Florence Gordon (28 page)

Watch repair receipt, article clipped from the
Times,
taxi receipt. At the bottom of the pile was a sheet of blue paper that looked promising, but she wanted to proceed methodically. Cell phone bill, cable bill, hospital bill, car insurance bill.

Hospital bill?

Her first thought was that it concerned Mark. Mark had hurt himself again, and Daniel had covered it up again. Daniel was a pain in the ass about that. When Mark was in high school, he played three different sports, and—

But this wasn’t about Mark.

There was a host of terms and items and charges, most of them giving little clue of what he’d been in for, except that it was clear that he’d received a lot of tests, and that some of the tests, at least, had involved his heart.

Each procedure was accompanied by a date. He had been in the hospital for three days, three weekends ago. When she was spending the night with Lev, he was spending the night in the hospital.

She picked his cell phone back up, to see if he’d called anyone during those three days. Nope. He hadn’t called Emily, and he hadn’t called Mark, and he hadn’t called her.

The tests weren’t tests they would have given him for something less than serious. And he had told her nothing.

It was hard for her to take this in.

Daniel, on the bed, seemed to be dreaming. His eyelids were fluttering. She had no clue as to whether it was a happy dream or a sad one.

You travel side by side through the life you share, and you come to think you know each other all too well. But if each of us enters the afterlife alone, and is asked to give an accounting, asked to speak of how one lived and what one lived for, then the accounting Daniel gave of his life might involve trials of which she knew nothing, sufferings of which he’d never spoken and that had left no outer mark.

The hospital bill had shaken her up so much that she’d forgotten about the blue sheet of paper at the bottom of the pile.

After she heard Emily close the door to her room, she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee, and stayed at the kitchen table for a long time.

The next evening, as it was growing dark, Emily was in the living room, Skyping with her brother, and Daniel was a few feet away from her, on the couch, reading a magazine and putting in an occasional comment or two.

Daniel and Emily had visited Bard and Sarah Lawrence that day, and driven back through a rainstorm. The storm was still fierce, and the temperature had plunged. It was August, but the evening had the bite of fall.

Janine was in the bedroom. From where she was sitting, she couldn’t see Emily, but she could hear her. She and Mark were talking in their own language, a mélange of shared references and private jokes.

“The more complex the mind, the greater the need for the simplicity of play,” Mark said.

She could see Daniel. He was leaning back against the cushions; he had a sort of glow of honest tiredness about him; he was taking a pure, relaxed pleasure in his children.

The rain was battering the windows. It was the kind of night when you realize how lucky you are to be warm and indoors, how lucky you are to know that your children are happy and thriving and safe.

There was something in the oven; Daniel went into the kitchen to check on it.

Janine followed him into the kitchen.

“What are you making over there?” she said.

Daniel looked up at her quickly, as though she’d said something unusual, which she hadn’t. Maybe there was something in her voice.

“Just something for the girl. Nothing complicated. Are you aware that in a previous life I was a short-order cook?”

“Yes, I am aware of that. In a previous life I sampled your flapjacks.”

She came over to the oven.

“That smells good. Is it vegan?”

“No. Actually not. I’ve decided to play a trick on our daughter. I’m sprinkling in little pieces of bacon. Bacon bits.”

“Good, good. Why?”

“I’m not philosophically aligned with veganism.”

“And so you take it as a mission of sorts to undermine vegans wherever you encounter them?”

“Of sorts. Does that bother you?”

“No. On the contrary. I was hoping you’d say that. I was trembling with anticipation.”

“I noticed you trembling. But I didn’t know what was causing it.”

“Anticipation.”

“I thought it might have been because the room was too cold.”

“No. It’s warm as toast in here.”

“I thought it might have been a sort of ‘trembling before God.’”

“No. It wasn’t. I do occasionally itch before God, but I don’t think I ever actually tremble.”

“I’m glad to hear that. God’s done too much damage to the world. A little itching now and then is all he deserves.”

“By the way,” she said.

“Yes?”

“You’re probably one of the few police officers who’d use the phrase ‘philosophically aligned.’”

“Actually, that’s a misconception,” he said, and they both laughed.

When Daniel called Florence to tell her that he’d be going back to Seattle soon, she found it hard to contain her delight.

“We should get together. I want to say goodbye to you all.”

“I’m not sure it’s all of us you’ll be saying goodbye to. I’m going home. I’m not sure what anybody else is doing.”

“That’s unusual,” she said. “That’s unusual for you and your tribe.”

“Yes, it is unusual for us. But we’re a modern family. I would have thought you’d approve.”

“I do approve. I approve of modernism in all its forms. I’m just surprised. Is Janine planning to stay here?”

“Janine has to make up her mind. She’s enjoying the work she’s doing. And her fellowship, as you may know, since we’ve mentioned it about five times, lasts until the end of December.”

“So you’ll be a commuting couple? You’ll have what my students call an LDR?”

“We used to call it an LDR when I was in college. I doubt they’re calling it that now.”

“And Emily?”

Emily was the one she truly wanted to get rid of. Janine was no threat. Despite how adhesive she wished to be, Janine had not proved difficult to shake off. Emily was the one to worry about.

“Emily makes her own choices. Anyway, you’ll remember that Emily’s a college girl.”

“Is she going back to Kenyon?”

“Oberlin. And I don’t know. She’s thinking about transferring to Bard.”

“All your women are leaving you.”

“I suppose that’s my fate,” he said, and she wondered if he was taking some kind of dig at her. It was so hard to know with Daniel. For a moment she felt a breath of respect for her son. He kept his feelings as tightly regulated as she did, which, she knew, was an accomplishment.

“Well,” he said, “why don’t we have you over for a farewell dinner anyway, even if we’re not sure how many of us are actually leaving.”

“I’ll say farewell to anybody who’s there to say farewell to,” she said. To her own ear, she sounded giddy, and she wondered whether this was what the coming months were going to be like—a series of giddy leave-takings, rendered sweeter by the fact that no one would know that they were leave-takings except her.

“What are you doing here?” Florence said.

Emily was at her door. It was Saturday night. Their farewell dinner was about an hour away.

“You’re always just turning up,” Florence said. “Haven’t you learned by now that that’s just not done in New York?”

“I know. It’s rude. But here I am.”

Florence let her in. That’s something, Emily thought.

“So what are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d walk you over. It’s time for the big dinner event.”

“You thought you’d walk me over? You think I need walking over?”

“I just wanted to see you,” Emily said.

“I’m very touched,” Florence said, in a voice that made it clear that she wasn’t.

Emily wasn’t satisfied with the conversation they’d had in the café. Something was going on with Florence, and she wanted to know what it was.

Florence put on a light jacket and picked up her purse and cane and walked toward the door, but Emily didn’t move.

“What?” Florence said.

“I just thought we could talk for a minute.”

“We can talk on the way.”

“I wanted to just talk for a minute. Here.”

It was hard for her to stand up to Florence, but it was important to make the effort.

“Well, go ahead.”

“I think there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

“Are you supposed to be my confidante?”

“I think there’s something you’re not telling anybody.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Florence said. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I think you’re going through something serious, and I think you could use some help.”

“How have you been spending your time lately?” Florence said. “Watching soap operas? I’m supposed to sit down and unburden myself to you? Is that the way you think it works? You think your grandmother is going through a rough patch and you’re going to help her through? Is that it? You’ll be the hero? Have you been ego-tripping on that thought?”

When in doubt, attack: Emily knew Florence well enough by now to recognize that this was Florence’s way.

“Let’s go,” Florence said. “And no more of this foolishness.”

For a paranoid minute, Florence tried to figure out if Emily had ever spent enough time unobserved in her apartment for her to have gone through her papers or intercepted a phone call from Noah’s office. But if the girl had that kind of hard information, she wouldn’t be nosing around like this. So she knew, but she didn’t know.

When they were out on the street, Emily saw that Florence’s foot was dragging again. Florence was trying to compensate, but the very effort to compensate made it obvious that something was wrong. She would lift her left leg carefully, as if she were placing it in a stirrup, and then she would lower and plant it with an equal deliberation.

Their destination was north, but Florence was looking south, at the approaching stream of traffic. She glanced over at Emily, but Emily spoke before she could.

“I’d suggest taking a cab,” Emily said, “but I know how much you enjoy walking.”

If the old woman was going to pretend that she was perfectly healthy, Emily was going to make her commit to the role.

Florence smiled at her—a tight little smile, as if she understood exactly what Emily was doing.

“Yes,” Florence said. “Yes, I do. Let’s go.”

They proceeded north. Florence made her way slowly, laboriously lifting her left leg as if avoiding small, invisible obstacles in her path.

“I guess that sprain is still hurting,” Emily said.

“It’s not hurting at all.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

It was early September, but the afternoon was sweltering. It was one of those New York summer days where the heat bludgeons you with every step and you wouldn’t mind lying down on the sidewalk.

“Did you see that enraging article in the
Times
this morning?” Florence said.

“Which one?”

“The one about all the promises Obama’s broken.”

“Missed that.”

They arrived at the corner of Broadway and Eighty-sixth Street as the
WALK
sign was beginning to flash. Florence paused, unwilling to try to make it all the way across before the light changed.

“Tired?” Emily said. “Almost there, sort of.” And kept going.

Florence followed. Her face was contorted with the effort to keep up.

Emily was surprised that she had this in herself. This—what was it? Sadism? Is it sadism to try to force someone to admit she needs help?

It wasn’t sadism, she decided. It was love, expressed in the only language Florence might possibly respond to.

They were now in the way of the traffic, crossing against the light. Two cabs went past them, uncomfortably close; a van paused for them, but when the driver saw how slowly they were moving, he leaned on his horn. Finally they reached the other side of the street.

“I was reading this Virginia Woolf essay that you mentioned in one of your books,” Emily said. “‘Professions for Women.’”

“Great essay.”

“She says that in order to become a writer, she had to murder . . . what does she call it?”

“The Angel in the House,” Florence said.

“That’s right. The Angel in the House. The spirit that makes a woman defer to everyone else instead of taking care of herself. If there’s a draft, she—”

“If there’s a draft, she sits in it,” Florence said. “If there’s chicken, she takes the leg. You don’t have to recite it to me. You learned about it from me.”

She was drawing a breath after each sentence.

“The thing I was wondering about is this. If a woman needs help but she doesn’t ask for it, isn’t she just playing the part of the Angel in the House?”

This was her trump card. She’d been thinking about this for days, working out exactly how to phrase it.

“That depends,” Florence said. “Is she trying to take care of everybody else? Is she putting everybody else’s needs above her own?”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” Emily said.

“I’d say she’s just standing on her own two feet,” Florence said.

They’d stopped walking. Emily, looking at her grandmother, felt that she’d never cared about anyone more. Florence, looking back at her, gave nothing. There was no hint on her face of a wish to understand or a wish to be understood.

Florence started to walk again.

You have to hand it to the old lady, Emily thought.

At Eighty-eighth Street, with six blocks to go, Emily relented. There was no point in torturing her.

“Here’s a bus,” Emily said. “Let’s take the bus.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Florence said, and continued grimly on.

“Jesus,” Daniel said after he opened the door. “You look like you’ve been playing volleyball.”

Florence’s face was sweaty. Her blouse was soaked.

“We have been playing volleyball,” Emily said.

“It was a good game,” Florence said.

“Who won?” Daniel said.

Florence walked toward an easy chair, forcing herself to go slowly so as not to betray the immensity of her desire to sit. Her pulse was drumming in her ears. Janine asked her what she wanted to drink, and answering felt like a challenge.