You would not have wished to marry a man other than Gerard. But Gerard was available to you only in Yewville, where you were both born. And from Gerard, your children. Without Gerard in your life, your children would not be in your life. Your children would not exist.
In any case you are a widow now. You are something of a hero—a heroine—to local women, your own age and younger. You are famously generous with time, if not money. (You have not an excess of money.)
You have helped establish a local literary magazine. You have encouraged younger readers who come into the bookstore. Your body has softened, slackened. Once you were lean and hard-muscled as a racehorse, your nerves strung tight as wire, now you are a cushiony sort of person, prone to hugging and being hugged. You wear loose sweaters, jeans. You wear caftans, denim jackets, sandals. Your adult children roll their eyes, seeing you, your hair skinned back from your face, your silvery-gray hair in a swinging ponytail. Your skin is ruddy, flushed. Often you feel feverish. It is an excitement for life, you think. For the surprise, the unexpected livingness of life. You are no beauty, you look your age. Fine lines crisscross your face. Between your eyes, a vertical line. Bracketing your mouth, smile-lines. Thank God you have never been concerned about money. Ignominious and embarrassing, to care about money. Your relatives shake their heads, behind your back they are still predicting the bankruptcy of South Main Books. Not surprising that, in middle age, you don’t have adequate medical coverage.
Out of pride, as well as satisfaction for the life that you have, you never think of that other life beyond Yewville. The girl who’d taken up her pen, attacked the regents exam with confidence, intelligence. The girl who’d managed to remain calm. Whose parents hadn’t quarreled and kept her awake on the eve of the most important morning of her life. The girl without a sore throat, a racking cough.
Shake your head irritably, in fact happily, don’t ask me, what a silly question. Of course I am happy. I have everything I want. What is missing from my life?—not a thing.
The Women Friends
The women friends met for lunch at the Purple Onion Café as they’d done frequently for nearly twenty years. As usual Francine, the elder by seven months, arrived first, and secured their preferred table, outdoors on the terrace, in a corner farthest from the street. There, she could see Sylvie approach before Sylvie was likely to see her.
It was just noon. By quick degrees the popular vegetarian restaurant, recently reopened after an extensive renovation, would fill up with customers on this balmy September day.
Not because each was the other’s closest friend, though it was true, they’d met as four-year-olds in the Montessori preschool, but because each was, to the other, crucial: this fact, if it was a fact, bound the women together. Closer than sisters!—because chosen, as sisters are not. Closer than husbands, for of course husbands could not be trusted. And closer than children, that goes without saying, for children, regardless of their ages, must be protected (by their mothers) from the most fundamental truths of existence.
Today was the first day Francine had driven anywhere alone following her surgery the previous week. It had been minor surgery (she was quick to explain) performed at the outpatient Women’s Clinic, from which she was recovering steadily—she’d experienced some pain and nausea, insomnia, and a curious mild dislocation regarding time: minutes passed with excruciating slowness, like a column of poisoned ants, while entire days rushed past like empty freight cars rattling in an interminable train.
Francine smiled, thinking how she would make this droll observation to Sylvie, the only person she knew who could understand and appreciate her mordant humor. Francine’s husband would usually frown at her perplexed, if indeed he heard her at all, while her children rolled their eyes rudely—Oh Mom! Please. Anything uttered by Francine that called attention to her as a distinct, idiosyncratic person was mortifying to her family as if she’d suddenly torn off her clothes and cried, Look at me!
But with Sylvie, everything was altered. What was important, if unvoiced, to Francine, was important to her friend, too. If in the night Francine lay awake pondering her life as mysterious to her as graffiti scrawled on a wall she could measure herself against Sylvie, and feel immediate relief. For, if she could speak of it to her dear friend, it could not be so bad. Nothing fully happened to Francine until she transformed it into an entertaining little story for Sylvie who was likely to exclaim, Oh I’ve felt exactly that way, too.
But where was Sylvie?—Francine saw that her friend was eight minutes late.
Nadia, the locally famous owner of the Purple Onion, brought two menus to Francine’s table. Recommended specialties du jour, peach-watermelon gazpacho, kale and cranberry salad, grilled tofu with Balinese sambal, Portobello and Brie, non-gluten nut bread, mango juice, iced Bengal tea . . . Francine was surprised to see that the presumably new Purple Onion menus did not differ much from the old, as she remembered them, nor did the specialties du jour seem very different; Nadia herself, though said to have been injured in the explosion, and traumatized by the stress and expense of renovating the Café, did not look much different than Francine recalled: she was a plain, pleasant-faced woman of middle age with long loose-flowing gray hair, a smile that bared her gums, a manner both diffident and bossy that had endeared her to customers over the years. “Is your friend joining you today?” Nadia inquired, and Francine said, “Of course.” Wanting to add, for the question annoyed her, “Why would I be here, otherwise?”
Francine would never eat lunch alone in a public place, if she could avoid it. Even with an absorbing book to read, the prospect would be too lonely.
Boldly, bravely the Purple Onion had reconstituted itself after a homemade explosive device had been detonated on this very terrace the previous fall, by a nineteen-year-old area youth subsequently described in the media as “troubled.” A graduate of the local high school, unemployed and living with his divorced mother, the boy was said to have constructed the crude bomb from instructions he’d discovered on the Internet—“How to build your own bomb for less than thirty dollars.” Fortunately the device had misfired, inflicting less damage than the suicide bomber had intended: three persons killed, in addition to the bomber, and nine persons injured, including the owner of the Café; the destruction of part of the interior of the Purple Onion, and approximately half the terrace, since the bomb had exploded in only one direction. As many as twenty-five people might have been killed if the bomb had fully exploded, authorities had estimated . . . With relief Francine saw that a row of flowering crab apple trees bordering the parking lot had not been damaged. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled how beautiful these trees were, blossoming in the spring!
A terrible act, senseless, vile. Brainless. The boy’s name was Lasky—Howard, or Harold. Francine’s daughter who was a junior at the high school thought she knew who he was, or had been—a “nonentity”—a “loser.” Lasky had worn a black nylon hoodie to the Purple Onion, and dark glasses; he’d allegedly seated himself at one of the outdoor terrace tables, carrying the homemade bomb in a Whole Foods tote bag belonging to his mother. On his laptop computer it would be revealed that he’d researched the websites of Islamist terrorist suicide bombers. He’d left only a terse note behind in his room.
I am not politicle, I did this for mysef
Commentary on social media had been swift and merciless. “Politicle! Mysef!” Who had Lasky’s teachers been? How had anyone so illiterate managed to graduate from the local high school, that prided itself on sending so many graduates to college?
In the event of a bomb, Francine thought, this part of the terrace might be spared again, in the corner farthest from the street . . .
“Franny, h’lo! Sorry I’m late.”
Sylvie advanced upon Francine who’d been dreaming with her eyes open, stooping to brush her lips against Francine’s cheek in greeting, the very lightest touch, a most hurried and perfunctory greeting, and then Sylvie was seated across from Francine at the small r
ound table frowning at the oversized menu in a purplish hemp binding as if nothing so merited her undivided attention as the menu. Two remarks Sylvie made in her throaty theatrical voice, almost simultaneously: “The gazpacho looks good, or was this what I’d had last time, and hated?” and, “Have you ordered yet?”
Had she ordered yet? Francine was annoyed, insulted. “Of course I haven’t ordered yet, I’ve been waiting for you, Sylvie.”
“Sorry! I’ve been unavoidably delayed.”
“Unavoidably delayed.” This too was a perfunctory excuse, and not original.
Sylvie’s canny green eyes scanned the menu, which must have been as familiar to her by now as her own face. Kale, non-gluten, Portobello, grilled tofu, local-grown, twelve-grain, lemongrass, brown rice and yogurt . . . Neither of the women friends was actually vegetarian but vegetarian seemed a worthy principle and vaguely of the future, of an era of youthful idealism that would outlive them.
But Francine was feeling hurt. Her closest friend had scarcely glanced at her since her breezy arrival, and had not inquired how she was feeling; had not assured Francine, as Francine would have assured Sylvie by now, that she was looking good—remarkably good, considering that she’d had surgery less than a week before. (Though it had been minor surgery as Francine had taken care to point out, explaining to Sylvie over the phone, and she hadn’t been fully anesthetized, just partially—“You know, what they call twilight sleep.”)
And here too was something strange—in the weeks since Francine had last seen her Sylvie had let her beautiful dark-rinsed hair relapse to its previous color, a dull brown threaded with gray; for months Sylvie had fretted over the decision to have the color restored to the rich glossy dark mahogany it had been when they were girls. Only now, for some reason, and without even mentioning it to Francine, she’d let the rinse grow out, and was looking far less attractive than Francine had ever seen her, with something puffy about her eyes and mouth, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. Sylvie’s usually flawless makeup had been hurriedly applied, her skin was pale as curdled milk. (With a thrill of dread Francine wondered: Was there trouble with Sylvie’s marriage? With one of the children, or with all of the children? Only rarely had Sylvie confided in Francine, that things were not so perfect in her family, that Francine had always envied; the women had married within a year of each other, in their early twenties, and had had their first babies around the same time, like mirror reflections.) It was frightening to Francine, though in a way satisfying, that her friend, always so much more glamorous than Francine, and self-assured, was now not looking quite so chic, or so young.
When at last she had Sylvie’s full attention Francine murmured, “Your hair!” with a quizzical smile, as if to ask why, and Sylvie grimaced and said, “Oh I know, I didn’t have time to do anything with my hair this morning, the ends are all split, I hate the way I look.”
“But why’d you let it get gray again?”
“Gray again? You mean, still.”
But Sylvie, intent upon capturing a waitress’s attention, wasn’t really listening. She’d decided upon her lunch, and wanted to give her order, for she was pressed for time that afternoon, it was one of those days, one of those weeks. Complaining of her children’s demands upon her time, and her husband’s demands, and still not looking at Francine but only in Francine’s direction and not at Francine’s face so that Francine was thinking in exasperation that maybe twenty years was long enough, the friendship had worn out, worn thin, like an overused roller towel; it was time for Francine to cultivate another close woman friend. Too often had Francine lain awake at night pondering her life, and what her life might mean, if indeed it meant anything at all, and thinking eagerly of Sylvie as if Sylvie might supply the meaning of her life, or was in some way the meaning herself; for Francine had always felt that Sylvie was not only her closest friend but in a way represented friendship itself—its essential mystery. It was even the case that Francine had often measured her husband against Sylvie’s husband, and her children against Sylvie’s. Though she had never told anyone, and had only hinted to Sylvie, she’d had a third child in emulation of Sylvie who’d had a third child at thirty-five; Francine would not have had Donnie otherwise, at the age of thirty-six and a half. So belated a pregnancy had seemed to Francine defiant and courageous in Sylvie, and reckless and (possibly) misguided, in herself.
They gave their lunch orders to a waitress in Purple Onion T-shirt, jeans, and sandals, young enough to be a daughter, who called them “ma’am.” Kale and cranberry salad for Sylvie, Portobello and Brie for Francine, unless it was Portobello and Brie for Sylvie, and kale and cranberry salad for Francine. At last Sylvie asked how things were? How was Francine feeling?—though in such a way, with a forced smile, you could see that she really didn’t want to know. Francine laughed a little too loudly saying, “Well. I’m still here.”
Still alive, she might have said. But why was that funny?
Though Sylvie didn’t press her for details Francine heard herself say that since the surgery she was feeling just a little “strange”—“Disoriented”—as if time was passing very, very slowly—“Like poisoned ants in a column”—and yet, entire days were rushing by—“Like empty freight cars”; yet Sylvie did not seem impressed by this remark, or had not even heard it, for she failed to say with a pained smile, “Oh, I know exactly how you feel!” Though not much encouraged Francine went on to say that she’d never had such a sensation of “dissolution”—“Disintegration”—in her life, at the time of the anesthesia; it was as if every neuron in her brain was breaking off from the others, like grains of rice falling through her fingers onto the floor. The anesthesiologist had spoken to her in a playful, teasing manner, instructing her to count backward from one hundred, as if daring her to keep awake; indeed, he’d taunted her by challenging her to get to ninety before she fell asleep, and Francine had feared the man, and hated him. But Sylvie did not exclaim, “What a bastard, you should report him,” as Francine might have predicted, but rather, in a bemused voice said, “Franky, come on! I’m sure that never happened.”
Never happened? How could Sylvie say such a thing?
The waitress brought them iced tea, which Francine did not recall having ordered. She was shaky, tremulous. How could her closest friend so abandon her, emotionally!
Because you are not alive, Francine thought suddenly. Sylvie is embarrassed for you, she doesn’t know how to speak to you any longer.
This would explain so much, that was otherwise inexplicable.
Francine remembered how in dreams of her beloved grandmother, who’d died when Francine was eleven, her grandmother had not seemed to realize that something had happened to her, to set her irrevocably apart from others; she was silent in Francine’s dreams, smiling at Francine with a melancholy, inscrutable expression unlike any expression Francine had ever seen in her, in life. And Francine had known instinctively that, in the dream, she must not acknowledge her grandmother’s altered state—only that something profound and terrible had happened to her grandmother, to make her different from others.
That was how Francine saw herself as an adult: she must shield others from the most obvious truths about themselves.
The waitress brought their food. Very attractively positioned on brightly colored platters, garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley and nasturtium petals. Francine lifted a fork but could not bring herself to eat, just yet. Though Sylvie was behaving strangely, peering at the kale and cranberry salad with her fork poised above it, as if trying to summon the appetite to eat, Francine couldn’t keep from confessing to her friend that she was very afraid of something she couldn’t define—didn’t know how to name.
“As if—I don’t know why—I think that I will look up suddenly, or look around—and everyone—everyone I know, and care for—will be gone.” Francine paused, wiping at her eyes. Her voice faltered, the moment was lost. “Just—vanished . . .”
To this, stiff-faced Sylvie had no reply.
&n
bsp; As if Francine were reminding her of something she’d nearly forgotten Sylvie stood suddenly, and murmured an apology—she had to make a phone call, to rearrange an appointment; and she had to use the restroom, which was inside the restaurant.
“Of course. Of course, take your time, Sylvie,” Francine said, almost gaily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Francine smiled after her friend as Sylvie hurried away without a backward glance.
From Sylvie’s plate Francine took a forkful of kale salad, for Sylvie had left most of her lunch. It was a habit between the friends, an old custom—to share food. Just a taste.
But the kale was bitter, and nearly impossible to chew. You’d need the grinding teeth of a goat, Francine thought. (A remark she would make to Sylvie when Sylvie returned, to make Sylvie laugh.)
It was then that Francine happened to see, seated at a table a short distance away, an outlandish dark-clad figure—a young man, or a boy, boldly dressed to resemble the suicide bomber Lasky. He wore a dark hoodie, dark-tinted glasses crooked on his nose, rumpled dark pants.
Francine stared at this person, shocked and disapproving. Was this a joke? Some stupid prank cooked up by teenaged boys? (There was sure to be an accomplice somewhere in the vicinity.) If so, it was not funny. Innocent persons had died in the bombing of a year ago, in this very place. Many more had been injured, and traumatized for life.
But there sat a brazen replica of the suicide bomber, with a tote bag close beside him at his feet. Whole Foods! Francine had an identical bag in the trunk of her car. You were supposed to think that there was a ticking bomb inside the bag—was that it? Behind the dark lenses askew on the bridge of his nose, the boy’s eyes were hidden. His face was pasty-pale, blemished. He appeared nervous, visibly perspiring; there was a twitch in his left cheek. He was tall, lanky, underweight—it would be said of him. He’d shaved his head, inexpertly; the hood hid it. Other customers on the terrace glanced at him quizzically but seemed more amused than offended or upset. Nadia must have seated him, as if nothing were amiss, for there was a purple-hemp menu on his table, facedown, unopened.
The (Other) You Page 2
