Letting Go (37 page)

“An old friend,” Martha said. “He stimulates the children.”

“And you?”

More demanding yet. She would have been annoyed were it not as though some hand had reached down to pull her out of the fire. “No, no. No—that’s true. Listen, I’m sounding tragic. How’s your father’s party? Is there really a father and a party, or is some tootsie nestled beside you in her underwear?”

“I call in the absence of the latter.”

“It’s very sweet of you to call. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“I’m having a nice unhappy one.”

“Mommy!” Cynthia said. “I want to talk to him—I want to—”

“Just a minute, will you?” Martha said into the phone. Then, away from it, “Cynthia, it is not Daddy!”

“It is!”

“It is not! I’m telling you the truth, Cynthia. Go talk to Sid,
he’s all alone. Cynthia!” The child was threatening to throw a lollipop at her. “Cynthia!”

In tears, the little girl went toward the room where Markie was napping.

“I’m back,” Martha said.

“Good,” Wallach said.

Good for what? What kind of weak-kneed out was she going to make this into? Surely she couldn’t reject a man who had been so good to her through all these rotten years for another with whom she’d eaten one lousy dinner two weeks before? What right had she to use this flukey phone call against Sid—in fact, to use Sid?

She could tell instantly from the voice on the other end that she had hurt the feelings of still another gentleman. “I just wanted to say Merry Thanksgiving to you.”

“Thank you …” Then she realized that he was about to hang up. “Shall I go ahead,” she asked, “and invite you to another meal? Will you eat leftovers when you come back?”

“I’ll be back Monday.”

“Come then,” Martha Reganhart said, “for dinner.”

“Yes, I will … Who’s Sid?”

“He’s a man who just asked me to marry him.”

“I see.”

“You’ll come Monday night.”

“As long as you’re still single,” he answered, “I suppose so.”

“Single as ever,” she said.

“Does that upset you?” Wallach asked.

“Specifically, no; generally, I’m not sure. This is some longdistance conversation.”

“Long distance should be outlawed anyway,” he said. “Were you expecting a phone call from your husband?”

“My
ex
-husband—from whom I have no expectations whatsoever.” A cry went up from Markie’s room. “Oh God, my son just hit my daughter with a chair or something. Give my love to the girl in her underwear.”

“You give my love to Sidney.”

She felt, when he said that, all the strangeness of their conversation; she wouldn’t have minded being angry with him. “We can’t possibly be jealous over anything,” she said, “so we shouldn’t really play at it. Should we?”

“I’m a little deranged today, Martha. I’m wondering,” he said,
in a very forlorn voice, “if well ever manage to level with one another.”

And then she wanted really
only
to be level—she wanted to be serious, to be normal; she wanted to be soft and feminine; she wanted a love affair that was no jokes, just intensity; and because the man on the other end was practically a stranger, she led herself into thinking that he could service her in just that way. She wanted to be out of what she was inextricably a part of—her own life. “You come Monday, Gabe. I’ll be single. They shouldn’t outlaw long distance,” she said, holding the phone very close to her. “I feel you’ve saved my life.”

And on the other end he was saying, “There is a father and a party, you know. And I look forward to seeing you.”

And she was explaining, “Sid is Sid Jaffe—he was my lawyer. He got me my divorce half-price, and I’m very indebted to him, Gabe, and the children are crazy about him, as crazy as they can be about anybody, anyway. And I have to stop talking on your money. Forgive me, please.” She hung up, thinking herself her own woman.

But while she changed into her waitress uniform, she heard laughing and chatter from the kitchen. The uproar in the kid’s room had been a false alarm, and Markie had gone back to sleep; the two people having such a good time were her daughter and her lawyer. When she emerged in her starchy blue waitress uniform—her Renoir proportions having taken on the angles of a coffin—she saw that Sid had his sleeves rolled up and was washing the dishes. And Cynthia—complainer, beggar, favor-monger, liar, fatherless baby—Cynthia wiped, and wore upon her face the very sweetest of smiles.

Martha leaned against the door to her bedroom and let the tears come.

“My father painted a picture of me that was in the paper,” Cynthia was saying.

“Did he?” Sid asked.

“We used to live in Mexico and he drew it down there. It’s very hot down there, even in the winters.”

“Can I see the picture? Did he make you as pretty as you are? Did he get those blue eyes in it?”

Cynthia, after a quick look around the kitchen, said, “Well, it’s not exactly me. It’s really all of us in Mexico.”

“Martha too, you mean?”

“Everything. All of us.”

“I certainly would like to see it,” Sid said

“Would you?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Just a minute!” she dropped her dishtowel where she stood, and took off for the bedroom, which was beside her mother’s. “Hi, Mommy!” she said, and skipped into her own room. Instantly, all hell broke loose.

“Christ, Markie,” roared Cynthia, “what’s the matter with you? Are you nuts?”

“Whaaa? Whooo? Mommy!”

“Mark
ie
,” Cynthia howled. She rushed back into the hall and began to stamp her feet. “That damn kid,” she told her mother, “was sleeping with my picture! He wrinkled my whole picture!”

“It’s not just your picture, sweetheart,” Martha began.

“If he wants a paper,” Cynthia shouted, “let him
buy
one!”

At this point the childless couple who lived above them began to hammer on the floor.

“Oh—” Martha cried, grabbing her hair. “What the fuck do they expect!
It’s a holiday!
”

She screamed her words in Sid’s direction, as though she
wanted
to frighten him; he paled, and dove back into the dishes. While she calmed herself and calmed the children, he finished the silverware—and then, in plain sight of her, he reached up into a cabinet and took down the Bon Ami. Oh the Bon Ami—the Bon Ami was just too much. What right had he to twist her arm so? What right had he to be so perfect? She would have sold her soul to the devil, were he able to make her love the man who stood in an apron in her kitchen, shaking the beautiful white cleanser down into the dirty sink.

It is difficult to be casual about the power of Thanksgiving; it produces expectations, and starts ordering around our emotions, and, above all, it takes unfair advantage of our memories. Though Martha Reganhart did not consider herself particularly reverent about celebrations, she nevertheless could not become accustomed to having to earn a living on Thanksgiving Day by waiting on tables. She could work without too much pain on Sundays, Labor Day, Memorial Day, and even the days of Christ’s birth, crucifixion, and ascension; but that she had to spend eight hours on the next-to-last Thursday in November taking orders for fried jumbo shrimp was proof that her
life had not turned out as she had hoped. She attempted to pay no attention to the direction in which they were headed. Instead of proceeding directly to the Hawaiian House, she suggested they stop first at the playground and let the kids run around.

Mark and Cynthia—and here was one of the mysteries that held their mother’s world together—were strolling twenty feet in front, holding hands. Mark was wearing long pants and his blue coat, and Cynthia her red jacket with the hood; above them the sun was a dull light behind the clouds. Cynthia was helping Markie across the street and seeing to it that he did not toss his cap up into the branches of the bare trees. For twenty minutes she had been as well-behaved a child as one could ask for; outside the apartment building she had taken her brother aside and silently buttoned his fly.

“It comes over her,” Martha said, “every once in a while. I think she’s going to take flight and join God’s angels. Maybe it’s fresh air that does it.”

“She’s going to be a knockout,” Sid said. “She has those blue eyes, and then she
rolls
them …”

“She’s a sweet child,” Martha said. “She’s just a little frantic.”

“She’ll be all right. They’re perfectly decent, lively, charming kids,” Sid told her. “Stop worrying.”

They were inspiring words, upon which she was willing to lean. Sid himself was looking like something to lean upon—husky in his raglan coat, jaunty in his tweed hat with the green feather. She would have kissed him for his dependability, except that she was supposed to be deciding, even while they walked, whether to marry him for it; she had thought she had already made up her mind, but it appeared—to her own surprise—that she hadn’t.

“It looks,” Sid said, “as though Dick is coming up in the world.” It looked, too, as though he were changing the subject, though he wasn’t.

“Yes, doesn’t it?” She took his arm as they crossed the street. Memory carried her all the way back to Oregon. “It’s a lovely time of day,” she said.

“What do you think he’s going to do? Will he start sending money?”

She breathed in a good supply of the autumn air. “I don’t think he could have made an awful lot from four or five pictures.”

“I don’t think that’s our business. How much is he behind?”

She shrugged.

“Martha, I’ve asked you to simply keep a record—”

“He’s probably going back to Arizona. He’s probably as broke as ever.”

“Then maybe he ought to stay in New York and get a job.”

All she wanted to do now was to point out a house that reminded her of her family’s big frame house back in Oregon; she did not care to dilute the day’s pleasure any further with talk of her former husband. In 1953, when he had disappeared into the canyons of the Southwest, she had given up on chasing after him for the support payments. It was not only because she could not find him that she chose not to have any papers served. Dick’s running off had told her what she had always wanted to know: paying all the bills, every nickel, dime, and quarter, had permitted her to stop condemning herself. She was not mean, bitchy, immoral, selfish, stupid and dishonest—all the words he had hurled at her when she had fled finally from Mexico with the children; it could not be she who was the betrayer of their children—not so long as she was as harried and unhappy as she was.

Martha said, “He has a job. He’s a painter.”

“I meant a real job, to meet his obligations.”

All she knew about painting was what Dick had taught her; still, it was no pleasure to see the Philistine in Sid oozing out. “It’s not important,” she said. “Please.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, that painting looked like hell to me, I’ll tell you that.”

“In black and white it’s hard to know.”

“Oh yes? Did you like it? Would you like to tell me what it was supposed to be?”

“… Cynthia had it—it’s all of us in Mexico, I suppose. Look, it’s a kind of painting I guess you’re not in sympathy with. You’ve got to see a lot of it”—and the voice she heard was not her own, but her ex-instructor’s—“before you start to get it.”

“What am I supposed to
get?
That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“Oh Sid, are you asking me to defend that whole God damn bunch of phonies? The guy doesn’t have any money—what am I supposed to do, bleed him? He’s a pathetic neurotic whom we should really all pity, except that he happens to be a son of a bitch. Sid, he couldn’t
get
a regular job. If he worked in a factory or had to pump gas, well, he just couldn’t. He’s a painter—that’s actually what he is, for some unfathomable reason, and there’s nothing we can do to make him not one. So let’s forget it for today, please.”

“What are you so pigheaded for, Martha?”

“I’m not pigheaded. I don’t need him.” Sharply she added, “They’re my children.”

But Sid went right on, not figuring her anger to be directed in any way at him. “He’s having a success, right? He’s obviously made a little money, isn’t that so? Then now is the time to open up correspondence. Honestly, honey, now is the time to slap him in court—”

“Why don’t we wait? Why don’t we just wait and see what he does, all right?” But when she squeezed his hand, it made it even more obvious that she had trampled once again on his concern for her. “Sid, I appreciate everything you’ve done—”

He stopped her. “Do you?”

There was no further conversation until they reached the playground, where Stephanie Parrino and her two little brothers were playing on the seesaw while their grandmother, Mrs. Baker, watched over them.

“My father sent me a picture,” Cynthia told Stephanie’s grandmother, and then went off with Mark to the swings.

Stephanie’s grandmother had once been the mother-in-law of Billy Parrino, the man who had sat in this very playground and asked Martha to run off to Paris with five children and himself. Billy had finally divorced Bev, and Bev had tried to drown herself in the toilet. She was now on the ninth floor of Billings receiving shock treatment, though all discussion of her condition was carried on as though she were down with a bad cold.