Our Father (45 page)

I wanted to be him.

Maybe I was lucky to be born a woman. If I’d been male, maybe I would have become him.

She shuddered, turned to her side, turned to the other side, sat up, lighted a cigarette.

You hate those you harm, Alex said, more than they hate you, but I don’t hate him tonight, for the first time in years I don’t hate him.

No hate. Just …

A great emptiness had settled inside her, a yawning space like a black sigh, a uterus opened wide to contain life that would never contain life, that would never be filled, never hold anything but space, that would always be open wide, waiting. …

She hadn’t drawn her drapes and she gazed out at the night sky, dark, the moon already sunk below the trees, no stars.

He will never …

Never what? What had I hoped for?

A child’s dream, no, a baby’s, even by the time I was four or five I knew better, knew he never would. A baby’s dream, a baby’s demand, pick me up, hold me, keep me warm, keep me safe. …

Not just that. He will never acknowledge that I loved him, never allow my love for him to have any meaning.

Her face was soaking now, and she wiped it dry with her sheet, which fell back damp on her naked chest.

Amazing. I managed to find the perfect lover for me: he never touched me beyond a chaste kiss on the forehead, cold it always was, wonder what kind of lover he was with men, so cold his body always, his hands, his lips, did they warm up when he was with them, what did he look like when he felt passion, such cold eyes, only heated up when we argued, ideas made him passionate, conversations, years of conversations, our only form of intercourse. …

He was probably the most I could have. That’s why I gave in to his blackmail, his coercion. Wonder if somehow he knew how I was, knew what I didn’t. …

What kind of marriage could I have had, how long before the man I married turned into Father, hot damp hands on my body, me weeping, or later on, just numb, silent, Father’s body always so hot, so wet, rubbing against mine, the tortured cry when he came, how I hated it, the hot pulsing liquid I could feel it even though he at least used a condom, impregnating his daughter
would
violate his code.

The opposite of Clare, hot hands, hot eyes, although they could be cold too, as cold as Clare’s. Mine too, some people say I have cold eyes. Wide mouth, big teeth Father had: Clare’s face was delicate, fine-featured, fine blond hair. …

But suppose I’d married … whomever. Can’t picture myself a mother, couldn’t be a mother, don’t know how, don’t want to be one, I would hate any child of mine. … Lucky I never did it, lucky for them, the blessed unborn. … Can’t picture myself a wife either, why should I be one, what is a wife but an unpaid servant and whore, a breeder of sons to inherit men’s property? I was wise, I made the right choices. I made the best choices available to me.

Available.

It isn’t that I haven’t had a life. News photos of those Ethiopian Jews escaping into Israel, women under twenty wizened and sick, carrying babies that are just a collection of bones, holding them, clutching them, people in Bhopal in the news today, what about their lives, millions and millions of people across the world starving to death, poisoned, tortured, imprisoned, and even they would say: I had a life.

Life’s a bitch and then you die. Someone put that on a T-shirt.

If you consider the lives millions of people have, I’ve been lucky I guess, despite Father. Suppose I’d had a father like my mother’s, Grampa Callahan? Would things have been any better for me? Would have been nice to have a mother who knew how to love me, though, that would have made a difference. Have to call her this afternoon, she’ll crow, the old bitch, revenge at last, I outlived the bastard, get that bequest.

Her face was wet again, and she turned on her side and rubbed her cheek on the pillowcase. She closed her eyes.

Try to think of one kind thing they did, either of them, either one. Once.

She searched her memory.

He put me on a horse once. Helped me up, told me how to sit, hold the reins. Archangel, the horse was called. Told McCutcheon—that was his name!—to hold the reins, walk me in a circle. Watched. Said “Good, Elizabeth.” Smiled. I thought he smiled because the trainer was there, but maybe not. Maybe not.

Bought me a book once. Came back from a trip, handed me this book in a paper bag, said he’d thought I might like it. I was nine.
Arabian Nights
. Funny. Was he already planning …

Don’t count that one.

She gave up her bridge club to save money to send me to Catholic school, knowing that would force him to pay for private school. And she loved her bridge club. Never rejoined, though. Gambling with those rich women too expensive for her, really, even if she is a super player. She wanted me educated well. Sacrificed for it. Sent me a little allowance the whole time I was in England. Probably ate canned soup to do it.

I remember her holding me, once, when I was little. Once? Must have held me when I was a baby, mustn’t she? With love?

There were good things. I just don’t tend to hold on to them, I clutch the others, harbor hate.

I condemn you to die of your own hatred. …

I had Clare. All in all, Clare was a good thing.

I had my career. Have my career.

Them. I have them now, don’t I.

My sisters.

She slept.

Mary went through her entire evening regimen despite the late hour, weeping through her shower, weeping as she creamed her face so that the tears cut through the cream, making her laugh and finally give up. She went straight to her chaise and opened her small cloisonné box of marijuana (should have known Christine would have a supplier, she always had the best junk at Peabrain’s) and rolled a joint. She leaned back, inhaled deeply, stared out at darkness against darkness.

A sob burst out of her. She let herself retch sobs for a few moments, then stopped, blew her nose, wiped her face. She got up, dropped the wet handkerchief on the dresser top, and found a clean one in a drawer. She stuck it in her pocket and returned to her chaise. She took another toke, but the sobs returned and she bent her head over in her hands, laying the cigarette in an ashtray.

Oh Daddy.

He’d come into her bed when she was little and alone and frightened because Mommy was gone and he’d snuggled with her and held her and then he did those other things she didn’t like but still he would lie there with her, holding her, he was so warm, his body was always hot, hot and wet, and when she was shivering he kept her warm, keeping my little Mary warm, he said, and she’d hold on to him and she would feel safe well kind of safe because she never knew when he’d start the other and sometimes he did it but stayed anyway until she fell asleep. …

Later, of course, it was different. When she was grown. Making a woman of you he said. Fussing over her breasts, they were big even then, her ass, he loved her ass he said, so round and shapely. I was numb. Just lay there like a rag doll, same with Harry and Paul, Alberto excited me a bit at first but really all he liked to do was turn me over and ram into me from behind. Just a rag doll, my whole life, porcelain head, rag body. Except with Don.

What Daddy taught me.

Even so, I loved him so much, loved him, loved him. … Can’t stop loving him.

We killed him tonight, I suppose. Not that he would have lived much longer anyway. In a way, it was a service to him, he probably would have preferred to die than live that way but he never said anything, never even hinted, get me pills. … I wonder if he still has that gun he showed me, I wonder where it is. I wouldn’t have helped him die. Would have said the hell with you, I’m not going to prison for you you bastard you ruined my life you ruined me for life, I wouldn’t do you the favor. …

Yet I did it after all. Funny.

The sobs erupted again, deep retching spasms that seemed to come from her stomach, that bent her double in pain, drenched her face. She tried to control them, and they gradually subsided. She used her handkerchief, soaked it, got up, dropped it on the dresser top and reached for a fresh one. Then she gazed at the wet, wrinkled handkerchiefs.

Really miserable for Teresa to have to pick up a hankie full of my snot isn’t it.

She collected several wet handkerchiefs from where she had dropped them, carried them into the bathroom, filled the sink basin with hot water and dropped them in. At least that way they won’t be snotty.

She returned to the chaise and reached for her joint but it was smoked down, not even a roach left. She rolled a fresh one, leaned back, tried to feel luxurious, pampered, cared for, but she couldn’t, she was uncomfortable, the chaise back was not really very comfortable however graceful and lovely it appeared and the cushions wouldn’t stay in place. She sat up straight, peered out.

That daddy’s been dead for decades. Now Father’s dead. He was old, he had a long full life, he had everything he ever wanted, it’s okay. Why do I crave, what do I … the sobs reached her throat again, but she forced them down.

If he doesn’t leave me enough money, I’ll just sell the apartment and move in with Lizzie, with what I have left over after the debts are paid I could live a long time if I kept my bills down, I can practice the piano, Lizzie likes it anyway she works all day, and I can write poetry, there are people there to do things with, lunches, museums, it’s perfectly acceptable two sisters our age living together, it makes perfect sense, Alex can even come to visit us, she lives near there, we can have get-togethers, we can find some exquisite jewel of a house in Falls Church like the one Alice Willie lived in years ago, huge garden, huge trees, a little Japanese bridge over a brook. …

I don’t have to have another husband.

The thought shocked her into utter stillness. She held the joint stiffly for so long it went out.

I don’t have to do that again. Ever. I don’t ever have to act as if I think a man is wonderful when I don’t, don’t have to pretend to be stupid, don’t ever have to lie there in the bed. … Unless I meet someone like Don, someone I feel that way about, someone I feel that way about oh if only I would. …

She stared at the black window.

The image of her daughter’s face appeared in the darkness.

My god how I’ve abandoned her. Like my own mother, with less excuse, I’m still alive if you can call it that. …

Lizzie would never want a kid living with us. And Marie-Laure’s such a slob, expects the maid to pick up her underclothes even. Never washed a dish in her life, doesn’t even help Marguerite when we’re at Marty’s house at holidays, just goes inside and turns on television or picks up a magazine, doesn’t even read books, of course it’s true Marguerite has plenty of help in the kitchen but still.

Well, neither did you until a month ago.

Marie-Laure’s pale sulky face looked now in her mother’s imagination like a face of pain, a face of longing, a silent cry. …

Mary got up and went to the bedside table where the telephone lay and dialed her daughter’s number. After a long time, a sleepy voice answered.

“Marie-Laure. Dear? Yes, it’s Mama. Mom. Your mother. I know, I’m sorry, I know you must have been sound asleep, but I needed to call you, I needed to talk to you. No, of course I haven’t gotten married again, what put such an idea in your head? You know I’m at Grandpa’s. I wanted to tell you”—Mary’s voice broke—“he died tonight.” She sobbed, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone.

The young sleepy voice on the other end was silent. After a time, she said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mary said feelingly. “I haven’t called the boys yet, I’ll do that tomorrow. I just wanted to hear your sweet voice.”

The silence on the line was shocked. “Will you be all right?” the young voice finally asked falteringly.

“Oh yes, of course, my sisters are here. I want you to meet them all, you should have come here for Thanksgiving, it was just … well, you know, he was still in the hospital … you’ve never met Alex or Ronnie. Ronnie’s near your age.”

“Ronnie? Who’s she?”

“Oh. Well, she’s another sister.”

“I didn’t know you had another sister.”

“Neither did I,” Mary lied.

“REALLY!” The voice grew excited now.

“I’ll tell you all about it some other time. Go back to sleep now. I just wanted you to know.”

“Did Grandpa leave you lots of money?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER???? Haven’t you been …”

“Yes. Yes. But everything’s different now. I’m different now.”

“Umm,” the voice agreed.

“I’m going to come to see you. Soon.”

The voice was not overwhelmed with joy. “You are?”

“I am,” Mary said firmly.

“Well. Okay. I’m sorry about Grandpa.”

“Thanks, dear.”

Silence.

“All right. I’m going to be able to sleep now, darling. Will you be able to go back to sleep?”

“Sure.”

“Sleep well, baby.”

Mary put down the phone, slid into bed, and slept. Like a baby.

Alex was still wearing the dress she had worn earlier in the evening, a heavy jersey she had bought because she had felt it appropriate to the role of a judge. Now she saw it as the dress in which she had killed her father. She was pacing in her bedroom, arms akimbo, head bowed, trying to reach a place where her heart could rest. Talking to it, the spirit, the Shechinah dwelling within her, angry, tearful.

Avenging angel is that what you wanted of me put me here for was that it? What kind of job is that to give a person, without giving her a choice, it is not ever what I wanted to be, wouldn’t have been it if I’d known. …

She was not speaking aloud but occasionally sounds emerged from her mouth, angry mutterings, gasps, a sob, a hiss. After half an hour, she suddenly stopped, almost ripped the dress off her body, threw it on the floor, threw all her clothes on the floor as she stripped and headed for the shower. She turned the water on as hot as she could bear, stood there soaping herself over and over for as long as she could stand it. Then she rubbed her body with a rough towel hard. She was red from face to toes when she stopped, exhausted, looked at her watch.