Far-Flung (8 page)

“What are the mirrors for?” I ask.

“My roommate is a dancer,” says Heath. He hangs our coats up.

“I didn’t know you had a roommate,” I say.

“He’s on tour,” Heath says. “He’s not around very much. He’s with Alvin Ailey.”

He turns the TV on. Jimmy Stewart is crying and praying in a bar. We both watch. After a few minutes David comes in. He must have keys. He’s bought espresso beans, a pint of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and a pack of Marlboro Lights.

Heath gets up and grinds the beans. I pretend to be very interested in the movie. Now Jimmy Stewart is driving his car into a tree. Suddenly the room smells of coffee.

We drink espresso and watch the movie. Heath and David sit on the couch, and I sit on a chair. After a while I get up and use Heath’s bathroom. It is wallpapered with postcards. There’s one, right above the light switch, of Block Island that I’m sure David sent him. David’s mother has a house on Block Island. I went there once with Loren and David, when they were still married. I untack the card and turn it over. It is from David.

Dear Heath,

The weather has been great and I’m having fun. Today I played golf with my brother. Do you play golf? It’s boring, I think. Hope you had a good weekend.

Regards, D.

I tack it back up. Regards, I think: not love.

When I go back into the living room someone has turned the lights off so just the TV illuminates the room. David and Heath are sitting close together on the couch, passing the pint of Chocolate Chocolate Chip ice cream back and forth. I watch them for a minute, from behind.

I hate being here. I put on my coat. They don’t hear me. I have a feeling Heath is stroking David’s leg but I can’t really see. I could be just imagining it.

“I’m going to go,” I say. “Thanks for the espresso.”

They both turn around.

“Don’t leave yet,” Heath says. “It’s almost over.”

“I’ve seen it before,” I say. “Many times.”

“Lillian, wait,” David says. “I was going to go back uptown with you.”

I don’t believe this for a second. David has no intention of going back uptown. If you’re going back uptown you don’t take your shoes off.

“I want to leave now,” I say. “I’m tired.”

“How are you going to get home?” David asks.

“Cab it,” I say. I put my gloves on.

“Can I come down and help you find one?”

“That’s all right,” I say. They both finally get up off the couch and come over to the door. “Good night,” I say.

Before they can kiss me I leave. When I get out on the street I look back up at the apartment window. I can’t see them—just the silvery light from the TV. I go into the little store and buy a pack of cigarettes. A middle-aged Asian man in a jacket and tie sells them to me. He is very kind. He gives me three packs of matches and wishes me Merry Christmas. I feel like hanging out with him for a while. Like the rest of my life.

Instead, I start walking up First Avenue. It’s warm out and the fresh air feels good. Across the intersection of First Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street, Santa is flying in a reindeer-pulled sleigh. The reindeer diminish in size: Each one is smaller than the one behind it. It’s supposed to look like they’re flying away into the night, but it doesn’t. It looks like Santa couldn’t find enough healthy reindeer this year. I take off my gloves to smoke a cigarette, and notice the ring on my finger. I forgot I had it on. I think of ways to get rid of it: tossing it under the wheels of a bus or handing it to a bum. I don’t do either of these things, though. I just stand under a streetlight and look at it.

T
HE HALLS OF THE HIGH
school are teeming with manic, barely dressed students, and I press myself against the tile wall and let them pass. There is something frighteningly erotic about this sea of bodies: Girls’ stomachs and boys’ shoulders are bared in a combination of what seems to be narcissism and lust, as if they have, emerged, not from History, but from some orgy, and are roaming the corridors in an effort to regroup, return to their lairs, and continue doing whatever it is they do behind these steamy glass doors.

After a few minutes, a bell shrills, the halls clear; and the school regains its composure. I find my way to the guidance office, and Mrs. King, Ellery’s counselor. She asks me to sit down.

“Mr. Groener couldn’t come?”

“No,” I say. “He’s in the Philippines.”

“Philadelphia?”

“No, the Philippines.”

“The Philippines?”

“On business.”

“Of course,” says Mrs. King, as if I were lying. “Well, I’ve taken the liberty of asking the school nurse to join us. I hope that’s all right with you?”

I nod.

“Ellery’s problems—or troubles—are not only academic. That’s why Mr. Katikonas wanted to speak with us.”

“Who’s Mr. Katikonas?”

“Oh, he’s the nurse. Miss Holloran retired, and, in an effort to update our health offerings, we’ve hired Mr. Katikonas. He has a background in drug and alcohol abuse, as well as adolescent psychology. Educational nursing has changed since our day.” Mrs. King pauses, and then adds, “Not that Ellery’s problems are stimulus-effected.”

I smile.

Mr. Katikonas enters the small cubicle. He is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says “Say No” on its chest. If I had met him in the hall I would have thought he was a student. He shakes hands with me, and then with Mrs. King, as if he knows each of us equally poorly. Perhaps he does. He looks around for a chair, but there isn’t one.

“Oh,” says Mrs. King. “You can get a chair from Willy’s office.”

“That’s O.K.,” says the nurse. “I’d rather stand.” He leans against the wall.

“Well,” says Mrs. King, “Mr. Katikonas and I wanted to talk to you about Ellery. Mainly about the sunglasses.”

“I guessed,” I say.

“You’re aware of the problem?” Mrs. King asks.

“Yes.”

“So he wears them at home?” the nurse asks. I pause, think about lying. But I don’t. “Yes,” I say.

“All the time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to him about them?” Mrs. King is obviously our group leader.

“A little,” I say.

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing, really,” I say. “I mean, I just kind of kidded him … I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“He could be doing serious retinal damage,” the nurse interjects.

“Oh …” I say.

“I’m sure that’s true, John, but that’s not the point,” says Mrs. King. “I think the glasses are a psychological shield he’s building up around himself … they’re a symbol for a deeper problem. The problem isn’t really the sunglasses.”

“Nevertheless,” says the nurse, “he could be damaging his eyes. I feel it’s important to make that point. From a health point of view.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Mrs. Groener?” Mrs. King asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Could this be linked with … I mean, Ellery’s record mentions his brother’s recent death. Since he’s a new student, I’m afraid I don’t know him as well as some of my other students. But do you think this is linked with that?”

Ellery’s twin brother, Patrick, committed suicide last year. We’re still trying to adjust, I think. We moved to this new town, and now we’re getting ready to move to the Philippines, where my husband’s been transferred (at his own request). I don’t answer. I don’t yet know how to answer questions like these.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. King says.

“No,” I say. “It’s O.K. I just really don’t know.”

“Of course,” she says. “To return to the matter at hand. This school has no specific policy regarding the wearing of sunglasses. However, we do forbid the wearing of clothes and accessories that are either dangerous or that divert attention from the purpose of education. I think the sunglasses could fall into either of those categories.”

“Yes,” I say. “I suppose they could.”

“So we’re thinking of forbidding Ellery to wear them in the building.”

“But I thought the problem wasn’t the sunglasses,” I say.

“But it’s the … the manifestation of the problem,” Mrs. King says. “It’s all we have to go on.”

“I’d just like to see Ellery out of those shades,” the nurse says. “Then we can take it from there.”

“Would you agree to that?” Mrs. King asks.

“What would happen if he refused to take them off?” I ask.

“He wouldn’t be allowed to attend classes. We’d put him in ICE.”

“In what?”

“ICE. Isolated Continuing Education. Instead of suspending or expelling our students, we try to keep them in the building, but don’t allow them to attend classes or mix with other students.”

“It sounds like prison,” I say.

“It’s a very successful program,” Mrs. King says. “It might sound drastic, but it does get us results. Of course it’s supplemented with psychological counseling. It’s just what some kids need.”

“Maybe I should talk to Ellery again,” I say.

“By all means, do,” says Mrs. King.

“Hey, listen,” the nurse says. “We don’t want to do anything without your knowledge and cooperation. And it’s much better if the problem is approached by you rather than us.”

“But there is a problem,” says Mrs. King. “And it does have to be approached.”

I nod.

“One more question,” the nurse says. “I’m just curious. Why did you name him Ellery?”

When I get home from the high school there’s a strange car parked in front of the house. I pull into the driveway, and as I walk up the front steps, a woman gets out of the car and crosses the lawn.

“Do you live here?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“I came about the garage sale? Vinnie Olloppia—she bought your Osterizer—told me.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, come in.”

“Where’s the stuff?”

“It’s inside,” I say. “I’m selling the contents of the house.”

“Everything?” she asks.

I unlock the front door. “Yes,” I say. “We’re moving overseas.”

“Where to?”

“The Philippines,” I say. “My husband is there now. I’m just trying to get the house sold.”

“You shouldn’t tell people that,” the woman says. “I mean, that you’re living alone.”

“My son is here,” I say. And, because Carly is lying in the front hall, I add, “And my dog.”

“Does he bite?” the woman asks.

“No,” I say.

Carly sighs. We step over him and go into the living room.

“Wow. This is all for sale? Everything?”

“Yes,” I say. “My husband’s bought a furnished house.”

“You could put this in storage,” the woman suggests. “I can’t imagine selling all my things. Aren’t you sad?”

“No,” I say. “You can look around. Excuse me a minute.”

I go into my bedroom and lie down on the bed. Carly noses open the door and walks over and looks at me. He doesn’t like it when you close doors. “Hi, Carly,” I say. I stroke his nose, and his ears. Carly has glaucoma and is almost blind. The vet told me that moving him into another new, unfamiliar house would be “torture” for him. Not that we would take him all the way to Manila. We’ll have to put him to sleep soon. I’ll have to put him to sleep soon.

I can hear the lady walking around the living room. She could be stealing everything, for all I know. That would be nice. That would be the easiest way to get rid of it.

I get up, wash my face, and go back to the living room. The woman isn’t there. I go into the kitchen. She’s holding open a cupboard door, looking inside. She closes it when she sees me. Real quick.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine. Look.”

“I’m trying to find some things for my daughter. She just got married, and moved into a beautiful condo—in the River warren?—but she won’t buy anything for it. She got some things as wedding presents, of course. A bed and a TV and a kitchen table. But she won’t get anything else. She doesn’t take any interest in fixing the place up. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m thinking that if I get a few things, start her off, you know, she’ll make an effort. Her husband’s just as bad. They lie on the bed, watch TV, and eat frozen food. Oh, she has a microwave, too.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” she says. “Are you selling these pots and pans?”

“Everything,” I say.

“How much do you want for these? Are they genuine Revere Ware?”

“Yes,” I say. They were my wedding presents. “Twenty dollars?”

“That sounds reasonable.” She takes the pots out of the cupboard and arranges them on the kitchen table, stacking them inside of one another. “Listen,” she says. “Do you think I could come back with my daughter? Maybe seeing all this stuff, might, you know, excite her.”

“Sure,” I say.

“But I’ll take these pots now. Are you sure just twenty? For the whole set?”

“Yes,” I say.

The woman opens her bag and rummages in it. It’s shaped like a little wooden picnic basket. She hands me a twenty. “Here you go,” she says. “Maybe I’ll come back this evening? With Debbie? Would that be O.K.?”

“Sure,” I say.

I walk her to the front door. Carly’s back in the front hall. We both step over him. He sighs.

I stand inside the door and watch the woman drive away. Then I take the twenty and put it, along with all the other money I’ve made, in the empty dog biscuit box I keep on top of the refrigerator.

I haven’t been sleeping much nights, so I take a nap. Carly joins me. We are awakened by Ellery, home from school, playing his stereo: the soundtrack from
Carousel.
Ellery has strange taste in music.

I knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer I open it. He’s lying on his bed, on his back, his sunglasses on. He wears different ones. I forgot to mention that to the guidance counselor. Surely it’s not as obsessive if he changes them? The worst are the mirrored ones. The wraparound ones he has on now are thin and curved, so you can’t see his eyes, even if you sit beside him and make an effort.

“Hello, Ellery,” I say. I turn the music down: “June Is Bustin’ Out All Over.”

“Hi,” Ellery says.

Carly, ignored, noses his chest. “Hello, Carly,” Ellery says.

“How was school?” I ask.