Taking Care (4 page)

Constance peered at Nora without answering. Nora said, “It’s as though nothing can
happen
when it’s all lit up like that. It’s as though everything
is.”

Constance looked at the wavering pools of light cast by the little candles. She had never known a mystic before.

“I enjoy things best that I don’t have to think about,” Nora said. “I mean, I get awfully sick of using my brain, don’t you? When you think of the world or of God, you don’t think of this gigantic brain, do you?”

“Certainly not,” Constance replied.

“Of course you don’t,” Nora said nicely.

The candles had different aromas. Finally, more or less in order, one after another, they went out. On Sunday, after Nora left with her mother, Constance missed her.

Constance was having difficulty sleeping. She would go to bed far earlier than anyone else, sometimes right after supper, and lie there and not sleep. Once she slept for a little while and had a dream in which the cart she was wheeling through the aisles of the A&P was a crash cart, a complete mobile cardiopulmonary resuscitation unit, of the kind she had seen in the corridors of the intensive-care wing at the hospital. In the dream, she bit her nails as she pushed the cart down the endless aisles, agonizing over her selections. She reached for a box of Triscuits and placed it in the cart between a box of automatic rotating cuffs and a defibrillator. Constance woke up, her own heart pounding. She listened to Ben’s quiet breathing for a moment; then she rolled out of bed, dressed and walked downtown. It was just before dawn and the streets were cool and quiet and empty, but someone, during the night, had pulled all the flowers out of the window boxes in front of the shops. Clumps of earth and broken petals made a ragged trail before her. The wreckage rounded a corner. Constance wished Ben were with her. They could just walk along, they wouldn’t have to say anything. Constance returned to the house and went back to bed. She
had another dream in which crews of workmen were cutting down all the trees around their home, back on the mainland, in another state.

The weekend that Gloria arrived was extremely foggy. Gloria was from the South. She was unsmiling and honest, a Baptist who had just left her husband for good. She had been in love with Steven since she was thirteen years old.

“My parents are Baptists,” Constance told her.

Fog slid through the screens. A voice from the street said, “Some dinner party, she served bluefish again!”

Gloria had little calling cards that showed Jesus knocking on the door of your heart. Jesus wore white robes and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He was rapping thoughtfully at the heavy wooden doors of a snug little vine-covered bungalow.

“I remember that picture!” Constance said. “When I was little, that picture just seemed to be everywhere.”

“Have one,” Gloria said.

The heart did not appear mean, it simply seemed closed. Constance wondered how long the artist had intended Jesus to have been standing there.

Gloria took Charlotte and Jill out to collect money to save marine mammals. They stood on the street and collected over thirty dollars in a Brim coffee can.

“Our salvation lies in learning to communicate with alien intelligences,” Gloria said.

Constance wrote a check.

“Whales and dolphins are highly articulate,” Gloria told Constance. “They know fidelity, play and sorrow.”

Constance wrote another check, made herself a gin and tonic and went upstairs. That night, from Steven’s room, she heard murmurs and moans in repetitive sequence.

The following day, Gloria asked, “Have you enjoyed sharing a house with Steven?”

“I haven’t seen much of him,” Constance said, “actually, at all.”

“Summer can be a difficult time,” Gloria said.

On the last day of August, Ben rented a bright red Jeep with neither top nor sides. Ben and Constance and Charlotte and Jill bounced around in it all morning, and at noon they drove on the beach to the very tip of the island, where the lighthouse was, to have their lunch. Approaching the lighthouse, Constance was filled with an odd excitement. She wanted to climb to the top. The steel door had been chained shut, but about four feet up from the base was a large hole knocked through the cement, and inside, beer cans, a considerable amount of broken glass and a lacy black wrought-iron staircase winding upward could be seen. Charlotte and Jill did not go in because they hadn’t brought their shoes, but Constance climbed through the hole and went up the staircase. There was a wonderful expectancy to the tight climb upward through the whitewashed gyre. She was a little breathless when she reached the top. Powering the light, in a maze of cables and connectors, were eighteen black, heavy-duty truck batteries. For a moment, Constance’s disappointment concealed her surprise. She saw the Atlantic fanning out without a speck on it, and her little family on the beach below, setting out food on a striped blanket. Constance inched out onto the catwalk encircling the light. “I love you!” she shouted. Ben looked up and waved. She went back inside and began her descent. She did not know, exactly, what it was she had expected, but it had certainly not been eighteen black, heavy-duty truck batteries.

In bed that night, Constance dreamed of people laughing. She opened her eyes. The clock beside her had large bright numbers which changed with an audible
flap
every minute. “Ben,” she whispered.

“Hi.” He was wide awake.

“I dreamed of laughing,” Constance said. “I want to laugh.”

“We’ll laugh tomorrow,” Ben said and grinned at his own joke. He turned her away from him and held her. She felt his mouth still smiling against her ear.

T
HERE
is Jane and there is Jackson and there is David. There is the dog.

David is burying a bird. He has a carton in which cans of garbanzos were once packed. It is a large carton, much too large for the baby bird. David is digging a hole beneath the bedroom window. He mutters and cries a little. He is spending Sunday morning doing this. He is five.

Jackson comes outside and says, “It’s too bad you didn’t find a dead swan. It would have fit better in that hole.”

Jackson is going to be an architect. He goes to school all day and he works as a bartender at night. He sees Jane and David on weekends. He is too tired in the morning to have breakfast with them. Jane leaves before nine. She sells imported ornaments in a Christmas shop, and Jackson is gone by the time Jane returns in the afternoon. David is in kindergarten all day. Jackson tends bar until long after midnight. Sometimes he steals a bottle of blended whiskey and brings it home with him. He wears saddle shoes and a wedding ring. His clothes are poor but he has well-shaped hands and nails. Jane is usually asleep when Jackson gets in bed beside her. He goes at her without turning on the light.

“I don’t want to wake you up,” he says.

Jackson is from Virginia. Once, a photograph of him in period dress appeared in
The New Yorker
for a
VISIT WILLIAMSBURG
advertisement. They have saved the magazine. It is in their bookcase with their books.

Jackson packs his hair down hard with water when he leaves the house. The house is always a mess. It is not swept. There are crumbs and broken toys beneath all the furniture. There are cereal bowls everywhere, crusty with soured milk. There is hair everywhere. The dog sheds. It is a collie, three years older than David. It is Jane’s dog. She brought it with her into this marriage, along with her Mexican bowls and something blue.

Jane could be pretty but she doesn’t know how to arrange her hair. She has violet eyes. And she prefers that color. She has three pots of violets in the living room on Jackson’s old chess table. They flourish. This is sometimes mentioned by Jackson. Nothing else flourishes as well here.

Whenever Jackson becomes really angry with Jane, he takes off his glasses and breaks them in front of her. They seem always to be the most valuable thing at hand. And they are replaceable, although the act causes considerable inconvenience.

Jane and David eat supper together every night. Jane eats like a child. Jane is closest to David in this. They are children together, eating junk. Jane has never prepared a meal in this house. She is as though in a seasonal hotel. This is not her life; she does not have to be this. She refuses to become familiar with this house, with this town. She is a guest here. She has no memories. She is waiting. She does not have to make anything of these moments. She is a stranger here.

She is waiting for Jackson to become an architect. His theories of building are realistic but his quest is oneiric, he tells her. He sometimes talks about “sites.”

They are getting rid of the dog. Jackson has been putting ads in the paper. He is enjoying this. He has been advertising for weeks. The dog is free and many people call. Jackson refuses all callers. For three weekends now, he and Jane have talked about nothing except the dog. They will simplify their life and they cannot stop thinking about it, this dog, this act, this choice that lies before them.

The dog has crammed itself behind the pipes beneath the
kitchen sink. David squats before him, blowing gently on his nose. The dog thumps its tail on the linoleum.

“We’re getting rid of you, you know,” David says.

It is Saturday evening and someone has stopped at the house to see the dog.

“Is he a full-blooded collie?” the person asks. “Does he have papers?”

“He doesn’t say,” Jackson smiles.

After all these years, six, Jane is a little confused by Jackson. She sees this as her love for him. What would her love for him be if it were not this? In turn, she worries about her love for David. Jane does not think David is nice-looking. He has many worries, it seems. He weeps, he has rashes, he throws up. He has pale hair, pale flesh. She does not know how she can go through all these days, each day, embarrassed for her son.

Jane and Jackson lie in bed.

“I love Sundays,” Jane says.

Jackson wears a T-shirt. Jane slips her hand beneath it and strokes his chest. She is waiting. She sometimes fears that she is waiting for the waiting to end, fears that she seeks and requires only that recognition and none other. Jackson holds her without opening his eyes.

It is Sunday. Jane pours milk into a pancake mix.

Something gummy is stuck in David’s hair. Jane gets a pair of scissors and cuts it out.

Jackson says, “David, I want you to stop crying so much and I want you to stop pretending to bake in Mommy’s cupcake tins.” Jackson is angry, but then he laughs. After a moment, David laughs too.

That afternoon, a woman and a little girl come to the house about the dog.

“I told you on the phone, I’d give you some fresh eggs for him.” the woman says, thrusting a child’s sand bucket at Jane. “Even if you decide not to give the dog to us, the eggs, of course, are still yours.” She pauses at Jane’s hesitation. “Adams,” the woman says. “We’re here for the ad.”

Jackson waves her to a chair and says, “Mrs. Adams, we seek
no personal aggrandizement from our pet. Our only desire is that he be given a good home. A great many people have contacted us and now we must make a difficult decision. Where will he inspire the most contentment and where will he find canine fulfillment?”

Jane brings the dog into the room.

“There he is, Dorothy!” Mrs. Adams exclaims to the little girl. “Go over and pet him or something.”

“It’s a nice dog,” Dorothy says. “I like him fine.”

“She needs a dog,” Mrs. Adams says. “Coming over here, she said, ‘Mother, we could bring him home today in the back of the car. I could play with him tonight.’ Oh, she sure would like to have this dog. She lost her dog last week. A tragedy. Kicked to death by one of the horses. Must have broken every bone in his fluffy little body.”

“What a pity!” Jackson exclaims.