30 Pieces of a Novel (61 page)

mucho
grandee, now go to sleep, you've school tomorrow,” and she said, “No, we're off,” and he said, “This is one of my rare sharp nights; you can't fool me,” and left the room, her door opened a couple of inches, which for the past half year is how she's asked it to be and he'll keep leaving it that way till she says not to. Tears again, quickly wipes them. What is it with me today? he thinks, walking downhill to the market. Is it something else? My mother, maybe. When he spoke to her last night she seemed too weak and despondent to speak and after a minute broke off because of her coughing, she said, but hadn't thought of her today till now. He'll call her when he gets home, first thing. But what else they need? What did he remember to get so far? Cat food, bread, milk. Gallon of spring water for his wife, but that'd be too heavy to carry. Desserts for the kids; maybe a baklava for Fanny and a napoleon for Josephine—now that's odd; he never thought of the connection before. They're twice to three times the price of the doughnuts he usually buys, but hang the expense: they're always excited when he tells them he got their favorite desserts. That should do it, and the container of coffee, and takes a handful of change from his pants pocket, counts out twenty-five cents, ten of it in pennies—the people who empty the coin box must hate getting the pennies, but he's got to get rid of them some way—and puts the counted change into a separate pants pocket, so when he takes it out for the coffee he won't have to count it again. Such a nice day; he'll drink the coffee sitting on the bench in front of the market and dump the empty container into the trash can by it, or sit there if there aren't too many bees around. Will this closeness or oversolicitousness or whatever he should call it ultimately hurt his kids? No, they'll hardly remember it, or only a little. He reaches the market's parking lot, crosses it and goes inside, picks up a shopping basket, though for all he's going to buy he could just as well carry the things in his hands, gets the coffee first, feels like having it with half-and-half today, doesn't know why—maybe so he can drink it faster, though there's no need for him to rush home, so it could be his stomach telling him something—and sticks the change into the coin box. Now what did he tell himself to get?—sipping the coffee by the deli counter and then finishing it off—bread, milk, two cans of cat food. What else? Forgets.

He sees his mother's best friend from the block and yells out, “Margaret, Margaret!” and says to his mother, “Mom, there's Margaret,” and Margaret stops, looks around, catches him waving at her from about forty feet away; What do you know, what a nice surprise, her look seems to say, and she starts over to them while he wheels his mother to her. They're on Columbus Avenue, around three in the afternoon on a normal weekday, but the sidewalks and restaurant patios are all crowded, sky's darkening and wind picks up a bit, and it looks and feels like rain though no one seems to be hurrying to avoid it. “Listen, maybe I shouldn't have stopped her, because we haven't got too long to talk,” he tells his mother, leaning over her wheelchair. “I don't want us to get caught in the downpour,” and she says, “Why would we?” and he doesn't know if she means get caught in the downpour or talk too long, when Margaret reaches them. “Beatrice, Gould, how are you?” she says, bending down to take his mother's hand while she kisses her cheek. He kisses Margaret and says, “And how are you doing? It's been awhile,” and his mother looks up at her, doesn't seem to recognize her—maybe she's tired; this is around the time she takes a nap, and she had a good-sized drink at lunch just now—and then says, “Oh, my dear, it's a treat to see you,” and he's still not sure she recognizes her. “Did my son tell you we'd be here?” and he says, “No, Mom, we just happened to bump into her.” “I've lost so much weight lately and also with this ugly scarf covering my head, I'm surprised you noticed me from that far away,” and his mother says, “But now I can see you and recall all the kind things you've done for us, but I've always had a problem with names.” “It's Margaret, Mom. From the street. How are you feeling, though?” he says to Margaret, and she says, “I've been terrible, to tell the truth. I hate to complain, so don't let me start in about it and bore you, but I've had big troubles, I'm afraid; a fluke to end all flukes.” “Do you think it's going to rain?” his mother asks him, and he says, “Why, you want to get back? You tired, cold? Because I don't think the sky looks too threatening,” and she says, “It wouldn't bother me, a little rain. I'd even like it—the drops on me; something different for a change. But I didn't think you'd want to get soaked.” “Why don't we all walk together then, if you're heading home,” to Margaret, and she says, “I was actually on my way to Pioneer for a few things.” “So, how are you, dear?” his mother says. “You're looking fine,” and she says, “I was just telling Gould that I haven't been that well lately. I've had big troubles, something entirely unforeseen, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “At our age it's always one setback after the next. Either we lose somebody or we lose some part of our body. I'm sick of doctors. It never lets up and they're all no good.” “Mom, excuse me, but let her finish,” and Margaret says, “But if she's tired or cold?” and he says, “You're okay, aren't you, Mom?” and she says, “If you say so—only kidding. I'm not quite up to par today, but I'll survive, why?” and Margaret says to him, “If there's a cloudburst?” and he says, “Believe me, we both would rather know how you are, and we'll just duck in someplace if it rains and then get a cab somehow,” and Margaret says, “Well, it's a ridiculous thing; and talk about the unexpected, this one takes the cake. I had a mole I didn't know about on my scalp,” and he slaps his hand to his mouth and looks at his mother, and she's staring up at her placidly. “Or maybe this mole all of a sudden grew there, but at the beauty parlor six months ago the girl cutting my hair nicked it with her scissors. Really, the first time I was ever nicked with scissors or hurt in a beauty parlor in any way, not even my nails, and I've been going to one every two months for more than fifty years and it has to be this one tiny mole on my head. And something went wrong with it—you both know how that can happen with moles—and it quickly spread and now I'm getting radiation for it every other day and they think they might get it under control.” “No! Oh, my goodness,” he says, and his mother looks alarmed at him and says, “What is it? Is it your wife? One of your children? He has two young girls”—to Margaret—and he says, “No, they're okay,” and, to Margaret, “I'm so sorry, so sorry,” and she says, “That's why I'm wearing this kerchief. From where they cut, and also some hair falling out. But I'm hoping for the best; what else can I do for now? Just, I've been feeling sick so much of the time because of the treatments. The stuff I'm going to Pioneer for is really for my stomach, to settle it, since I hardly eat anymore, even if they say I'm supposed to. But how can I eat when everything I put down wants to come up?” and he says, “I can't believe it. God, what happens in life!” and she says, “Isn't it amazing? But if I don't get cured I at least know I had three wonderful sons and lived my normal life span and maybe a decade beyond,” and he says, “Don't talk like that. You'll get better,” and she says, “I pray so. Now you get your mother home. I also didn't go out with an umbrella—this weather wasn't expected. The radio said it'd be mild and sunny all day, and for some reason rain's not supposed to be good for me, not just sun,” and he says, “Because of the radiation?” and she says, “Maybe I have it wrong. It could be the sun that's the one bad egg, which is another reason I wore the kerchief. Goodbye, Beatrice,” and his mother says, “Are you going so soon? Don't be such a stranger, dear; come and see me,” and she says, “I've been meaning to but things have sort of slowed me down lately. But I'll try; I love our talks,” and they kiss and he kisses her and wheels his mother toward home. “Tell me, was that Margaret from our block I just spoke to?” and he says, “Yes, your old drinking buddy,” and she laughs and says, “When was that? But she's not been well, has she? I could tell by her voice. So weak. And something about her expression.” “She's sick, all right,” and she says, “What of?” and he tells her about the accident and now the radiation, and she says, “Age is an awful thing. People today live too long, I honestly believe that,” and he says, “It has nothing to do with age. You know her; she was strong as an ox. Lifting heavy garbage cans, shoveling snow and washing her windows outside and in. It was that fluke accident, as she said,” and she says, “How?” and he says, “I told you,” and she says, “Tell me again. With all this street noise and because you're speaking behind me, it's sometimes difficult to hear.” About a month later, when he calls his mother, the woman taking care of her and who answered the phone says, “You remember Margaret, your mother's good friend, the one who used to come by here every week or two and they'd talk and have drinks and cheese?” and he says, “She died, didn't she,” and she says, “You knew? It only happened a few days ago. The mailman, Frank, told me,” and he says, “No, but I saw her when I took Beatrice out last time I was there, and she said what was wrong with her and it really seemed bad,” and the woman says, “They were a real pair. Talked and laughed; I never knew what it was over, but she was the only one your mother did that with and it could go on for hours. She's going to be real sorry when she hears about it,” and he says, “Maybe it's best we don't tell her,” and she says, “What about when she asks me to phone Margaret to come by and for me to make sure there's enough Jack Daniels left for them, which she used to do regularly?” and he says, “Has she done it recently?” and she says, “No, but she's going to, I feel it, and I don't know how I'll be able to lie to her with a straight face,” and he says, “I think she's already sensed something was wrong—the way Margaret looked last time and her not seeing or hearing from her for so long—and, I don't know, has put it out of her mind because it's too sad to think about. It's a real loss, besides that she was such a nice person. Is my mother able to come to the phone?” and she shouts out, “Mrs. B, your son's on the phone, pick up,” and his mother picks up the phone in her room, and he says, “How you feeling, Mom?” and she says, “Could be better, I guess. Do you remember my dear friend Margaret?” and he says, “Yes, sure, down the block, brownstone next to the big apartment building,” and she says, “She owns it, you know. She used to work for this elderly couple—years ago—she and her husband, though she did most of it, laundry, cooking, small repairs, and all the custodial work, when first one and then the other of this couple quickly died and they left only Margaret the building. Her husband was no good. A charmer, from Portugal, and a ladies' man they said—she told me everything—so he used to disappear for months on end. I haven't seen her for a long time. I don't think it's a mystery either but that it's because she died. No one phoned me, not that I could have gone to the funeral. I don't have the heart or energy for those things anymore. Do you know anything about it?” and he says, “Unfortunately, you're right. I just found out myself. And if her sons didn't tell you, I'm sure it's because they thought you had problems enough. What a wonderful person, though, huh? and what a friend to you,” and she says, “It's such a pity. All the old-timers from the block are either gone or they've moved away and you never hear from them again, and I don't even think I have any sisters or my brother left. But how's your wife? The kids? All my little darlings. Everyone's okay?”

He's trying to get in touch with an old friend about something; calls the number he has in his address book, it's no longer a working number; calls Manhattan Information, and there's no number for him or any number for anyone in the entire city for him or just with his last name and the first initial H; calls Harold's ex-wife, which is the same number Harold used to have when he was still married to her, and that number now belongs to someone who says he got it from the phone company two years ago; doesn't know how to reach Harold, and then remembers a mutual friend from college and about ten years after who became Harold's best friend and whom he last bumped into about four or five years ago—at the time this guy said he was living on West 89th Street near the park—and gets his number from Information and dials; and a woman's recorded voice says Amber and Emmiline aren't in, please leave a message, and he says who it is and that she might even remember him—“I'm an old friend of Andrew's from way way back”—and could one of them have Andrew call him, and gives his phone number. He assumes they got divorced and Amber kept the apartment and their daughter lives with her, but then why would she still list Andrew's name in the phone directory, unless they're only separated? Maybe, if they are divorced, to ward off creepy men from calling her because there's only a woman's name listed or just an initial for a first name. Anyway, two days later Andrew calls and says, “I got your message. What's up, how's it going?” and he says, “Fine. I'm just trying to reach Harold. Neither he nor Lynn are listed in the phone book in New York, she hasn't kept their old phone number, and I didn't know who else to go to. And excuse me if you think this is being nosy, but I assume, because your wife only mentioned her and your daughter's names on the answering machine recording—” and Andrew says, “We split up more than four years ago, soon after I last saw you, I think,” and he says, “Sorry to hear that,” and Andrew says, “No reason to be. It was a lousy marriage for years. The worst part, as I'm sure it'd be for you too, is the daily deprivation of seeing my daughter. She didn't want to move to San Diego, and you can't blame her—friends, school, her mother—and it was too good a job for me to turn down and stay in New York just to be near her. But I've started socializing again, so I'm not as lonely as when I first got here, and I get to see Emma about six times a year and for a month this summer, which helps out. I'm even getting to like this city. Weather's ideal, if you've had your fill of icy rain and snow and extreme cold, and there are plenty of good bookstores and places to eat, and people here are a lot more civil to you than they are in New York. But what about Harold?” and he tells him his mother died a month ago and he thought Harold would be able to advise him on what to do with her jewelry and antiques and some of her furniture. “He's the right guy for that, and you'd be dealing with someone you can trust, for a lot of these estate and appraisal people can be jackals of the worst order. But he's not in the antiques business anymore, though he could still give you good advice. And I'm sorry to hear about your mom. I don't remember her that well—we're talking of more than thirty years ago when I last saw her—but I know how it feels, when my own dear mother died twenty-two years ago. I still think of her almost every day, and now more than the last few years, maybe because of my divorce and my daughter. You have a pen?” and he gives Harold's phone numbers off the top of his head, his apartment and studio and also his office. “Who knows why he's unlisted. Debts, I doubt. As for Lynn, she goes by her maiden name now, Katz. Since they parted ways, I haven't seen her, though her last address is Three-ten West Nineteenth Street, one zero zero eleven for the ZIP. I only know it because she once asked me to send her one of our products. So listen, this has been nice, and if you ever get out to San Diego—” and he says, “I was there three years ago for something and don't see any chance of a repeat visit soon,” and Andrew says, “Too bad I wasn't here then. I mean, I'm glad I wasn't; I was still in New York and seeing my daughter almost every day. But if I had been here and knew from Harold or someone you were coming. Next time, perhaps. Or in New York, if you get there and our stays overlap. No, then I reserve all my free time for Emma. But it's not often I run into old friends out here, and I miss it and that New York openness and humor. Do you run into anyone from college or after whom we both knew?” and he says, “Hardly ever. You might've been the last, several years ago, coming out of a subway station I was walking past, or the other way around, or it could have been one of us going in it and the other coming out, I forget,” and Andrew says, “I remember that, Broadway and Seventy-second. I was heading to Fairway from my office downtown for some deli and Eli's bread and you were cutting across the island the station's on to buy Mahler's Tenth—the Rattle version, I think you said—at that big record store on the corner, the one I like to call MSG. Matter of fact, our conversation that time was mainly about music. You'd recently had a letter in the
Times
magazine section where you criticized an article they'd run on Vladimir Horowitz. ‘Petty-minded and abjectly cheeky and pejorative' were some of the things you said in it, and I remember asking you how come you'd got so worked up about the subject,” and he says, “Well, if I recall, I thought Horowitz was entitled to his so-called eccentricities, if that's what it took for him to—” and Andrew says, “I know; you told me in front of the subway station. I disagreed, didn't think the writer of the article had been as unsympathetic and sarcastic as you'd said in the letter, though you might have been right; and now Horowitz is dead. Anyway, about San Diego, take my number, just in case you're ever out here or somewhere close—L.A., even, since I get up there once a month,” and gives it, and he writes it down though doesn't think he'll transfer it to his address book. He's not going to San Diego, and even if he did he wouldn't try to see him and he doesn't know what he'd want to speak to him on the phone again for. What he wants now is to get off, but Andrew's talking about the White House—how'd they get into that?—“Because what do you make of it? I think the scandals and skulduggery will ultimately crush him, and to our great misfortune too. Because liberal as he isn't, he's still two times five more so than any Repub who'll succeed him if the shit sticks, and then say
hasta luego
to abortion rights, gun control, military spending restraint, health, welfare, and education support, besides aid to the arts of any sort and free condoms, and then crime on the street will next be on your doorstep and then in your hair. In other words, poverty and lousy housing and too many unguided defiant children—” and he says, “That could be, though if the guy and his cronies did wrong, they should own up to it and pay the consequences, even if in the long run we'll all suffer,” and thinks why, of all things, did he say that? and then a movie Andrew saw last month that he thinks the most literary and intellectual film since early to middle Bergman. “I mention him also because I remember you once said he should get, almost before anyone—and I'm dipping back here around twenty years—the Nobel for literature,” and he says, “I did? It's a blank to me, and now I think all those prizes are ruinous and ridiculous,” and Andrew says, “Come on, you wouldn't turn down something good like that if it was offered,” and he says, “I don't know; maybe only not to embarrass the giver. But what's the title?” and writes it down, and then a novel Andrew read in three sittings last week—“long as we're talking about literature”—that he thinks Gould would like, and gives the title and author, and he says, “Never heard of it or her,” and Andrew says, “Gallop, don't shlep, to your bookstore for it. If you were here I'd immediately loan it to you. She's doing things with language and story and structure that practically no one but some of the Latin Americans are doing, or used to, but for their culture, and she's maybe just hit thirty. It's worth every dollar of the hardcover price and it's a big book too but reads as if it's one third the size—that quick, despite its density and intricateness,” and he says, “I'll certainly take a look at it; thanks for the tip,” but doesn't write the title or author's name down. If it's that good, someone else will tell him about it or he'll see it advertised or prominently displayed in the bookstores, though he still won't skim through more than a dozen pages of it. Writers have to be—if it's novels, not stories—dead or at least a few years older than he for him to like, he's not sure why. Not envy, he doesn't think, or for the last ten years; the young ones don't have much to say or very interesting ways to say it, and American Americans less than most of them, but he doesn't want to say that now and get into a whole other discussion and probably be ridden a little for it. “So, it's been nice talking to you,” and Andrew says, “Same here, and don't forget what I suggested to you,” and he says, “You mean if I'm out there? I have your number,” and Andrew says “That too, but I was referring to Tiffany Hissler's novel. It'd be major at any age; the girl's a wonder,” and he says, “I won't, I got it:
Time Off,”
and Andrew says,
“Time In,”
and he says, “Anyway,
Time
, so I'll find her alphabetically either way,” and they say goodbye and hang up, and he thinks, I should have added “by name and title.” The guy will think I'm a jerk. Right after, his wife says, “Who was that?” and he tells her and why Andrew called back, “but I feel so lousy about him, because of his first wife,” and she says, “They obviously broke up and divorced. Or something terrible happened to her?” and he says, “I did something I'm so ashamed of,” and tells her, and she says, “Well, when you get older this is what you learn, or ought to, and better now than never,” and he says, “Oh, I've known it for a long time, right from the beginning, not that it stopped me from doing it again and again, with her and others. I just didn't think it'd come back to me like this after thirty years. I almost wanted to bring the matter up on the phone, get it out finally,” and she says, “Bad idea. If he doesn't know, why hurt him now just so you can unburden yourself? And if he knows—” and he says, “He has to. He was always smart and sharp, read a lot, picked up things quick, was a great quipster, would have me in stitches, and I could tell by our conversation before that he doesn't miss a trick or forget a thing. And they must have talked about it at least once during the breakup. She screwed around with a few other guys during the marriage, and I remember Harold once saying that was one of the reasons Andrew agreed to the divorce: he couldn't trust her. I'm sure Harold didn't know about me; if he did he would have pilloried me for it: ‘Andrew was our friend,' and so on. Of course, as a couple—well, not of course; but Andrew and Clo didn't seem that compatible. He was precise and buttoned up; she was kind of sloppy and hang-loose and said whatever crossed her mind no matter how insulting or vulgar, another reason he must have known: her big mouth. But both were sensitive to little things; seashells, I remember; usually pink and translucent and kept in tiny plastic boxes. Miniature watch faces without bands; they'd started a collection together. And children. Meaning, they seemed relaxed and affectionate with them, playing on the floor and that sort of thing. She wanted one desperately then, he didn't at all, but when she was married she told me she only wanted one with him. I'm sure, if she had asked—and who knows if I didn't even suggest this—I would have gladly supplied the seed and not thought of the consequences. That's the way I was then—I mean, I wouldn't have gone around bragging I had a child, but kind of stupid and irresponsible. He eventually had a daughter with Amber, his second wife; Clo had about three kids with her second husband. I bumped into her about ten years ago on the subway; maybe I told you this,” and she says no. “She'd gotten a little dumpy, had always been prone to it, being short and squat and big-boned and a voracious eater, all of which was a turn-on to me when she was much younger. She was so strong, physically. I helped them move a couch once, and she was easily my match on her end of it. Lifted it without struggling. Andrew, who's at least six feet but quite gangly, stood on the side, saying it only takes two to lift it, three would unbalance it for the one who had to take an end by himself, so let Clo do it instead of him, since she's a lot stronger. Maybe she was also more sexual than he, but that's their story, nothing I want to know about. She did allude to it but I forget what it was, something about her sexual appetite, I think, which, if you were only doing it sporadically with her—this is what I think now, not what she said—was probably easy enough to satisfy. And it could be—this is legitimate—her physical strength had the opposite effect on him than it did on me, and that his second wife's leanness, almost emaciation—I saw her once—was a turn-on to him, sending him into sensual frenzies. I've always preferred, but haven't always ended up with, women who can take a lot of banging around in bed, with strong thighs, a decent-sized rear and spread, plenty of energy, no wilting delicateness or fake excuses.” “Was there any spark there when you saw her on the subway?” and he says, “There was never much spark between us. It was physical, though we had laughs too, and she was bright and also well-read, so occasional good conversations. But mostly food, wine, sex. I knocked on their door once—we lived in the same building. I was on the ground floor and they were on the third. I in fact got that apartment through him. They gave a party, I attended, liked the neighborhood, and told him I had to get out of my sublet across town, and he said there's a small studio apartment in their building, fairly cheap because it's sort of an illegal residence, carved out of another apartment and maybe not even reported to the city's Rent Commission. So one day—he was away on business for the week, I didn't know that, though,” and she says, “Of course you didn't,” and he says, “I'm telling you; I didn't see them much. Once every two to three weeks and if not for dinner, which was maybe once every three months, then usually just a quick chat by our mailboxes or in the supermarket or on the street,” and she says, “So that's when one of them told you and you used that information to make your move,” and he says, “But I'm almost sure they didn't. That'd change the whole story, make me into an even worse creep than I thought I was. Because the way I remember it is I went to their apartment to speak to Andrew. I wanted to borrow something—his car, I believe, to drive my folks someplace,” and she says, “Was it evening?” and he says, “Afternoon, I think,” and she says, “So why would you think Andrew would be there, unless he worked nights?” and he says, “Then I don't know what time of the day it was: evening, afternoon—or the weekend; you forgot that. To be honest, somehow I see daylight in the picture, and open windows, so summer or early fall or late spring; I even think there was a breeze. They had a big two-bedroom apartment with a terrace and several exposures. Really quite grand and nicely furnished, floors finished, everything done in good taste. But anyway, I knocked on their door—or maybe I did know he was gone and I was going to the market and wanted to know if she needed anything. I thought it was about the car, but now the going-to-the-store-for-her seems right, and I think because she was sick,” and she says, “You could have called for that,” and he says, “How do you know I had a phone? I probably didn't, as I avoided them for years in my apartments. It saved money; I didn't have a lot. I even had the phone turned off in the previous place I sublet. And if I did have one it would be more like me to think it was profligate to call from two floors below rather than walk upstairs. I was a bit of a cheapskate then too, but it's something I'd still probably do. Anyway, I rang their bell, didn't knock—you ring bells for apartments unless the bell's broken, and this was a good building, well taken care of—and either asked through the door for Andrew or if she needed anything at the market, or if