30 Pieces of a Novel (6 page)

“The kids,” he says, waking up, and she says, “Time to get them? Won't they be surprised, or who knows. I'll go with you,” and he says, “Bus is supposed to arrive at four but usually gets there around three-forty-five and I don't want them waiting in the sun, so I'll have to ask you to hurry,” and they dress quickly, get in the van, no wheelchair or walker or motor cart in back—“I think it's safe to, I don't feel any imminent relapse”—they drive to town, bus is pulling in when they get there, she runs to the bus as the girls are getting off, and they say, “Mommy … hi,” and she hugs them and says, “Both of you have a good time today?” and Fanny says, “We went on a field trip to Fort Knox. The counselors tried to scare us but they couldn't,” and she says, “Scare you how?” and Fanny says, “The fort has all these secret tunnels and passageways from olden days, and Chauncy—he's the theater counselor—leaped out on us one time, but we were expecting it,” and she says, “Josie, you have fun too?” and Josephine says, “It was all right. Fanny didn't like me being with her; she said she had her own friends to go around the fort with and I should get mine—Mommy, you're walking, you're standing, you ran to us! Fanny, Daddy!” and she says, “Ah, you noticed,” and Fanny says, “Yes, I did too. What happened, a new pill? Is it only for today and maybe tonight—another experiment—or in the morning?” and she says, “Nothing like that. Your daddy waved his hand over my head like a wand and said some magic or religious or miracle-making words. We didn't think anything would happen. We both thought he was joking, or he did—I thought he was playing a mean trick on me, fooling around about an illness which all the doctors thought I'd never recover from…. I never wanted to tell you that. I always wanted to give you the hope I'd be normal again, but they all said I wouldn't unless some new drug worked, when
bingo!
no drug. It hit, it worked, I started walking, first one step, two, and on and on, doing all the things I once used to; just walking beside your father rather than have him push me in the chair. Sitting in it or riding the cart alongside any of you I was so much shorter that I felt like your kid sister,” and Josephine says, “I never saw you walk before without help,” and he says, “You sure you want to discuss this in the hot sun?” and she says, “Sure we do, because it's so unusual, my standing and talking to my girls anyplace, hot or not,” and he says, “I meant especially you, Sally, for you know how the heat can affect your disease,” and she says, “It's not doing anything to me now but making me feel good, so who cares if we get sweaty and a little burned,” and Fanny says to Josephine, “You have too seen Mommy walk without help before, you just don't remember it. When you were one; that's when her condition first started,” and Josephine says, “So I'm right, it doesn't count if I was too young to remember it, isn't that true, Mommy?” and she says, “I forgot one thing. I should call my doctor in New York and then my parents. Or my parents first; they'll be delirious,” and she calls from a pay phone. Then they drive to their favorite town on the peninsula to browse around and go to an expensive restaurant for dinner, champagne, soda for the kids, “Cola, even,” he says; “it's a special day and we're celebrating.” Home, she shows the girls how she can climb up and down the stairs, plays a board game on the floor with them, wants to give them a bath, and Fanny says she's too old to take one with her sister or be given one by her mother. “But it's something I haven't done for so long, so let me this one time,” she says. Bathes them, gets them to bed, reads a book of northern myths from where he left off last night, comes downstairs and washes up and gets in bed with him and says, “I don't feel at all stiff or in pain and no spasticity or anything like that. Just falling asleep with my feet not twisted or freezing and nothing hurting is the most wonderful thing on earth,” and he says, “I only hope tomorrow and every day after it'll stay like this, though why shouldn't it?—and oh, what'd the doctor say? I forgot to ask you,” and she says, “That he never, through drugs or anything else, read or heard of or saw a remission as quick and total as mine, but that with my kind of disease he'd made a vow never to rule out anything,” and he says, “So, a hundred thousand to one, we'll say, or a million to one, maybe, but it can happen. A complete reversal in a single minute, and my waving and incantatory words and everything—if it wasn't a miracle from God, that is—might have set something off. Oh, I don't know, the psychological affecting the physical somehow. Or maybe it was about to happen anyway from one or many of the things you've done the last few years to try to make it happen or at least start it to, and it was just a coincidence it did when I did all those presto-healo things. Or, as I said, it was ready and waiting for that one psychological thrust to lift off—no?” and she says, “You got me, and Dr. Baritz says he doesn't know either. But I'm exhausted from all my activities and the excitement of today, so good night, sweetheart,” and kisses him and turns over on her side with her back to him; he snuggles into her, holds her breasts with one hand as he almost always does when they fall asleep, with or without making love, hears her murmuring, and says, “You praying?” and she says, “What do you think? I'm not a praying person but I'm going to open myself to anything and give it all I have so that this good thing continues,” and he says, “I'll pray too,” and to himself in the dark he says, “Dear God, I haven't prayed to You for years, maybe forty years, even longer, except once when one of the kids was very sick, and I truthfully then felt it was the medicines that brought her around, but please let Sally stay this way, without her illness, thank You, thank You, thank You,” and feels himself falling asleep.

He wakes a little before six the next morning, an hour and a half before he's to wake the girls and two hours before Sally usually gets up, does his exercises, sets the table, makes the kids' lunches for camp, gets her breakfast in a pan and makes miso soup for her as he does every morning, goes out for a run, showers, reads, has another coffee, wakes the girls—“Sleep well?” he says, and they both say yes—at around eight he hears her stirring, looks in, says, “How ya doing?” and she says, “Fine,” and he brings her a coffee with warm milk, as he also does every morning unless she's already out of bed and heading for the bathroom or kitchen; a little later he hears her shriek, and he runs in and sees she's spilled the coffee on the bed, and he says, “What happened, you hurt?” and she says, “Shit, I felt so good getting up that for a moment I thought I was free of this stinking disease, and look at the goddamn mess I made,” and he says, “Don't worry, I'll do a wash and hang everything up and the sun's already so strong it should all be dry by ten,” and she says, “You don't have to, I can do it in the machines myself,” and he says, “It's okay, you got plenty of other things to take care of; just move your butt so I can get the sheets off,” and she says, “You don't have to get angry about it. It wasn't my fault. My hand started shaking and I couldn't hold the mug anymore,” and he says, “Who's blaming you? Just lift yourself a little, that's all I'm asking. I don't want it to soak through to the mattress, if it hasn't already done it,” and she pushes herself up just enough for him to pull the sheets and mattress cover out from under her; he gets the linen off the bed and sticks it in the washer and starts the machine, goes back to the dining room, girls are reading, their breakfasts eaten, and he says, “Anybody want some toast?” and they shake their heads, and a little later he says, “Okay, everybody, we're going: lunches packed, bathing suits and towels and sunscreen in your bags?” and Fanny says, “Oh, gosh, I forgot my Thermos of water. They never give us enough out there,” and he says, “Get one for Josephine too, if that's the case,” and she says, “She can do it herself, and I have to get ice out of the tray to put in it,” and he says, “Listen, she's your sister and younger, and I'm asking you to help me—with so many things to do, I need your help,” and she does it, and he says, “Now let's go if you want to catch the bus,” and the girls grab their bags and start for the door; he says, “Say goodbye to Mommy, we still have a few seconds,” and Fanny yells, “Goodbye, Mommy!” and Josephine yells, “See you later, Mommy, have a good day!” and he says, “Come on, go in and give her a kiss—she wants to see your faces, not just hear your voices,” and they drop their bags and run into the bedroom and probably kiss her and then come out, grab their bags, and he says, “Your caps, everyone has to wear a cap to protect herself from the sun,” and they put on their caps and get in the car; he drives to the pickup spot and stays there with them till they're on the bus, on his way home he listens to French language tapes, his big learning project this summer; when he gets back to the house she's pushing her walker to the bathroom, and he says, “Wait a second, the wash is almost finished, I can hear the last of the last spin cycle,” and just then the machine clicks off and he goes into the bathroom, sticks the sheets, pillowcases, and mattress cover into the laundry basket, and goes outside and hangs them on the line.

HE
'
S ON A
ship four days out of Bremerhaven on its way to Quebec. He'd been in Europe for seven months—was supposed to have returned to New York in late August and it was now November—had delayed college a semester, and didn't know if he'd ever go back to school. Had worked in Köln for three months, learned to speak German, had known lots of women, taken to wearing turtleneck jerseys and a beret after he saw a book cover with Thomas Mann in them, was a predentistry student, got interested in literature and painting and religious history on the trip, and carried two to three books with him everywhere, always one in German or French, though he wasn't good in reading either and now wanted to be a novelist or playwright.

Meets an Austrian woman on the ship who's fifteen years older than he. She saw him on the deck, softly reading Heine to himself, and said she finds it strange seeing a grown man doing that with this poet, as he, Schiller, and Goethe were the three she was forced to read that way in early school. Tall, long black hair, very blue eyes, very white skin, full figure, small waist (or seemed so because of her tight wide belt), embroidered headband, huge hoop earrings, clanky silver bracelets on both arms, peasant skirt that swept the floor, lots of dark lipstick. Her husband's an army officer in Montreal and she was returning from Vienna where she'd visited her family. “I'm not Austrian anymore but full Canadian, with all your North American rights, though always, I insist, Viennese, so please don't call me anything different.” He commented on her bracelets and she said she was once a bellydancer, still belly dances at very expensive restaurants and weddings in Canada if her family's short of money that month: “For something like this I am still great in demand.” They drank a little in the saloon that night; when he tried touching her fingers, she said, “Don't get so close; people will begin thinking and some can know my husband or his general.” Later she took him to the ship's stern to show him silver dollars in the water. He knew what they were, a college girl had shown him on the ship going over, but pretended he was seeing them for the first time so he could be alone with her there. “Fantastic, never saw anything like it, I can see why they're called that.” She let him kiss her lightly, said, “That was friendly and sweet, you're a nice boy,” then grabbed his face and kissed him hard and made growling sounds and pulled his hair back till he screamed, and she said, “Excuse me, I can get that way, my own very human failing of which I apologize.” When he tried to go further, hand on her breast through her sweater, she said, “Behave yourself like that nice boy I said; with someone your age I always must instruct,” and he asked what she meant and she said, “What I said; don't be childlike too in not understanding when you're nearly a man. Tonight let us just shake hands, and perhaps that's for all nights and no more little kisses, but that's what we have to do to stay away from trouble.”

They walk around the deck the next night; she takes his hand and says, “I like you, you're a nice boy again, so if you're willing I want to show you a very special box in my cabin.” “What's in it?” and she says, “Mysteries, beauties, tantalizing priceless objects, nothing shabby or cheap, or perhaps these things only to me and to connoisseurs who know their worth. I don't open it to anyone but my husband, whenever he's in a very dark mood and wants to be released, and to exceptionally special and generous friends, and then for them only rare times.” “What time's that?” and she says, “Maybe you'll see, and it could also be you won't. From now to then it's all up to you and what you do and say. But at the last moment, if it strikes me and even if it's from nothing you have done, I can keep it locked or only open it a peek and then, without your seeing anything but dark inside, snap it shut for good. Do you know what I'm saying now?” and he says, “Sure, and I'll do what you say.”

She shares the cabin with a Danish woman who's out gambling with the ship's officers, she says, and won't return till late if at all; “I think she's a hired slut.” They sit on her bunk, she says, “Turn around and shut your eyes closed and never open them till I command,” and he does, thinking she's going to strip for him, since she gets up and he hears clothes rustling; then, after saying several times, “Keep your eyes closed, they must keep closed or I won't open what I have for you,” she sits beside him and says, “All right, now!” and she's still dressed and holding a box in her lap. It looks old, is made of carved painted wood, and is shaped like a steamer trunk the size of a shoebox. She leans over and opens it with a miniature trunk key on a chain around her neck, and it's filled with what seems like a lot of cheap costume jewelry. She searches inside and pulls out a yellow and blue translucent necklace that looks like glass and sparkles when she holds it up. “This one King Farouk presented to me by hand after I danced for him. And I want you to know it was only for my dancing, not for my making love. Bellydancers in the Middle East are different from those kind of girls, like the Danish slut in the bed I sleep beside. You know who Farouk is?” and he says, “A great man, of course, maybe three hundred blubbery pounds of greatness,” and she says, “You're too sarcastic and, I think, confusing him with the Aga Khan. Farouk was cultured and loved the art of belly dancing—and it
is
an art; only an imbecile could say it isn't without knowing more—and he didn't sit on scales and weigh himself in jewels. That one I never danced for, since it perhaps wasn't anything he was interested in.” “Farouk was a fat hideous monster who was also a self-serving pawn of the English till his people dumped him, though for something better I'm not sure,” and she says, “This shows you know nothing, a hundred percent proof. He had rare paintings, loved music, and would pay my plane fare back and forth from Austria and reside me in the top Cairo hotel, just to have me dance one evening for him and his court. He said I was the best—to me, to my face, the very best—and ancient men in his court agreed with him, ones who had seen the art of belly dancing before I was born,” and he says, “Sure they agreed; how could they not?” and she says, “What does that mean? More sarcasm?” and he says, “No, I'm saying they were very old, so they knew.” “I also danced for the great sheikhs and leaders of Arabia and many of the smaller sheikhdoms there. That was when I lived in Alexandria and Greece and learned to perfect my dancing and received most of this”—dropping the necklace into the box and sifting through the jewelry again. “It's all very beautiful and no doubt valuable; you should keep it with the purser,” and she says, “They all steal. Here, only you and I know I have it, so if it's stolen we know who did it.” “Me? Never. But show me a step or two, if it's possible in this cramped space. I want to learn more about it,” and she says, “Maybe I will, but only if you prove you're not just an ignorant immature boy.” “How do I prove it?” and she says, “For one, by not asking me how.” “That seems like something you picked up in your dancing: clever sayings that put something off,” and she says, “You're clever yourself at times and bordering on handsome, a combination I could easily adore,” and she kisses her middle finger and puts it to his lips. “This for now,” she says, and he moves his face nearer to hers; if she kissed him hard once she'll do it again, he thinks, and it seems he'll have to push the seduction a little and she's making him so goddamn hot, and he puts an arm around her and she says, “What gives now? Watch out, my funny man, and more for the jewels. They are precious, even the box is precious, and some can break,” and pushes him off the bunk to the floor. “Haven't you heard? Good things come to those who wait, and even then they may not arrive,” and he says, “I've heard that, except the ending, but okay, I won't push—not your way, at least,” and she says, “Now you talk in riddles. And come, get off the floor, you look like a dog,” and he sits beside her and says, “I meant pushing with the hands. Nor the other way, urging myself on you romantically, though it's certainly what I'd want, the romance—you wouldn't?” and she says, “That kind of talk should only be between lovers, and we aren't that yet and may never be. Time will tell, time will tell,” and he says, “You're right. If you're interested you'll tell me, agreed?” and she says, “Now at this point I can see where Europe has sharpened and civilized you, as you told me yesterday, but only in spurts. You need to travel there more. And now that you're in a soft mood, it means I can go past mere love and sex and friends' playfulness and tell your fortune. Would you like me for that?” and he says, “I don't know if I could believe in it,” and she says sulkily, “Then I won't; without your faith, I'd only rummage over your palm,” and he says, “No, please, do, I'm very interested, and you're probably an expert at it.” She closes the box—“I am, but you're a liar, though I like it”—takes his hand, and traces it with her finger, tells him he'll marry early, have a good wife, fine children, then a second good wife, young and beautiful and wealthy like the first. “The first won't die but she will disappear and everyone will wonder why and even accuse you but no one will find out, and the mystery will never be solved. The law will permit you to remarry after two years to let the new wife help you with your babies.” He'll do well in his profession. He has a romantic and artistic turn to his nature but also one that will make barrels of money, so much so he won't need his wives'. He'll be well educated, travel around the world twice, marry a third time—“Did I mention that before?”—and he says, “No, just two,” and she says, “Perhaps because the first two are real marriages, the second wife running off with someone like your brother—do you have one?” and he says, “Yes, in a way, older,” and she says, “Then you have to watch out for him, but it could also be a best friend. And then, soon after, while you're broken down in sorrow—and this is why I must have said you only marry twice—you settle down with a young woman so young she is not even legal for you and you must live elsewhere and out of wedlock. I think it says here,” jabbing the center of his palm, “she is first someone you teach like your student and then pretend to take in as an adopted daughter, and have two more children.” “How many altogether with the three women?” and she counts on his hand: “Four … five … six, which is a lot for today,” and he says, “And their sex? How are they divided up male and female?” and she says, “It's difficult to distinguish those markings here. But soon after your final child, and while all never leave home from you, it says—” and suddenly she looks alarmed, drops his hand, and says, “No more, I don't want to go on,” and he asks why and she says, “Please don't ask,” and he says, “What, my lifeline?” and she says, “I won't go into it further … please, it's much better you leave the cabin now, I'm sleepy,” and he says, “What, did it say something about making love to bellydancers? Is that what scared you?” and she says, “Don't be an idiot. What I saw was very serious. I don't want you to know, and no matter how often you ask I won't tell you. It would only tear at you, and what I saw can't be prevented, so it would be of no use for me to say,” and he says, “Is it about someone other than myself? For with two wives and a young lover and six kids and a good profession and art and wealth and lots of travel in my life and, I hope, some wisdom—is there any wisdom?” and she rubs his wrist and examines it and says, “Yes, there's some of that here and another place,” and he says, “Then no matter how early I'm cut off—thirty, thirty-five—at least I've lived,” and she says, “Then do so without the knowledge I found here. I know from experience that this is what has to be. I shouldn't have played around with your fortune. I should never read palms with people I know and like, for if I find something that's terrible I can't hide it with my face,” and shoves him to the door. “Tomorrow, at breakfast, if I'm awake,” and kisses his lips—“That's for putting up with me.” He tries kissing her some more and touching her breast, and she slaps his hand away and opens the door and laughs—“See, I'm already feeling better”—and with her head motions him to leave.