The Middle Stories (6 page)

Read The Middle Stories Online

Authors: Sheila Heti

BOOK: The Middle Stories
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One morning many months before, the old woman had stood at the top of the stairs, clutching at her head dramatically and wailing, “I’ve been poisoned! I’m dying!” Then she fell down both flights and collapsed in a brittle heap in the main hallway, where she convulsed for several minutes before losing consciousness.
Tim had been the only witness to the scene, and the others grew very jealous as he described it to them later, vividly acting the whole thing out. They wished they’d seen it too. It would have been very funny.
They all went to visit the old woman in the hospital: the nurse, the boys, the boys’ well-mannered mother, and Eleanor. Eleanor liked the old woman. The old woman, she felt, understood her. She regarded Eleanor as a real cheapie, which was right, Eleanor thought. After all, she had been taken, and allowed herself to be taken, and still thought about it a bit, sometimes.
Lying under the white sheets, and without moving much, the old woman pulled a notepad out from under her body. It was her will. She passed it around. She had decided to leave everything funny to Tim.
 
 
IT WASN’T THE first time Tim had left school feeling sullen. Walking home that afternoon he kicked the bigger stones at cars, hoping to cause some damage, even if it was only minor. Down the block men were digging up the road and dust blew into his nose and eyes. He had to keep spitting. He found the butt of a cigarette in the gutter and picked it up and wiped it off and lit it, still walking. It made him feel cruel.
“This is my life,” he thought deeply and soberly. It felt as dramatic and decrepit as riding the rails. When he arrived home the nurse took off his jacket. In his room he lay on his bed under the model airplanes hanging from his ceiling and thought it again, “This is my fucking life.” His curiosity returned. Was this the first time he had ever thought the word
fuck
?
Eleanor was at the door. He could feel it.
“What do you want, Eleanor?”
Eleanor apologized and wondered if she could come in a bit, and she squeezed herself carefully through the opening, not wanting to budge the door. She looked slowly at Tim, then sat on his bed, but upon catching his expression she stood.
“What do you think of this letter?” she asked, and pulled it from the pocket of her skirt, unfolded it, and handed it to him.
He took it blithely and held it in front of his face, reading it beginning to end while Eleanor waited anxiously.
“I think he’s in love with you,” said Tim, handing it back.
“Really, really?” Eleanor tried not to seem excited, but she shouldn’t have tried; it was useless. She had lived long enough, one would have thought, to have learned some things about herself, like that she couldn’t hide her feelings. Obviously no friend had been good or wise enough to tell her.
“He loves you,” Tim affirmed. He wasn’t the least bit surprised. There were all sorts of pathetic and desperate people in the world, he knew that. He looked briefly at Eleanor from under his lids. It was the second time he had ever looked at her with a man’s eyes. First time was when she had moved into the house, but that was just for an instant.
Eleanor began to blush. She wasn’t sure whether to leave the room or not. She felt she should, but she also wanted him to say something more, something that would explain it all. Tim said nothing. He just looked.
 
 
ELEANOR WAS VERY fond of ice cream. She told the man, when he called, that he would have to buy her ice cream if he wanted to take her on a date. He agreed and she dropped the receiver twice before hanging it in the cradle properly.
The next evening she sat at the little table in her room, wearing red lipstick and pinning up her hair. The old woman pushed her walker past the open door on her way to the toilet. She stopped when she saw Eleanor fancying herself up.
“Eleanor,” she shouted, “are you going out with a man?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, not turning around.
The old woman thought about this, then nodded. “Good for you.” She continued down the hall.
 
 
ELEANOR WALKED OUT of the house and stood waiting by the front gate. The night was cool; it was only seven o’clock so it wasn’t completely dark out. It was blue. The man came along the sidewalk and when he saw Eleanor he started running toward her, shouting out her name. Eleanor was delighted. He came to an abrupt stop right where she was standing and looked down at her proudly, huffing and grinning.
“I have a gift for you,” he said, and held out a big box covered in wrapping paper and tied with a bow.
“Shall I open it now?” Eleanor wondered.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“I’ll wait,” she decided, and hurried up the path to take the box inside. Her dress was swishing and he watched it as it moved. He watched the top of the dress as it left the house and hastened back toward him.
“Shall we go, Eleanor? Are you ready to go, Eleanor?”
His saying her name twice made her a little uneasy.
“Why not,” she said.
He held her by the elbow and they walked the three blocks to the ice cream shop. It was uncomfortable for her to be held in such a way, but she didn’t mind enough to say anything about it. He seemed very pleased and neither of them talked much. When they arrived at the parlor he held the door open for her. After she had picked out her flavors he made her sit in one of the booths while he paid and brought over the bowls himself. He sat down across from her.
“I like to wait on you, Eleanor,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and felt smarter and more assured than before, as though she had several other men after her tail as well. She felt removed and superior. She was content to find herself judging him.
Within a few minutes they were bent down over their bowls, eating their ice cream in silence. Then Eleanor felt a chill cover her arms and neck. She looked across the table and caught the man grinning up at her, head tilted, eyes bright.
“What is it, John?” Eleanor put down her spoon and looked around uncomfortably.
“Ah, you’re just so…” He shook his head as if in awe, then happily went back to eating his ice cream.
This happened two more times.
As they were getting up to leave she told him that it might be best if he just walked her home now. Once outside, he attempted to put his coat around her shoulders but she told him it was unnecessary, that the coat she was wearing was fine. When they reached her gate, he held it open and stood there politely, not expecting a kiss.
“Well, I
am
pleased about the ice cream,” she said with dignity, aware of herself as considerably more mature than when the evening began.
“You’re welcome, Eleanor,” he said, and produced that same moony smile he’d given her at the ice cream shop. She wondered if he could see through her dress.
 
 
IN THE HOUSE it was warm, like summer, and the lamps shed a peachy light on everything. It was the perfect house to come home to. As she hung up her coat with a weary hand, she noticed the present he had given her resting on a stand in the vestibule. She wasn’t so interested in opening it now. It was as though she expected to see his grinning face winking up at her from the bottom. She lifted it and took it into the living room, sat down in a plush armchair, and rested it on her knees. She didn’t usually drink, but she would have gone and poured herself some booze from the cupboard if it hadn’t been for that big box in her lap. She began untying the ribbon when the boys’ mother softly appeared around the edge of the doorframe.
“Oh,” she said in her gentle voice. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, with slight pride. “He gave me this present.”
“Well that’s very romantic,” said the mother. “That’s
very
sweet and romantic.” She looked around. “I should think.”
“Do you want to open it?” Eleanor asked pointlessly, and her newfound refinement faded into mush. The boys’ mother always made her feel common and awkward. She was upset. The change within her had seemed permanent, but it was nothing.
“Oh no,” whispered the mother in such a light, airy voice. She was so slight; not like a bird, more like a feather.
“I’ll just go,” she said, hesitating a little, obviously wanting to stay, but leaving anyway.
Eleanor returned to the gift. She unfolded the paper, which was red with blue-and-yellow boats, and opened the box, first glancing away, then looking down into it. Lying at the bottom was a beanie with a visor. It was made up of six colored wedges leading down from a button—purple, green, yellow. It was way too small for her head.
She put the lid back on the box and placed it down beside the chair, then started up the stairs to bed. She had no idea why he had given her such a ridiculous and inappropriate gift. It didn’t even make her laugh.
THE ACCIDENT
 
THERE WAS AN accident on the street yesterday. Seven cars piled up one after another, pressing into the backs of each other. When I saw it (people tell me) I put my hands to my face and I screamed. Then I passed out. As it turns out, quite a number of people who were on the street saw fit to help me—and not the people scrunched in those cars. Could be because I’m beautiful.
I have been told that I’m beautiful ever since the world first saw my face. I have considered this something of a charming feature of my personality, partly because it means that whatever else slips away, whatever else I am incapable of, I still have one thing most people don’t: beauty.
When I came to, the first thing I saw was the face of a moustached man. He was wearing a hat and looking down concerned into my eyes. I blinked up at him and he lifted his face in pure joy. “She’s all right!” The small crowd that had gathered about me cheered, and I was helped to my feet by another man and a lady who was older and dressed quite nicely. The lady then proceeded to brush off my suit as I stood there dazed, blinking at the world around me.
“It sure is a lucky thing you didn’t hit your head when you fell,” said the man with the moustache. “You could have been bleeding all through your pretty hair.”
I didn’t know what to say. How to thank such kind-hearted people? However I was in no condition to be polite, so I just walked away. At dinner that night, my husband told me that it was just lucky that there are kind people in this world willing to help a stranger like me.
“What’s lucky, Tom,” I said, “is that I’m beautiful. Those people wouldn’t have helped me if I wasn’t so beautiful.”
“Not true,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re just a lucky gal to have fallen into the care of such nice people. Someone,” he winked, “was looking out for you.”
“Yes, the men in the street.”
He furrowed his brow. Then he let me have the best portion of the meat, and I smiled because he is such a generous man, at times.
MR. JONES’S FIRST OUTING
 
FOR THE PAST seven years Mr. Jones had been taking care of his wife who had long been sick and ended up dying. When he reentered the society of his friends and enemies he knew nothing of the world—or of what had changed and what had stayed the same—but when he saw Fritz sitting in a bar sipping some gin, he couldn’t help but say, “Fritz,” and so the new times became like the old.
“Come over and sit with me, you poor bugger,” said Fritz.
So Mr. Jones sat with Fritz, and Fritz put down his drink and looked into his friend’s eyes and said, “Most respectfully, man, can we talk about something else now?”
“Oh yes, of course,” replied Mr. Jones, and he looked down shamefully into his milk.
“Good. Y’know I was buying a comic the other day, see,” but just as Fritz was getting to the good part a hag and a young woman came up to their table and stood there waiting. The young woman was tall and her breasts pressed out; she had a fine body that appealed to men. Knowing this, the hag said calmly, “Can we sit down with you? My cousin here doesn’t know anyone.”
“Well…” said Fritz, who didn’t like meeting new people.
“But of course,” said Mr. Jones, and he hurriedly arranged the chairs so that the doll sat in one and he sat down beside her. The girl looked around, all bright-eyed, and Mr. Jones asked her profession.
“Me?” she chirped.
“She’s my friend,” said the hag, smiling till her gums showed.
“I’m her friend,” nodded the girl, and everyone could tell she was no more smart than a crash test dummy.
“I suppose you want to talk about events in the world,” sighed Fritz, with difficulty.
“No. We want to see if we can become your friends,” said the hag.
“I don’t know if that would be possible today,” said Fritz. He hated talking to new people. One never knew how one was being evaluated.
Turning to Mr. Jones, the old hag’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She sputtered, “We heard about your horrible life and how your wife died, and truly we wanted to come over and give our compassion and support, if necessary.”

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