The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg (86 page)

“I got a cake,” Sharon said. She glanced at Otto. “Oh. Was that appropriate?”

“Utterly,” William said.

Appropriate?
What if the cake turned out to be decorated with invisible portents and symbols? What if it revealed itself to be invested with power? To be part of the arsenal of small objects—nail scissors, postage stamps, wrapped candies—that lay about in camouflage to fool the credulous doofus like himself just as they were winking their malevolent signals to Sharon?

Or what if the cake was, after all, only an inert teatime treat? A cake required thought, effort, expenditure—all that on a negligible scale for most people, but in Sharon’s stripped and cautious life, nothing was negligible. A cake. Wasn’t that enough to bring one to one’s knees? “Very appropriate,” Otto concurred.

“Do you miss the fish?” Sharon said, lifting the cake from its box.

Fish? Otto’s heart flipped up, pounding. Oh, the box, fish, nothing.

“We brought them home from the dime store in little cardboard boxes,” she explained to William, passing the cake on its plate and a large knife over to him.

“I had a hamster,” William said. The cake bulged resiliently around the knife.

“Did it have to rush around on one of those things?” Sharon asked.

“I think it liked to,” William said, surprised.

“Let us hope so,” Otto said. “Of course it did.”

“I loved the castles and the colored sand,” Sharon said. “But it was no life for a fish. We had to flush them down the toilet.”

William, normally so fastidious about food, appeared to be happily eating his cake, which tasted, to Otto, like landfill. And William had brought Sharon flowers, which it never would have occurred to Otto to do.

Why had lovely William stayed with disagreeable old him for all this time? What could possibly explain his appeal for William, Otto wondered? Certainly not his appearance, nor his musical sensitivity—middling at best—nor, clearly, his temperament. Others might have been swayed by the money that he made so easily, but not William. William cared as little about that as did Otto himself. And yet, through all these years, William had cleaved to him. Or at least, usually. Most of the uncleavings, in fact, had been Otto’s—brief, preposterous seizures having to do with God knows what. Well, actually he himself would be the one to know what, wouldn’t he, Otto thought. Having to do with—who
did
know what? Oh, with fear, with flight, the usual. A bit of glitter, a mirage, a chimera…A lot of commotion just for a glimpse into his own life, the real one—a life more vivid, more truly his, than the one that was daily at hand.

“Was there something you wanted to see me about?” Sharon asked.

“Well, I just…” Powerful beams of misery intersected in Otto’s heart; was it true? Did he always have a reason when he called Sharon? Did he never drop in just to say hello? Not that anyone ought to “drop in” on Sharon. Or on anyone, actually. How barbarous.

“Your brother’s here in an ambassadorial capacity,” William said. “I’m just here for the cake.”

“Ambassadorial?” Sharon looked alarmed.

“Oh, it’s only Thanksgiving,” Otto said. “Corinne was hoping—I was hoping—”

“Otto, I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t want to sit there being an exhibit of robust good health, or noncontaminatingness, or the triumph of the human spirit, or whatever it is that Corinne needs me to illustrate. Just tell them everything is okay.”

He looked at his cake. William was right. This was terribly unfair. “Well, I don’t blame you,” he said. “I wouldn’t go myself, if I could get out of it.”

“If you had a good enough excuse.”

“I only—” But of course it was exactly what he had meant; he had meant that Sharon had a good enough excuse. “I’m—”

“Tell Corinne I’m all right.”

Otto started to speak again, but stopped.

“Otto, please.” Sharon looked at her hands, folded in her lap. “It’s all right.”

“I’ve sometimes wondered if it might not be possible, in theory, to remember something that you—I mean the aspect of yourself that you’re aware of—haven’t experienced yet,” William said later. “I mean, we really
don’t
know whether time is linear, so—”

“Would you stop that?” Otto said. “
You’re
not insane.”

“I’m merely speaking theoretically.”

“Well, don’t! And your memory has nothing to do with whether time is ‘really,’ whatever you mean by that, linear. It’s plenty linear for us! Cradle to grave? Over the hill? It’s a one-way street, my dear. My hair is not sometimes there and sometimes not there; we’re
not
getting any younger.”

At moments it occurred to Otto that what explained his appeal for William was the fact that they lived in the same apartment. That William was idiotically accepting, idiotically pliant. Perhaps William was so deficient in subtlety, so insensitive to nuance, that he simply couldn’t tell the difference between Otto and anyone else. “And, William—I wish you’d get back to your tennis.”

“It’s a bore. Besides, you didn’t want me playing with Jason, as I remember.”

“Well, I was out of my mind. And at this point it’s your arteries I worry about.”

“You know,” William said and put his graceful hand on Otto’s arm. “I don’t think she’s any more unhappy than the rest of us, really, most of the time. That smile! I mean, that smile can’t come out of nowhere.”

There actually were no children to speak of. Corinne and Wesley’s “boys” put in a brief, unnerving appearance. When last seen, they had been surly, furtive, persecuted-looking, snickering, hulking, hairy adolescents, and now here they were, having undergone the miraculous transformation. How gratified Wesley must be! They had shed their egalitarian denim chrysalis and had risen up in the crisp, mean mantle of their class.

The older one even had a wife, whom Corinne treated with a stricken, fluttery deference as if she were a suitcase full of weapons-grade plutonium. The younger one was restlessly on his own. When, early in the evening the three stood and announced to Corinne with thuggish placidity that they were about to leave (“I’m afraid we’ve got to shove off now, Ma”), Otto jumped to his feet. As he allowed his hand to be crushed, he felt the relief of a mayor watching an occupying power depart his city.

Martin’s first squadron of children (Maureen’s) weren’t even mentioned. Who knew what army of relatives, step-relatives, half-relatives they were reinforcing by now. But there were—Otto shuddered faintly—Martin’s two newest (Laurie’s). Yes, just as Corinne had said, they, too, were growing up. Previously indistinguishable wads of self-interest, they had developed perceptible features—maybe even characteristics; it appeared reasonable, after all, that they had been given names.

What on earth was it that William did to get children to converse? Whenever Otto tried to have a civilized encounter with a child, the child just stood there with its finger in its nose. But Martin’s two boys were chattering away, showing off to William their whole heap of tiresome electronics.

William was frowning with interest. He poked at a keyboard, which sent up a shower of festive little beeps, and the boys flung themselves at him, cheering, while Laurie smiled meltingly. How times had changed. Not so many years earlier, such a tableau would have had handcuffs rattling in the wings.

The only other representative of “the children” to whom Corinne had referred with such pathos, was Martin’s daughter, Portia (Viola’s). She’d been hardly more than a toddler at last sight, though she now appeared to be about—what? Well, anyhow, a little girl. “What are the domestic arrangements?” Otto asked. “Is she living with Martin and Laurie these days, or is she with her mother?”

“That crazy Viola has gone back to England, thank God; Martin has de facto custody.”

“Speaking of Martin, where is he?”

“I don’t ask,” Corinne said.

Otto waited.

“I don’t ask,” Corinne said again. “And if Laurie wants to share, she’ll tell you herself.”

“Is Martin in the pokey already?” Otto asked.

“This is not a joke, Otto. I’m sorry to tell you that Martin has been having an affair with some girl.”

“Again?”

Corinne stalled, elaborately adjusting her bracelet. “I’m sorry to tell you she’s his trainer.”

“His
trainer
? How can Martin have a trainer? If Martin has a trainer, what can explain Martin’s body?”

“Otto, it’s not funny,” Corinne said with ominous primness. “The fact is, Martin has been looking very good, lately. But of course you wouldn’t have seen him.”

All those wives—and a trainer! How? Why would any woman put up with Martin? Martin, who always used to eat his dessert so slowly that the rest of them had been made to wait, squirming at the table, watching as he took his voluptuous, showy bites of chocolate cake or floating island long after they’d finished their own.

“I’m afraid it’s having consequences for Portia. Do you see what she’s doing?”

“She’s—” Otto squinted over at Portia. “What is she doing?”

“Portia, come here, darling,” Corinne called.

Portia looked at them for a moment, then wandered sedately over. “And now we’ll have a word with Aunt Corinne,” she said to her fist as she approached. “Hello, Aunt Corinne.”

“Portia,” Corinne said, “do you remember Uncle Otto?”

“And Uncle Otto,” Portia added to her fist. She regarded him with a clear, even gaze. In its glade of light and silence they encountered one another serenely. She held out her fist to him. “Would you tell our listeners what you do when you go to work, Uncle Otto?”

“Well,” Otto said, to Portia’s fist, “first I take the elevator up to the twentieth floor, and then I sit down at my desk, and then I send Bryan out for coffee and a bagel—”

“Otto,” Corinne said, “Portia is trying to learn what it is you
do
. Something I’m sure we’d all like to know.”

“Oh,” Otto said. “Well, I’m a lawyer, dear. Do you know what that is?”

“Otto,” Corinne said wearily, “Portia’s father is a lawyer.”

“Portia’s father is a global-money mouthpiece!” Otto said.

“Aunt Corinne is annoyed,” Portia commented to her fist. “Now Uncle Otto and Aunt Corinne are looking at your correspondent. Now they’re not.”

“Tell me, Portia,” Otto said; the question had sprung insistently into his mind, “what are you going to be when you grow up?”

Her gaze was strangely relaxing. “You know, Uncle Otto,” she said pensively to her fist, “people used to ask me that a lot.”

Huh! Yes, that was probably something people asked only very small children, when speculation would be exclusively a matter of amusing fantasy. “Well, I was only just mulling it over,” Otto said.

“Portia, darling,” Corinne said, “why don’t you run into the kitchen and do a cooking segment with Bea and Cleveland?”

“It’s incredible,” Otto said when Portia disappeared, “she looks exactly like Sharon did at that age.”

“Ridiculous,” Corinne said. “She takes after her father.”

Martin? Stuffy, venal Martin, with his nervous eyes and scoopy nose, and squashy head balanced on his shirt collar? Portia’s large, gray eyes, the flaxen hair, the slightly oversized ears and fragile neck recapitulated absolutely Sharon’s appearance in this child who probably wouldn’t remember ever having seen Sharon. “Her
father
?”

“Her father,” Corinne said. “Martin. Portia’s father.”

“I know Martin is her father. I just can’t divine the resemblance.”

“Well, there’s certainly no resemblance to—Wesley—” Corinne called over to him.

“Must you read the newspaper? This is a social occasion. Otto, will you listen, please? I’m trying to tell you something. The truth is, we’re all quite worried about Portia.”

Amazing how fast one’s body reacted. Fear had vacuumed the blood right through his extremities. One’s body, the primeval parts of one’s brain—how fast they were! Much faster than that recent part with the words and thoughts and so on, what was it? The cortex, was that it? He’d have to ask William, he thought, his blood settling back down. That sort of wrinkly stuff on top that looked like crumpled wrapping paper.

“Laurie is worried sick. The truth is, that’s one reason I was so anxious for you to join us today. I wanted your opinion on the matter.”

“On what matter?” Otto said. “I have no idea what this is about. She’s fine. She seems fine. She’s just playing.”

“I know she’s just playing, Otto. It’s
what
she’s playing that concerns me.”

“What she’s playing? What is she playing? She’s playing radio, or something! Is that so sinister? The little boys seem to be playing something called Hammer Her Flat.”

“I’m sure not. Oh, gracious. You and Sharon were both so right not to have children.”

“Excuse me?” Otto said incredulously.

“It’s not the radio aspect per se that I’m talking about, it’s what that represents. The child is an observer. She sees herself as an outsider. As alienated.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being observant. Other members of this family could benefit from a little of that quality.”

“She can’t relate directly to people.”

“Who can?” Otto said.

“Half the time Viola doesn’t even remember the child is alive! You watch. She won’t send Portia a Christmas present. She probably won’t even call. Otto, listen. We’ve always said that Viola is ‘unstable,’ but, frankly, Viola is
psychotic
. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Portia’s
mother
, Otto. It’s just as you were saying,
there’s a geneti
—”

“I was saying
what
? I was saying nothing! I was only saying—”

“Oh, dear!” Laurie exclaimed. She had an arm around Portia, who was crying.

“What in hell is going on now?” Wesley demanded, slamming down his newspaper.

“I’m afraid Bea and Cleveland may have said something to her,” Laurie said, apologetically.

“Oh, terrific,” Wesley said. “Now I know what I’m paying them for.”