She Is Me (20 page)

What?
She gazed out at him from the confused, outraged heat of her embarrassment, helplessly, angrily blushing. Then she thought, The county fair? It was perfect the way it was. And most of it was quoted directly from the novel.

“By about half, do you think?” Volfmann was saying. He had moved back to his desk. “Or three-quarters?”

“No way —”

“Do you know how lucky you are?” he yelled. “I’m giving you a course in screenwriting, and I’m paying you for it. I don’t even
look
at scripts until they’re ready to shoot.”

His face softened, became thoughtful, and he continued in a normal voice. “Why am I doing it? I wonder. You think it’s a midlife crisis? Well, better
Madame Bovary
than a Porsche.” He walked around the perimeter of his office, tapping things, stopping to idly open and close a drawer, running his fingers along the back of the long sofa, like a dog marking its territory. “So, now, economy, okay? In the scene? In every scene. And the scene has got to do more than one thing? And there’s no, how can I say this?
Feeling.
There’s no fucking feeling.”

Volfmann stood before her, looking down at her silently. She was exhausted. She hated him. She saw a rather tender expression in his face, thought,
Go away! I don’t want to like you now!;
then thought,
Yes, I do,
then,
But that scene was so good,
and said, “So, basically, it sucks?”

“Sucks, doesn’t suck—what’s the difference?” he yelled. “We have a story to tell!”

When Greta had suggested they go to services for Yom Kippur, Tony groaned and declared he couldn’t bear to sit for hours and then listen to a rabbi appeal for funds for Israel and the new lobby for the Hebrew School. Then he seemed to remember, almost in midsentence, that Greta had cancer and might naturally seek Solace in Religion, as so many Victims of Serious Illness do.

“Well, who knows,” he had added quickly. “Maybe things have changed. And a little atoning never hurt anybody.”

Elizabeth and Josh looked at her guiltily, saying of course they would go if she really wanted to, but since Yom Kippur was kind of a sad day, shouldn’t they go to a fun movie instead?

Lotte had simply snorted. “The bastards,” she added. “The dirty rotten hypocrites.”

Greta wanted to shake them, to dig her fingers into their arms and shake them. Don’t you see? she wanted to scream. I have to go. I carry a heavy weight. My conscience burns with guilt. I am an adulteress, a liar, a cheat. A wanton harlot. I have betrayed all that is dear to me. I need to bare my soul.

“Sometimes, I feel so guilty,” she told Daisy. “I kind of thought of going to synagogue this year. Only the Kol Nidre. I could rend my garments while I listen.”

Daisy had turned out to be more than Greta had bargained for. Greta had longed for her, for her touch, for her presence. But she had somehow not imagined friendship. Now she had a lover who was her closest friend, the one she gossiped with about her lover.

Daisy put her arms around Greta. They lay in bed in Daisy’s bedroom, a tiny cubicle with high ceilings. A ledge ran around part of the room on which sat dozens of papier-mâché Mexican
puta
dolls, each one with legs spread, her name painted across her bosom, real earrings hanging from her ears. Elena was a blonde. Estella, too. Gloria had black hair and green earrings. Anna, a tiny blonde, wore red. Flor’s turquoise outfit had pink flowers and glitter. They all had painted shoes and little white painted socks. Greta found their garish colors and bored, harsh Kewpie faces frightening. She turned her face into Daisy, relieved by the warmth.

“I hate it that you feel guilty,” Daisy said.

“But I am guilty.”

“I hate that, too.”

Greta thought, How dare you hate that? That’s who I am, that’s the only part of me you know.

“If you hate that, you hate me,” she said, furious. And they proceeded to have a fight.

“Guilt is a useless emotion,” Daisy said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? That you’re uncomfortable? So am I. So what?”

“And you think you’ll find solace praying? You’re as bad as Madame Bovary —”

“This is not your movie, Daisy.”

“
She
went to a priest. And you know what he talked about? A sick cow!”

“Who said I wanted to fucking pray, anyway? Did I ever say that?”

“And then the priest said, ‘It is indigestion, no doubt . . . You must get home, Madame Bovary; drink a little tea, that will strengthen you, or else a glass of fresh water with a little moist sugar.’”

Daisy said these words in an exaggerated French accent that forced Greta to laugh, which further infuriated her, so that she tried to play out the quarrel awhile longer.

Whenever Greta fought with Tony, he became either baffled or disgusted, and left her alone while she cried. Later, he would comfort her. When she fought with Daisy, Daisy ended up crying. And Greta ended up crying. Then they both ended up comforting each other.

“It’s very strenuous,” Greta said, kissing the tears that trembled on Daisy’s eyelashes. Daisy dabbed at Greta’s nose with a tissue.

“Yeah,” she said. “Women are a pain.”

Greta held Daisy tight, pressing her face against Daisy’s, hard; desperate, suddenly, wanting to cross the boundary of skin against skin.

“I don’t know how long I can do this,” she said, her voice muffled.

“Don’t leave me,” Daisy whispered.

Greta held her even tighter.

“It isn’t you I’m thinking about leaving.”

They fell asleep, as tired as if they’d had sex. When Greta woke up, Daisy was snoring gently, like a cat. Greta touched the black hair splayed on the pillow.

How did this happen? she wondered. I wish this had never happened. Thank God this happened. What is it that’s happened?

Daisy opened her eyes. “Why don’t you just come to
my
synagogue with
me?
” she said. “But would that be atoning? Or further sinning?”

“You’re Jewish?”

For a second, Greta felt absurdly elated. As if that made it all right, as if that made everything all right, as if now her mother would approve and her children would give their blessing and Tony would say, “I’m so proud! A nice Jewish girl!”

There were times when Elizabeth, having dinner with her grandmother, watched the food Lotte had just chewed come out a gap near her nose where a scar that refused to heal was separating. Elizabeth would lean forward with a tissue and quickly wipe the stuff away, hoping Grandma Lotte wouldn’t notice she was leaking orange Jell-O.

Greta lay on the couch. She felt tears running down her cheeks, but could not for the life of her imagine where they were coming from. The nausea cradled her, a malevolent, suffocating embrace.

“Maybe you really should smoke some grass,” Tony said. He stood over her. “I can get some. Medical grade.” She waved him away.

“I can get you some Kytril.”

“Leave me alone,” she said. She said it sharply, more sharply than she intended. Her eyes closed. She meant to keep them open. She had a date.

“I have an appointment . . .” she said, almost a whisper.

“You try to do too much.”

If everyone would just be quiet, she thought. She opened her eyes. “Bring me the phone?”

“Let me call for you.”

Tony put his hand on her forehead, first the palm, then, turning it as if he were taking a child’s temperature, the back of his hand. I know you like the back of my hand, Greta thought. She tried to remember the back of her hand. Or his.

“No,” she said.

She felt herself sinking into the heavy, deadly sleep. No, Tony. You can’t call for me. She sensed Tony had turned, was leaving the room, but she could not make her eyes open again. She thought, Even the swooning misery of exhaustion, even the swooning misery of nausea, even the two miseries swooning together as they tremble before the ultimate swoon of death, even they cannot conquer the swooning misery of guilt.

“So, is this
supposed
to be bad?” Volfmann said.

Elizabeth was grateful they were on the phone, not in the same room. He was yelling. “It’s a fucking bodice ripper.”

“It’s fucking straight from Flaubert,” she said.

“And I’ve fucking told you a thousand fucking times that I didn’t hire fucking Flaubert. Because Flaubert is dead! Flaubert is a novelist. A dead novelist. And I don’t want a dead novelist. And if I did I wouldn’t hire you. I’d hire goddamned fucking Flaubert. Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder it’s bad. ‘Straight from Flaubert, straight from Flaubert . . .’” He imitated her voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Where’s that goddamned dyke when you need her, huh? What am I paying you people for? For shit? I make my own shit. I don’t need your shit.”

Elizabeth said nothing.

“Shit,” he said. He sounded exhausted. “Just fix it, Professor. Do you understand me?”

Elizabeth didn’t understand him at all. He was inexplicably patient one day, attentive and tender; cold and abusive the next.

“I’ll fix it,” she said.

Was it possible she had been attracted to this snarling bully? At least she hadn’t let him make her cry. That was a point of pride. She hung up, more angry than shaken, until she read the pages over. Then her anger flipped, like a switch, to shame, and she lay down and pulled a pillow over her head.

“Why are you in bed?” Harry asked. “With all your clothes on?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Oh.”

He climbed in beside her.

“You’re very sweet,” she said. “Very, very sweet.” She put her arms around him and thought that this was the only love worthy of the name.

“You’re not an idiot,” he said, patting her back just the way Greta did. “You’re just being silly.”

Lotte’s cancer continued to spread, and she sat every day in her chair staring vacantly in the direction of the window. She stopped calling Greta. The phone pressed too painfully against her face. Kougi convinced her to try the speakerphone, but the crackling voice on the other end and her own shouting tired and depressed her. The newspaper bored her. Television was loud and vulgar and made little sense. She ordered a pair of slippers from Saks and felt better for an hour or so. Then the heaviness of the day descended back upon her shoulders. She ate Rice Krispies with slices of banana for breakfast. She ate Cream of Wheat for lunch. For dinner, she tried to swallow little pieces of poached chicken, but they made her gag and she settled for hot water with a drop of cranberry juice. Sometimes the cranberry juice gave her diarrhea, but Kougi said she had to try. She ate a Milano cookie every night. That was her greatest pleasure. Then she lay awake and prayed for all of her loved ones, one by one, going down the list. God, you cruel son of a bitch, take care of my daughter, Greta, what the hell is going on with her, damnit? Don’t you let anything happen to her, and all the while dirty gangster criminals like that Ali Baba who blew up the World Trade Center, and that lousy Woody Allen, what he did to his nice wife, she’s a beautiful woman, he should rot in hell . . .

Eventually, she would advance through the list until she got to herself.

Now listen to me, God. I’m old. I’ve done everything. I’ve seen everything. I’ve lived my life. But I’m not ready yet, goddamnit, and that’s just the way it is. Amen. No disrespect intended, excuse my French.

It had to happen sometime, Elizabeth knew that. Still, she missed Harry when he started going to school.

Four houses down, in a Mediterranean-style bungalow, there lived a pleasant family with a little girl named Alexandra. Harry and Alexandra were the same age and had become friends, splashing in the blow-up pool Alexandra’s parents kept in the front yard. Alexandra went to the Little Palms Play School every day from nine until one, and Harry had begged to join her there.

Elizabeth had, in fact, longed for Harry to be at school. So much better than hanging around sick people and parents who were always trying to sneak in an hour or two of work, stealing tourmaline rings, or sucking oysters with manic-depressive producers.

She watched a California jay, black and gray and a beautiful blue, sit on the branch of a skinny tree. It sat there, every day, on the same branch, at about noon and then again at four in the afternoon. And every day a squirrel would join the jay and chase it away from the branch. Then the jay would come back and dive at the squirrel, which would run away to the garden next door. They would repeat their dance for up to half an hour, then both disappear. Elizabeth watched the jay crack open a seed it held with its foot and her thoughts turned confusingly to Daniel Day-Lewis. Oh yes, painting with his left foot. That was such a good movie.
Mrs. B
would be nothing like that. Not only would her script be nothing like
Madame Bovary,
it would be nothing like
My Left Foot.
It would be nothing like so many good things.

The squirrel and the jay were noisily playing, and it was time, at last, to go and get Harry. There were a great number of feet in
Madame Bovary,
at any rate. She must remember to pay attention to them. What, for example, was she going to do with Hippolyte and his clubfoot? She couldn’t give him a clubfoot. Not in the twenty-first century. Not in Hollywood. It wouldn’t make any sense at all. And yet there had to be some ambitious medical project for Barbie to push her poor husband into. An ambitious medical project. Perhaps Charles Bovary could cure Grandma Lotte.

A patient, her face wrapped in bandages like the Mummy, sits in a chair holding a mirror. Dr. Chuck Bovaine stands behind her unwrapping the bandages, slowly, slowly. ELIZABETH, sitting on the bed, watches. GRETA is in the bed.

The doctor pulls off the last bandage. WE SEE . . . (in black and white) Humphrey Bogart’s face . . .

Maybe he could help Greta instead. She had been so moody lately, mute and lethargic one minute, beaming and vibrant the next. Obviously she was making some sort of great life-affirming push, a bulwark against death. The traffic light turned green and Elizabeth accelerated too quickly. The tires squealed. And I didn’t say “death” because that’s what’s going to happen, you know, she thought.