The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg (71 page)

Mr. Laskey’s expression wavered, then settled down. “And what’s your pleasure, Kyla?” he said. “Decided yet?”

This was always a terrible moment, and it was one that occurred about three times every day. Her mother had told her to be especially careful not to order the most expensive thing on the menu, but it didn’t seem that the price of something was what Mr. Laskey was particularly thinking about.

She shook her head, watching him.

“Well, I’m having a hot fudge sundae,” he said. “Why not join me?”

She felt herself beginning to blush. “Okay,” she said.

“Good girl,” he said, and Kyla tossed her hair back.

“Alice…Alice…” Alice began.

“Chill out, Alice,” Janey said.

“You want cinnamon toast, sweetheart,” Mr. Laskey said.

“Oh,” Alice agreed cheerfully.

“Janey?” Mr. Laskey said.

Janey turned to him with the look she could make that was as if she were gazing at something on the other side of a person.

“A promise is a promise,” Mr. Laskey said. “Would you like a hot fudge sundae, too?”

Janey continued to stare at him as red waves came up into her face. “Fruit salad,” she said.

Mr. Laskey looked down at the table as if it were an old, old enemy. “I’d like the fruit salad,
please
,” he said.

A promise is a promise.
And what it was that had been promised—Kyla had been there; she had heard it—was
anything we like.

It was a night she’d had to sleep over at the Laskeys’.

“I hate going to the Laskeys’,” she’d said.

“Well, where will we put you, sweetie?” her mother said. “Because you’ve had too many sleepovers at Ellen’s lately.”

Kyla hesitated. “Could we call Courtney?” she said.

“Oh, no, sweetie,” her mother said. “I don’t think so, do you?”

“Why not?” Kyla said.

“Well, we don’t really know the Colliers very well, do we? We can’t ask them for favors.”

Favors
, Kyla thought; was she a “favor”?

“Besides, we don’t really know what kind of people they are.”

Kyla looked at her mother. “They’re nice,” she said.

“I’m sure they are, sweetie,” her mother said. “But, no.”

“Why do I have to sleep over at anyone’s?” Kyla said.

“Oh, because,” her mother said. “I’m going out to dinner with a friend.”

“But—” Kyla said. “So why can’t I just stay home by myself? Until you’ve eaten dinner?”

“And what would you do for dinner?” her mother said.

“I could have something,” Kyla said. “From the microwave. Just like I do when you work late.”

Her mother stroked her hair. “Just
as
I do.”

“Why not?” Kyla said.

“Well, darling—” Her mother smiled gently. “Because I need time to see my friends just as you need time to see your friends.”

But the point was, Kyla thought, she didn’t need time to see her friends. All she and her friends had was time—time and time and time. Waiting through the long, dull afternoons, the whole funnel of Kyla’s memory, playing upstairs with the dolls or games or trading cards they’d been given to play with, doing each other’s hair, pretending Brides or Baby or Shopping just like Alice did now, pretending—there was nothing else to do—that they were pretending, until it was time to come back down for milk and cookies or for one of them to be taken home. Waiting to understand the point of the dolls or games they’d been presented with, waiting for the afternoon to turn into night or for Sunday to turn into Monday, or for August to turn into September, or for nine years old to turn into ten and ten to turn, heavily, into eleven. Waiting alone in front of the television for the long evenings to fall away. Staring at the screen as if they were staring through periscopes for land, and in the dim evening rooms, the world, the distant world—which was what they must be waiting for—approached, welled into the screens, and the evening fell away in half-hour pieces. And then, finally, there was bed, and another long day had been completed. “What friend do you need time to see?” Kyla said.

“Stand up straight, darling,” her mother said. “You don’t want to look like Margie Strayhorn, do you? Doctor Loeffler.”

Dr. Loeffler
—Kyla stared. Dr. Loeffler had come over the week before and filled up their pretty living room, which he was much too big for, and her mother had made Kyla sit there for no reason at all. And the whole time—while Kyla looked at the shiny black hairs on the backs of his hands—this Dr. Loeffler had had a little smile, as if something were funny, or ridiculous. “You were planning this!” Kyla said. “Why didn’t you tell me before? You knew you were going to do this!”

“Darling,” her mother said with a breathless little laugh. “What do you mean?”

A tear had squirted into each eye, and yet the thing that Kyla meant, which had been so clear the instant before, was gone—simply gone—as if a hand had materialized and closed around it. “I don’t like Dr. Loeffler,” she said.

“Sweetie,” her mother said, and no trace of the laugh was left, “you mustn’t be so severe—you only met him once. Dr. Loeffler’s a very fine man—He’s only forty-two years old, and he’s the head of the entire division of internal medicine at Hillsdale.”

“
Only
forty-two years old,” Kyla said.

“Don’t be such a
cross
old thing,” her mother said happily. “Besides, maybe the Laskeys will give you spaghetti again.”

The Laskeys had not, however. Instead, there had been some sort of meat with a strange dark sauce and a fancy name.

“How was everyone’s day?” Mr. Laskey said—which was what he said first thing every time Kyla had ever had dinner at the Laskeys’. He looked around the table. “Richard?”

Richie raised his serious dark eyes and then lowered them again. “Fine,” he said.

“Yes?” Mr. Laskey said. He waited, his fork in his hand.

Dinner had only begun. Soon Mrs. Laskey and Janey and Alice would be crying and shouting, and then there would be after dinner, when Kyla would have to play with Janey, and then there would be morning, when she’d have to play with Janey yet again, before her mother came for her.

“Biology was interesting,” Richie said. “We’re studying the wheat rust cycle.”

“Very good,” Mr. Laskey said. “And what about calculus? Didn’t you have a test the other day? I never heard how that went.”

“That’s a third-year class,” Mrs. Laskey said. “Isn’t it enough that—”

“It went fine,” Richie said. “I got an A.”

Mr. Laskey nodded. “There you go,” he said. “You see?”

Chew slowly
, one of Kyla’s teachers had said once.
Your stomach has no teeth.
But what she was chewing, she thought, was the body of an animal, with blood cooked into it.

“And track?” Mr. Laskey said.

“Okay,” Richie said.

A silence rose separately from Richie and Mr. Laskey and consolidated.

Richie was so…dignified, really, was the word, Kyla thought. Everything about him was clean and dignified. Even the way he ate—as if food were clean, as if all the frantic things your own animal’s body did with it, with even the body of other animals, was just clean and ordinary.

“Alice—”
Mrs. Laskey said, and the block of silence over the table became porous and dissolved.

“I came in ahead of Nelson Howell today,” Richie said.

“What did I tell you,” Mr. Laskey said.

“—You don’t have to kill it, Alice,” Mrs. Laskey said. “It’s already dead.”

“I did my report on Native Americans today,” Janey said loudly. “Miss Feldman said it was the best report.”

Kyla glanced inadvertently at Richie.

“Mother,” Richie said, “Jane’s prevaricating again.”

“I am not!” Janey said. “It was really interesting. In lots of tribes the girls—”

“Pre…” Alice began, scowling quizzically at Mr. Laskey. “What does—”

“Absolutely nothing, Alice,” Mr. Laskey said. “In this case.”

“In
lots
of
tribes
the girls bleed and they go out to little—”

“
Not
at the table, Jane,” Mrs. Laskey said.

“Janey made it up?” Alice said.

“No,” Mr. Laskey said. “Yes.”

“They
do
,” Janey said. “They—”

“You heard your mother,” Mr. Laskey said. “Not at the
table.
” He turned to Kyla. “And what about you? Did you do a report today, too?”

“I did mine last week,” Kyla said. And then, because it looked like Janey was about to erupt again, “It was about ballet dancers.”

“Bal
let
dancers,” Mr. Laskey said. He dipped his head as if he were tipping a hat.

“Bal
let
dancers,” Janey said. “Yeah, wow, bal
let
dancers. Well, throw
you
a bone.”

Mrs. Laskey snorted.

“Now,” Mr. Laskey said. “Who wants more of this excellent…This…Kyla?”

“No, thank you,” Kyla said.

“The child eats nothing,” Mr. Laskey said admiringly.

“She will vanish into thin air.”

“More for Alice!”
Alice shouted, flinging herself at the serving plate.

“Alice,” Mrs. Laskey said, “kindly restrain yourself—look what you’ve done to your father’s tie.”

“Plus guess what, Alice,” Janey said. “Your table manners make us all puke.”

“Jane,” Mrs. Laskey said warningly, “Alice—”

“Incidentally,” Richie said.
Incidentally
, Kyla thought. “Scott Ryerson invited me to go skiing with him and his family over spring vacation.”

“I want to go, too—” Janey said.

“Oh, were you invited as well, Jane?” Mr. Laskey said.

“Mother,” Janey said. “Why does Richie always get to do everything?”

“Nobody said anything about—” Mr. Laskey said.

“But Alice and I never—” Jane said.

“Stop that this instant,” Mrs. Laskey said. She turned to Alice, who was plucking at her.
“No,”
she said. “And I am not going to ask you one more time to behave.”

Mrs. Laskey’s fury was always like a gun pointing at the table; it made you tired, Kyla thought, waiting for it to go off. Her own mother never raised her voice, and she was always kind and patient. Everyone knew how patient she was. Lots of people said it was why (and the other people said it was because) she was such a good nurse. But that was frightening, too. No matter how angry Mrs. Laskey got, it was better than the look of disappointment her own mother got when Kyla did something wrong. Because when people got angry, they were angry and then they stopped being angry, and it was something that went from them to you. But when people were disappointed in you, it was something that went from you to them. You did something to them. It was as if you had made a hole in them, or had gotten a spot on them that could never be taken away.

“Where do Scott’s people ski?” Mr. Laskey said. “See, Mother?” Janey said.

“Mother, don’t you—”

“Jane,” Mrs. Laskey said. “If I don’t get—”

“All right,”
Mr. Laskey said, and everyone stopped talking. “Yes,” he said, quietly. “Fair enough. Janey, your point is well taken. And has given me an excellent idea: Rich will go skiing over spring vacation, I will take you and Alice to New York, and your mother—your
mother
will have one entire week of peace, all to herself.”

Mrs. Laskey put down her fork. “Excuse me?” she said.

Richie continued his pristine eating. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Mrs. Laskey said, slowly, “but weren’t you just in New York?”

“On business,” Mr. Laskey agreed pleasantly.

“And now you propose to go right back,” Mrs. Laskey said.

“Not
right
back,” Mr. Laskey said. “No.”

“May I please be excused?” Richie said.

“You may,” Mr. Laskey said. “In the future, please do not interrupt.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie said.

“Apologies accepted,” Mr. Laskey said.

“And when did you become so enamored of New York?” Mrs. Laskey said. “The last time you and I were there together,
hellish sewer
, I believe, was what you…It’s a filthy place, and you loathe it, and you are now proposing to go right back and expose the girls to it, for what reason I cannot—”

“
As
you know”—Mr. Laskey overrode her—“As you
know
, Carol, the events of my childhood upon which I look back with the greatest affection are those trips I took to New York with my father. As you know, I consider those excursions to be the single most meaningful experience of my childhood. It was during those trips that I felt closest to my father and learned to honor his values…”

Mrs. Laskey was staring at him incredulously. “His
values
,” she said. She picked up her glass of water and drank until, to Kyla’s amazement, the glass was empty. “I should go with you,” she said. “That’s what I should do.”

A long, long look, arcing between Mr. and Mrs. Laskey, was pierced by a rising wail from Alice.

“Alice—” Mr. Laskey said. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Alice put her head on the table as though it was about to be chopped off. “It’s all right, darling,” Mrs. Laskey said. “You’re just tired.”

“Soon to bed,” Mr. Laskey said. “But first, what’s for dessert? What kind of ice cream do we have back there? Ice cream, Kyla?”

“No, thank you,” Kyla said, because before you knew it you could turn into a clump, like Janey.

“Yes, please, chocolate,” Janey said.

“There’s some fruit for you,” Mrs. Laskey said. “Remember those five pounds.”

“Daddy—” Janey said.

Mr. Laskey glanced at Janey; his glance held and sharpened. “Your mother has spoken,” he said.

“And
you
can take it easy, too,” Mrs. Laskey said. “I don’t want to get a phone call from New York telling me you’ve dropped dead in your hotel room.”