Ouch.”

The girls were used to their shenanigans.

Loretta said, “I don't need a theorist. No one does. I just have to look around and see what a mess all of these agencies I pay for are making of the country. People want to do stuff, and they can't, because there's too much paperwork.”

“Like set fire to the Cuyahoga River.”

Point for Ivy, thought Richie.

“If people wanted it cleaned up, they would have cleaned it up,” said Loretta.

“They did want it cleaned up, and it has been cleaned up,” said Ivy, “by EPA regulations. Not by the invisible hand.”

At this point, Michael ran his fingertip lightly up the back of Loretta's neck. She laughed, but grabbed his hand. She said, “
You
wanted it cleaned up. But maybe those people living there were willing to make the tradeoff between jobs and a little pollution. There's no proof that pollution is bad. Maybe it's just stuff that's in the wrong place.”

Michael said, “When Loretta was little, her room was papered in DDT-impregnated wallpaper. Just for kids. Donald Duck pictures on it.”

Loretta spun around. She said, “What was wrong with that? It was a good idea. It killed the mosquitoes that landed on the wall.”

Meanwhile, Ivy was staring.

Loretta said, “If you ban DDT, and then millions die from malaria, you haven't done anyone any good.”

“Let the market kill them,” said Ivy.

“At least it's their choice.”

“How about full warnings on the roll of paper, saying what is known about DDT?”

“We
know
it will kill mosquitoes. We don't
know
it will hurt kids. Anyway, I guess the market decided about DDT-impregnated wallpaper, and that was that. I haven't seen it lately. Or lead-based paint, or X-ray machines in shoe stores. Things come and go. If you don't let them come and go, then you get like Russia.”

Richie thought maybe she had Ivy there.

But then Ivy said, “Russia isn't the only alternative. Banks in the U.S. used to print all the money, and now the government prints it, because a free market in dollar bills didn't work and was chaos. There are things that the government should do, and things that companies should do. I don't want Russia, but I don't want the Mafia, either.” Michael was beginning to look bored, and Richie sympathized. Michael said, “I loved
The Godfather Part II.
Pow-pow! Let's have the Sambuca. You do this thing—you put a coffee bean in it and set it on fire. Burns off all the alcohol. Pow! Pow! Oh, you got me.” Michael fell to the floor.

Loretta said, “Reagan is tough. The Iranians know it, and the hostages will be released.”

Ivy said, “We'll see.”

Richie thought, “Uncle.”