The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg (100 page)

Bill was just standing there with his arms folded. At least I send the occasional note, he said. And please don’t pretend you don’t know what a portfolio is. Please, please don’t.

We looked at each other for a long, empty moment. The Corot will have to be sold, he said.

Sold
, I said.

Well, I don’t know why it should have made a difference to me. Sold, not sold—it wasn’t as if I could have hung the thing up on our stained, peeling wall or whatever. But still! That word—sold! It’s like inadvertently knocking over a glass!

Sold, Bill said. The jewelry’s already been sold. Eek, I said. Who knew. Oops, sorry, you did, I get it, I get it, I get it, I abase myself and so on. Bill cleared his throat. Anyhow, he said.

He gestured at the cloth-draped room. Obviously, there’s a lot of stuff left, but none of it’s worth anything to speak of. Peggy’s researched pretty thoroughly. Still, if there’s anything you want, now’s the time to claim it.

Now’s the time
.
Now’s the time
. Who wants to hear that about anything? Thanks, I said.

Was there anything of Nana’s I’d ever particularly coveted? I closed my eyes. Wow, to think that Nana had been showing Eileen that clipping of me and and my tree and my painting! Okay, so maybe the project hadn’t been so effective, but at least there’d been a clipping! Had Nana been proud? Did she think I looked nice? Wait a minute, I said, Nana’s still alive! You get no argument from me there, Bill said. But how much of this stuff do you think she’s going to be using from now on? Do you think she’ll be using the tea service, for example?

The tea service? I said. Do you want the tea service? he said. The tea service! I said. That great, big, hulking, silver thing? What on earth would I do with the tea service? How on earth do you think Jeff and I are living, out there in the woods? Calm down, Lucille, Bill said, for heaven’s sake. Please don’t go Dad’s route.

Why on earth are we talking about the tea service? I yelled. Excuse me a minute.

I went into the kitchen, where Eileen was sitting, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and clattered some ice cubes into it from a tray in the freezer. Excuse me, I said. Help yourself, dear, Eileen said.

There was a printed notice stuck to the door of the fridge with a magnet that looked like a cherry. Do Not Resuscitate, the notice said. Oh, shit, I said.

Eileen nodded. She’s a lovely lady, your grandmother, she said, but I just kept looking at her, as though I were going to see something other than a nurse in a white uniform sitting there.

When I went back out to the dining room it appeared that Bill had gone back to the others, so I made a pit stop at the cruh-
den
-za to fill my glass and returned to the living room myself.

Anyhow, we weren’t talking about the tea service, Bill said,
you
were talking about the tea service.

The tea service? Peggy said.

Want it? I said.

That’s so sweet of you, hon, Peggy said.

Bill flashed an expression just like one of Dad’s—pure gleeful, knowing malevolence. He’d obviously stopped by the good old credenza himself again and was gulping away at his tumbler. Eileen came in and helped Nana drink a glass of water with something in it to make it thick enough for her to swallow, and gave her a pill. A little water dribbled from the corner of Nana’s mouth. Nana didn’t appear to notice it. Eileen wiped it away, and then wiped at something leaking from Nana’s eye. Melinda had her hands over her ears. Those
airplanes
! she said, I can’t stand the sound of those
airplanes
! Why are there so many airplanes here?

Oh, don’t fuss, Melinda, Peggy said, there are airports in New York City, and so naturally there are airplanes. And in any case, that’s a helicopter, Bill said. Is it going to drop a bomb on us? Melinda said. Don’t be silly, sweetie, Peggy said, they’re not dropping bombs on us, we’re dropping bombs on them.

Helicopters don’t drop bombs, Melinda, Bill said, they’re probably looking for someone. Who? Melinda said. The police, Bill said, hear those sirens? No, but who are the policemen looking
for
? Melinda said with her hands over her ears again. How would your mother and I know who the policemen are looking for? Bill said. Some criminal, I suppose.

Melinda flopped over, facedown onto the sofa, and let out a muffled wail. Just calm down, please, Melinda, Peggy said. You’re upsetting your great-grandmother. Melinda cast a glance at Nana, who was gazing levelly at the images I’d seen earlier of the gracefully exploding building. I wondered where the building was—what country, for instance.

Things were always occurring suddenly and decisively inside the TV. Another building, for example, was just getting sheared off as we watched, from an even taller one standing next to it. Why is everyone always so mad at me? Melinda said.

I’m not mad at you, I said. Are you mad at Melinda? I asked Bill and Peggy. Of course not, Peggy said. You are, too, Melinda said. We are not
angry
with you, Peggy said. And I’ve told you repeatedly that when you pay for the paint job, you can put tape wherever you like.

I was doing it for you! Melinda said. I was just doing it for you! She turned to me. It said to do it, she said. It said to get tape and put plastic over the windows because of the poison, and my sitter was up in my room with her boyfriend so I got the tape from the drawer and some garbage bags, and then Stacy was mad at me, too, even though I didn’t tell that she and Brett were upstairs having—

I don’t want you talking like that, Peggy said. About Stacy or anyone else, young lady. Girls in real life don’t behave like television floozies. I’m limiting your viewing time.

What did I
say
, what did I
say
? Melinda said and lapsed into loud, tearing wails that sounded like she was ripping up a piece of rotting fabric. Stop it, Melinda! Peggy said. Stop that right this instant—You’re getting hysterical!

She’s so theatrical, Peggy said to me, rolling her eyes. She put her arms around Melinda, who continued crying loudly. There’s no reason to get so
excited
, Melinda, she said, you’re just overtired.

Soldiers were marching across the screen again. Peggy was gazing at them absently, her chin resting on Melinda’s soft hair. Was Melinda going to be a numbskull like her parents? I wondered, but then I reminded myself how much stress Peggy and Bill were under, worrying about Nana all the time, and whatever. Peggy was looking so tired and sad, just gazing droopily at the screen. She sighed. I sighed. She sighed. Do you remember when people could have veal chops whenever they wanted? she said. Bill had a yen for veal chops yesterday, so I went to the market and I practically had to take out a
mortgage
.

Are we poor? Melinda said, and hiccuped. Ask your mother, Bill said, looking like Dad again. Peggy glared at him.

I was trying to remember what Nana wrote in her little book on currency…
fixed, floating, imports, exports, economies
…And then I tried to remember what exactly had happened in the last wars we’d fought, or anyhow, in the last vaguely recent ones—just who exactly was involved, and so on. So many facts! So much new information always coming out about these things, after they’ve occurred. It’s pretty hard to keep straight just what’s been destroyed where and how many were killed. Well, I guess it’s not that hard for the people who live in those places. And Jeff always has a pretty solid grasp on that stuff, and Nana sure used to…I wondered what she thought she was looking at now, if she thought she was actually seeing back, seeing pictures from her own life—memories, the inside of her own head…She seemed to be focusing on the screen so intently, as if she were concentrating on some taxing labor. Really working out what that screen was showing. Well, that was Nana! Always work work work work work. There was the sheared-off building, and the tall one still standing right next to it. I wondered what that tall building was, and I wondered what she thought it was. It looked like an office building, with black windows. Maybe Nana thought Death’s office was there, behind those black windows. Maybe she pictured Death as a handsome old man in uniform, sitting at his desk and going over his charts and graphs. Behind him she’d be seeing a huge map with pins in it and his generals, with those familiar, familiar faces. He’d look tired—so much to do!—and sad. He wouldn’t notice the glass tear leaking from his glass eye.

Guess we’ll all be going together one of these days, Bill said. Swell, I said. You know, guys, I’m really tired. I’m going to go back downtown to Juliette’s. We can talk over everything tomorrow, okay?

Do you have enough money for a taxi, Lulu? Bill said.

Do I have enough money for a taxi? Of course I have enough money for a taxi, I said. I was wishing I hadn’t spent most of my last check before Jeff’s funding was cut on those white Courrèges go-go boots. But discounts are about the only perk of my job, and I do have to say that the boots look pretty fabulous. Anyhow, I said, I’m going to take the subway.

The subway! Peggy said. Don’t be
insane
, Lulu.

Don’t die, Aunt Lulu! Melinda said.

For pity’s sake, Melinda, Peggy said. No one’s going to
die
.

Was I ever hoping that Wendell had finished trying to tenderize Juliette and I could just flop down on her futon!
No rest for the wicked,
Dad used to say, chortling, as he’d head out for a night on the town. (Or for the saintly, is what Jeff has to say about
that
, or for the morally indecipherable.)

Oh, look—Peggy said, pointing to the screen, where a grinning person in a white coat was standing near some glass beakers and holding what looked like a little spool—I think they must be talking about that new thread!

What new thread, what new thread? Melinda said.

That new thread, Peggy said. I read an article about this new thread that’s electronic. Electronic? I think that’s right. Anyhow, they’ve figured out how to make some kind of thread that’s able to sense your skin temperature and chemical changes and things. And they’re going to be able to make clothes that can monitor your body for trouble, so that if you have conditions, like diabetes, I think, or some kind of dangerous conditions, your clothes will be able to register what’s going on and protect you.

That’s
great
, huh, Granana, Melinda said. She threw her little arms around Nana, who closed her eyes as if she were finally taking a break.

I float back in.

The wall brightens, dims, brightens faintly again—a calm pulse, which mine calms to match, of the pale sun’s beating heart. Outside, the sky is on the move—windswept and pearly—spring is coming from a distance. In its path, scraps of city sounds waft up and away like pages torn out of a notebook. Feather pillows, deep carpet, the mirror a lake of pure light—no imprints, no traces; the room remembers no one but us. “Do we have to be careful about the time?” he says.

The voice is exceptional, rich and graceful. I turn my head to look at him. Intent, reflective, he traces my brows with his finger, and then my mouth, as if I were a photograph he’s come across, mysteriously labeled in his own handwriting.

I reach for my watch from the bedside table and consider the dial—its rectitude, its innocence—then I understand the position of the hands and that, yes, rush-hour traffic will already have begun.

I pull into the driveway and turn off the ignition. Evening is descending, but inside no lights are on. The house looks unfamiliar.

It looks to me much the way it did when I saw it for the first time, years ago, before it was ours, when it was just a house the Realtor brought us to look at, all angles and sweep—flashy, and rather stark. John took to it immediately—I saw the quick alliance, his satisfaction as he ran his hand across the granite and steel. I remember, now, my faint embarrassment; I’d been taken by surprise to discover that this was what he wanted, that this was something he must have more or less been longing for.

I can just make out the shadowy figure upstairs in our bedroom. I allow myself to sit for a minute or so, then I get out of the car and close the door softly behind me.

John is at the roll-top desk, going over some papers. He might have heard me pull into the drive, or he might not have. He doesn’t turn as I pause in the bedroom doorway, but he glances up when I approach to kiss him lightly on the temple. His tie is loosened; he’s still in his suit. The heavy crystal tumbler is nearly full.

I turn on the desk light. “How can you see what you’re doing?” I say.

I rest my hand on his shoulder and he reaches up to pat it. “Hello, sweetheart,” he says. He pats my hand again, terminating, and I withdraw it. “Absolutely drowning in this stuff…” He rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses frames, then directs a muzzy smile my way.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a tree,” I say. “In a cave, with no receipts, no bills, no records—just no paper at all…” I close my eyes for a moment. Good. Eclipsed—the day has sealed up behind me. “Oh, darling—did you happen to feed Pod?”

John blinks. “No one told me.”

“It’s all right. I didn’t expect to be so late. Maybe Oliver thought to.”

Gingerly, I stroke back John’s thin, pale hair. He waits rigidly. “Any news?” I ask.

“News,” he says. “Nothing to speak of, really.” He turns back to the desk.

“John?” I say.

“Hello, darling,” he says.

“Lamb chops,” Oliver observes pleasantly.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say. “I’m sure there’s a plain pizza in the freezer, and there’s some of that spinach thing left. If I had thought you’d be home tonight, I would have made something else.”

“Don’t I always come home, Mom?”

“‘Always’?” I smile at him. “I assumed you’d be at Katie’s again tonight.”

“But don’t I always
actually
come home? Don’t I always come home
eventually
, Mom, to you?”

He seems to want me to laugh, or to pretend to, and I do. I can’t ever disguise the pleasure I take in looking at him. How did John and I ever make this particular child, I always wonder. He looks absolutely nothing like either of us, with his black eyes and wild, black hair—though he does bear some resemblance to the huge oil portrait of John’s grandfather that his parents have in their hallway. John’s father once joked to me, are you sure you’re the mother? I remember the look on John’s face then—his look of reckoning, the pure coldness, as if he were calculating his disdain for his father in orderly columns. John’s father noted that look, too—with a sort of gratification, I thought—then turned to me and winked.

“You’re seriously not going to have any of these?” John says.

Oliver looks at the platter.

This only started recently, after Oliver went off to school. “You don’t have to, darling,” I say.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” John says.

“Hats off, Dad.” Oliver nods earnestly at his father. “Philosophically watertight.”

Recently, John has developed an absent little laugh to carry him past these moments with Oliver, and it does seem to me healthier, better for both of them, if John at least appears to rise above provocation.

“But don’t think I’m not grateful, Mom, Dad, for the fact that we can have this beautiful dinner, in our beautiful, architecturally unimpeachable open-plan…
area
. And actually, Dad, I want to say how grateful I am to you in general. Don’t think, just because I express myself awkwardly and my vocabulary’s kind of fucked up—”

John inclines his head, with the faint, sardonic smile of expectations met.

“—Sorry, Dad. That I’m not grateful every single day for how we’re able to preside as a
family
over the things of this world, and that owing to the fantastic education you’ve secured for me, I’ll eventually be able—I mean of course with plenty of initiative and hard work or maybe with a phone call to someone from you—to follow in your footsteps and assume my rightful place on the planet, receiving beautiful Mother Earth’s bounty—her crops, her oil, her precious metals and diamonds, and to cast my long, dark shadow over—”

“Darling,” I say. “All right. And when you’re at home, you’re expected to feed Pod. We’ve talked about this.”

Oliver clasps my wrist. “Wow, Mom, don’t you find it poignant, come to think of it? I really think there’s a poignancy here in this divergence of paths. Your successful son, home for a flying visit from his glamorous institution of higher education, and Pod, the companion of your son’s youth, who stayed on and turned into a dog?”

“That’s why you might try to remember to feed him,” I say.

Oliver flashes me a smile, then ruffles grateful Pod’s fur. “Poor old Pod,” he says, “hasn’t anyone fed you since I went away?”

“Not when you’re handling food, please, Oliver,” John says.

“Sorry, Dad,” Oliver says, holding up his hands like an apprehended robber. “Sorry, Mom, sorry, Pod.”

And there’s the radiant smile again. It’s no wonder that the girls are crazy about Oliver. His phone rings day and night. There are always a few racy, high-tech types running after him, as well as the attractive, well-groomed girls, so prevalent around here, who absolutely shine with poise and self-confidence—perfect girls, who are sure of their value. And yet the girls he prefers always seem to be in a bit of disarray. Sensitive, I once commented to John. “Grubby,” he said.

“Don’t you want the pizza?” I say. “I checked the label
scrupulously
—I promise.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’m just not really hungry, though.”

“I wish you would eat something,” I can’t help saying.

“Oh—but listen, you guys!” Oliver says. “Isn’t it sad about Uncle Bob?”

“Who?” John says. He gets up to pour himself another bourbon.

“Uncle Bob? Bob? Uncle Bob, your old friend Bob Alpers?”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a glass of wine, darling?” I ask.

“No,” John says.

“Was Alpers testifying today?” I ask John. “I didn’t realize. Did you happen to catch any of it?”

John shrugs. “A bit. All very tedious. When did this or that memo come to his attention, was it before or after such and such a meeting, and so on.”

“Poor Bob,” I say. “Who can remember that sort of thing?”

“Who indeed,” John says.

“We used to see so much of Uncle Bob and Aunt Caroline,” Oliver says.

“That’s life,” John says. “Things change.”

“That’s a wise way to look at things, Dad.” Oliver nods seriously. “It’s, really, I mean…
wise
.”

“I’m astonished that you remember Bob Alpers,” I say. “It’s been a long time since he and your father worked together. It’s been years.”

“We never did work together,” John says. “Strictly speaking.”

Oliver turns to me. “That was back when Uncle Bob was in the whatsis, Mom, right? The private sector? And Dad used to consult?”

John’s gaze fixes on the table as if he were just daring it to rise.

“But I guess you still do that, don’t you, Dad—don’t you still consult?”

“As you know. I consult. People who know something about something ‘consult,’ if you will. People hire people who know things about things. What are we saying here?”

“I’m just saying, poor Uncle Bob—”

“Where did this ‘uncle’ business come from?” John says.

“Let me give you some salad at least, darling. You’ll eat some salad, won’t you?” I put a healthy amount on Oliver’s plate for him.

“I mean, picture the future, the near, desolate future,” Oliver says. He shakes his head and trails off, then reaches over, sticks a finger absently right into a trickle of blood on the platter, and resumes. “There’s Uncle Bob, wandering around in the night and fog, friendless and alone…”

John’s expression freezes resolutely over as Oliver walks his fingers across the platter, leaving a bloody track.

“A pariah among all his former friends,” Oliver continues, getting up to wash his hands. “Doors slam in his face, the faithless sycophants flee…How is poor Uncle Bob supposed to live? He can’t get a job, he can’t get a job bussing tables! And all just because of these…phony
allegations
.” John and I reflexively look over at one another, but our glances bounce apart. “I mean, wow, Dad, you must know what it’s like out there! You must be keeping up with the unemployment stats! It’s
fierce
. Of course
I’ll
be fine, owing to my outrageous abundance of natural merit or possibly to the general, um, esteem, Dad, in which you’re held, but gee whiz, I mean, some of my ridiculous friends are worried to the point of throwing really up about what they’re all going to do when they graduate, and yet their problems
pale
in comparison to Uncle
Bob’s
.”

“Was there some dramatic episode I missed today?” I say.

“Nothing,” John says. “Nothing at all. Just nonsense.”

“I just don’t see that Bob could have been expected to foresee the problems,” I say.

“Well, that’s the
reasonable
view,” John says. “But some of the regulations are pretty arcane, and if people are out to get you, they can make fairly routine practices look very bad.”

“Oh, dear,” I say. “What Caroline must be going through!”

“There’s no way this will stick,” John says. “It’s just grandstanding.”

“Gosh, Dad, that’s great. Because I was somehow under the impression, from the—I mean, due to the—That is, because of the—”

“Out with it, Oliver,” John says. “We’re all just people, here.”

“—the
evidence
, I guess is what I mean, Dad, that Bob
knew
what that land was being used for. But I guess it was all, just, what did you call that, Dad? ‘Standard practice,’ right?”

John looks at him. “What I said was—”

“Oops, right, you said ‘
routine practices
,’ didn’t you. Sorry, that’s
different
! And anyhow, you’re right. How on earth could poor Bob have guessed that those silly peasants would make such a fuss, when KGS put the land to such better use than they ever had?
Beans?
I mean,
please
. Or that KGS would be so sensitive about their lousy, peasant sportsmanship and maybe overreact a bit? You know what? We should console Uncle Bob in his travails, open up our family to receive him in the warmth of our love, let him know that we feel his pain. Would Uncle Bob ever hurt a fly? He would not! Things just have a way of
happening
, don’t they! And I think we should invite Uncle Bob over, for one last piece of serious
meat
, before he gets hauled off to the slammer.”

John continues simply to look at Oliver, whose eyes gleam with excitement. When I reach over and touch John’s hand, he speaks. “I applaud your compassion, Oliver. But no need to squander it. I very much doubt it’s going to come to that.”

“Really?” Oliver says. “You do? Oh, I see what you mean. That’s great, Dad. You mean that if it seems like Uncle Bob might start naming names, he’ll be able to retire in style, huh.”

“
Oooo
kay,” John says. “
All
right,” and a white space cleaves through my brain as if I’d actually slapped Oliver, but in fact Oliver is turning to me with concern, and he touches my face. “What’s the matter, Mom? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, darling,” I say. He reaches for my hand and holds it.

“You went all pale,” he says. “I applaud your interest in world affairs,” John says.

“But as the situation is far from simple, and as neither you nor I were
there
at the time, perhaps we should question, just this once—this once!—whether we actually have the right to sit in judgment. This will blow over in no time, Oliver, I’m happy to be able to promise you, and no one will be the worse for it. And should the moment arrive in which reason reasserts its check on your emotions, you will see that this spectacle is nothing more than a witch hunt.”

“Well,
that’s
good,” Oliver says. “I mean, it’s bad. Or it’s good, it’s bad, it’s—”

“Do you think we might cross off and move on?” John says.

“Sure thing, Dad,” Oliver says, dropping my hand.

John and Oliver appear to ripple briefly, and then a cottony silence drops over us. Even if I tried, I doubt I would be able to remember what we’d just been saying.