Mimi (29 page)

Gertrude caught my eye. Of course she would be there, but who was that, draped all over her? It seemed to be
Gus
!
Was she trying to stir my jealousy—at my sister’s memorial? I wouldn’t put it past her. Gus was very smiley (especially for a guy at a memorial), and kept a proprietary arm around Gertrude’s shoulders at all times. Bee and I had once joked what a perfect pair these two narcissistic monsters would make, but I never expected it to happen! I could see their future, the arts administrator attending openings with triplets strapped to her waist like a suicide bomb, Gus bringing up the rear with a dead rabbit slung over his shoulder: the Bonnie and Clyde of Central Park East.

They’d met recently, it emerged, due to Gus’s assiduous efforts to get hold of
me
. He’d claimed to be an old pal of mine. What else had he told her? I felt it my duty to draw her aside for a moment.

“You do realize the guy has criminal convictions, right?” I asked her, once we were out of earshot.

“I thought he was a friend of yours!”

“Gertrude, just because I hung out with him as a kid doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy. It just means I was too big a coward to get rid of him.”

“Don’t be down on yourself, Harrison.”

“Has he given you the tragic tale of his girlfriend yet—the one who fell down the elevator shaft and is now paralyzed for life?” I could tell that he had. “Very touching, huh? The bit he always leaves out is that
he
pushed her into it! It was probably an accident, but still.”

She didn’t have a chance to reply—speeches began. Bee’s dealer was up on the platform, telling everybody what he thought of Bee, in hindsight. He seemed to have hopes of turning her into a pillar of the art establishment. In aid of this, he portentously listed her various artistic stages: the interlocking cardboard stage, the clay monster stage, the assemblages, the installations, the Coziness Sculptures, and the recent ecstatic aquatic figures in stone, which he (predictably) considered a “culmination” of something or other. He made her sound like Picasso! He also viewed Bee’s time in Can’t-Bury as hugely productive (not exactly how I saw it). I was getting a bit sick of him, and was pleased when a woman who’d been at RISD with Bee objected to the dealer’s use of the word, “subversive,” in connection with the Coziness Sculptures.

“Subversive of what?” she asked. “The only thing they subvert is our downgrading of pleasure, and the dismissal of anything female and domestic as childish, trivial and unpatriotic. They’re not!” Cheers from the crowd.

Bee, “childish”? The idea had never occurred to me.
I
was the child! Watching my cartoons, reading my children’s books, coveting new gadgets, wearing sneakers to work, succoring myself on oceans of soup, and being taken care of by millions of women. I was just a big kid before Bee died! Not anymore though, not anymore.

Another fellow student from RISD, a man this time, got up on the platform and talked about a teacher of theirs who’d told Bee to go big, go big. “He told
everybody
to ‘go big’—the men, so we wouldn’t seem effeminate, and the women, well, for the same reason!” he said. “Whenever you see a male artist praised for ‘playing with scale,’ you can be pretty sure he went big, probably
too
big! Bridget never made that mistake. Her stuff was always on a human scale. That’s what I loved about it.”

Someone else piped up from the floor, reading from an index card she’d brought along (this event was anything but formal). I felt like an outsider at my own sister’s memorial! But I was pleased when somebody mentioned Bee’s
Primordial Egg
, an installation of hers I liked but had almost forgotten about. It had filled a whole room in some gallery. Bee had hung about a zillion little objects from the ceiling, all dunked in white paint: doorknobs, light bulbs, wooden spoons, cups, sunglasses, pencils, forks, scissors, bottles, bric-a-brac, baby shoes, and other crazy shit. They hovered, at about head height, on strings attached to pulleys, and when someone pulled on one of the white objects (spectator participation was encouraged), another white object somewhere else in the room would rise up: each item had its partner, and that partner was an egg, a white “primordial” egg. It was both funny and beautiful. Lit from above, it looked like a cherry orchard in full bloom. The guy at the memorial said he used to think Bee’s
Primordial Egg
was about death, but now thought it was about birth, the birth of the
universe
—before color got added.

Someone else stepped up to the platform and declared that Bee was a composer as well as a visual artist, because so many of her Coziness Sculptures included sound: children at play, crackling fires, creaking boats, croaking frogs, chack-chacking crickets. I’d never thought of it as music, just part of the nutty shit she came up with. I was always
scared
for Bee, scared that nobody else would get why she did those things. These people seemed to get it. They couldn’t get enough of it! I’d wasted a hell of a lot of time being protective of her, instead of just appreciating her. But now I was proud: Bee was a real hero to these people. The wrong person in our family was pushed, the wrong kind of success valued. I’d made money, while Bee just needed money. I should have given her my apartment—it was wasted on me, I was never home! It would have suited an artist too, all that light and space, and a whole roof to spread out on.

I remembered buying a small Coziness Sculpture that had an audio element. That was what made it interesting. Visually, it was very plain. All you saw was this bare wooden window frame, and behind it, a painted backdrop of red and yellow autumn foliage. But what you
heard
was the sound of rain falling lightly on wood. And I’d bought it and put it straight into storage. What a lousy brother.

Needing to share out some of the guilt, I glared at Bee’s dealer for giving that commission long ago to one of those jagged metal guys who work big. Then I turned my ire toward that big patootie Gertrude, because she hadn’t helped Bee when she could have. (Bee always loved the word, “patootie.”) But the truth was, with or without our help, Bee had accomplished more than most. While I’d regarded her as hapless, aimless, deluded and doomed, she’d been pumping out one much-loved sculpture after another! She
had
“done well,” if doing well wasn’t only about making money—she’d done all this for chrissake! She hadn’t waited for approval or permission from us patooties, she’d just plowed on. And all I could do for her now was not abandon her. I vowed I wouldn’t ban the thought of her from my mind to save myself pain—as I had when my parents died (in my father’s case,
before
he died). No, I wouldn’t kill Bee a second time. If I could be Mimi’s attorney, I could be my sister’s advocate.

Next up on the platform was Bee’s ex-husband, Hunter (the biggest kid that ever was). Get a load of this guy, hopping around, hopping on the old
bandwagon
. His personal connection to a victim in an international news story was just too good an opportunity to miss. Towering over us all, with his chest puffed out, at first flexing his hands like he was about to write us a ticket, then lowering them to his groin (the “fig leaf” position!), he announced, “I was married to Bridge.” (I’d forgotten Bee was his Bridge for three years.) “We were very much in love. She made herself a real part of the family. We just liked hanging out. Bridge was on a break from art at that time, she didn’t really care about all that stuff, she just wanted to have fun—”

I couldn’t stomach any more of this. “She was on a break from
civilization
, pal!” I yelled from the floor. “She wasn’t doing any art because you didn’t let her, you jerk.”

Was it the cop in Hunter, or the wife-beater, that led him to take a swipe at me over the heads of the crowd? He missed by a mile.

“Can’t push
her
around anymore, I guess, so it’ll have to be me,” I taunted. I was longing to get my hands on him too. I’d never stopped wanting to tear the guy limb from limb (and I’m a surgeon, I know how to do it!).

But nobody else seemed to want to watch us punch each other’s lights out, so Hunter was escorted to the exit, and I was allowed to remain, Hanafan’s brother taking precedence over Hanafan’s self-appointed widower. The speeches were over now anyway. While we toasted Bridget with champagne cocktails, the quartet started up with “Death and the Maiden.”

“You always were a goo
f
ball, Hanafan.”

I knew that tone. Who else would insult me at my sister’s memorial? Gus and Gertrude had made their way through the throng to bully me. But that wasn’t his only motive. He also wanted a favor. This was why he’d been trying to get in touch with me for months, bombarding me by letter, phone, and email. What Gus wanted, it turned out, wasn’t just a freebie, but some
sub rosa
surgery done on his face. For
Gertrude’s
benefit, he claimed (yet I knew his recent pestering of me
pre-dated
his dating her). It was all because of an ancient broken nose, he said, and. . . he didn’t want to get into the precise details right now, but he was hoping for some alterations to his hairline and ears, to fob off the cops in his furtive future. (Cops identify people by their ears more often than you might think.)

“So how about it, old buddy?” he asked.

“Sorry, Gus. No can do.”

“Aw, come on. Old times’ sake.”

“Nope.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

“Well, Gus. . . because I’m no longer a plastic surgeon.”

“Huh?”

“I quit!”

Gertrude’s hand leapt to her throat; and her mind to the issue of moola. “But, Harrison! How will you make a living?”

“Call this living?”

The quartet was in full flight as I left. The scratch of the pen, flick of the brush, scrape of the bow—this is when things start to happen.

I had lusted after quitting in my heart. I had dangled it like a carrot before my own nose whenever the going got tough. But it wasn’t until Gus requested my services that I knew my nascent love affair with quitting must finally be consummated. The prospect of remodeling that guy’s head for old times’ sake wasn’t my only reason—but it sure was a good one!

I still had an hour or two before I had to head for the airport, so I acquired some placatory gladioli for the nurses and receptionists, and headed on over to the office. Cheryl’s face fell as I explained my position. I refused to reconsider though, despite all her tears and entreaties, and was on my way out when I met Henry in the waiting room. There sat the classic assortment of potential victims, abjectly hoping to be augmented or whittled down,
perfected
by us in some way.

“Ah, Harrison. You’re here, are you?” old Henry asked me jovially.

“No, I’m not really here, Henry. I quit.”

“Ha ha ha. We were wondering when you’d deign to—”

“No, I mean it, Henry. I just quit. Ask Cheryl!”

“What?”

“This is me quitting, Henry. I quit!” I began to wonder if I would have to repeat the word “quit” seven times, as some presentation coaches recommend, before he’d take it in. I turned to our little audience and added, “I advise you all to do the same, folks. Get out while the going’s good!”

“Uh, Harrison, would you mind coming into my office—”

“Your office stinks, Henry. It gives me the heebie-jeebies! Think of all the pointless painful procedures people have endured in there! Life-endangering stuff, and all for what?! Nope, I’ve duped my last dope, Henry, you do what you want,” I said. And to the crowd, “You too!”

Henry spluttered, “For your information, this fellow, this fellow’s had a rough few weeks—”

I interrupted, to tell the baffled little crowd, “For your information, you’re
all
fuckworthy!—” I felt Henry’s hand like a big mitt coming over my mouth, but struggled free. “Yes, there’s nothing actually wrong with you people. Now, scat!” They stared. “Are you coming?” A few did rise to follow me, the Pissed Piper of plastic surgery, but I was too fast for them. I ran, ran out of that building. Free at last, free as a bird! I did feel like I was flying.

I’d never quit a job before, and had no idea how great it feels. Quitting is fabulous. I recommend it to everyone. I walked down the street and could
smell
things again, for the first time in years. The car fumes, the hot-dog stands, sweaty men in suits (or was that me?), flowers, perfume, dog shit, french fries. Jobs are all very well, but quitting feels soooo gooood.

Enough guff, enough rebuff. “To Grove Street, between Bedford and Bleecker, and step on it!”

I rang Mimi’s bell about a billion times, and howled up at her window, “Man
my
barricades! Or better yet, bare my mannicades!” But it was no good. No Mimi.

Mimì! Mimì!

At the airport, awaiting my flight, I sat at a bar, eating nuts and
going
nuts. Since Bee had died, I’d felt like a guy clinging to the wreckage in a hurricane. And they expected me to do my
job
at the same time! They wanted me to play the ready, steady doc, while the palm trees all around me were
bent sideways
, cars sailing past, people floating by on the roofs of their houses. . .
I was pleased with myself for finally recognizing the practical impossibility of all this. But, fearing any second thoughts, some failure of resolve, some unforeseen requirement to do the exact opposite, I jotted down on a napkin my reasons for quitting: