Fresh Complaint

by Jeffrey Eugenides

  Maria had never had a friend like Annie before. She had never felt that someone understood her so well. Her life thus far had been like living in a town of mutes, where no one spoke to her but only stared. It seemed to Maria that she had never heard the sound of another human voice, until that Sunday in March, at the library of the college they went to, when Annie had said for no reason at all: “You look all cozy in that chair.”

  At the back of the garden the artichokes lolled on their thick stems. Maria looked at Annie standing in them, running a hand through her thick hair. Maria was just as happy as Annie. She, too, responded to the stark beauty of Sean’s stone house, and to the coolness of the evening air. But besides her delight in these surroundings there remained another bright spot that made her happy, a bright spot she returned to again and again in her thoughts. For the day before, in an empty train compartment, Annie had put her arms around Maria and had kissed her on the lips.

  * * *

  Annie’s gold cross caught the light. Sean looked at it, thinking that it was impossible to guess what meaning circumstances might give to random things. It just so happened that, inside his as-yet unpacked suitcase, lay an object that, until this moment, he had foreseen no use for. But now, as the tiny cross glinted, his mind linked image to image, and he saw in the air before him the index finger of Saint Augustine.

  It was his only souvenir of Rome. On his last day there, exploring the neighborhood around his hotel, Sean had come across a shop filled with religious statuary and artifacts. The proprietor, perhaps sensing from Sean’s clothes that he had some money, had led him to a glass case to show him a thin, dusty piece of bonelike material that he insisted was the finger of the author of the “Confessions.” Sean didn’t believe him, but he had bought the relic anyway, because it amused him.

  He led Annie farther back in the garden, away from Maria and Malcolm, who still hadn’t ventured onto the dirt. He turned his back to them and asked, “Your friend isn’t Catholic, is she?” “Episcopalian,” Annie whispered. “Not good enough,” said Sean. He frowned. “And Malcolm’s an Anglican, I’m afraid.” He put a finger to his lips as if he were deep in thought. “Why do you want to know?” Annie asked. Sean’s attention returned to her. He gave her a sly look. But when he spoke it was to all of them: “We need to organize work details. Malcolm, perhaps you’d be good enough to pick these artichokes while we get the water boiling.”

  Malcolm looked disconsolate. “They have thorns,” he said.

  “Just prickles,” said Sean, and with that he left the garden and started back toward the house.

  * * *

  Annie assumed that Sean meant all three of them would get the water boiling. She followed him into the kitchen, glancing back and smiling once at Maria, who hurried along after them, swinging her short arms. When they got inside, however, Sean looked at Maria and said, “If I remember correctly, my wife keeps the good silver upstairs in the hall chest. The red chest. In the bottom drawer, rolled up in a sheet. Could you get it, Maria? It would be nice at least to have good silverware.” Maria hesitated before saying anything. Then she turned and asked Annie to come help her.

  Annie didn’t want to. She was fond of Maria but had found lately that Maria tended to smother her. Everywhere Annie went, Maria followed. On trains Maria sat squashed against her side. Yesterday, pressed between the metal compartment wall and Maria’s stiff shoulder, Annie had finally gotten annoyed. She wanted to push Maria away and shout, “Let me breathe, will you!” She felt uncomfortably hot and was just about to nudge her when suddenly her annoyance subsided, replaced by a feeling of guilt. How could she get mad at Maria for simply sitting close to her? How could she return affection with peevishness? Annie felt ashamed, and though she was still uncomfortable pressed against Maria, she tried to ignore that. Instead, she leaned over and gave Maria a friendly peck on the lips.

  Now Annie wanted to stay downstairs and help cook the meal. Sean interested her. He had the perfect life, didn’t have to work, took trips to Rome whenever he wanted, and always came back to a beautiful country house. Annie had never met a person like Sean before, and what she most wanted out of life, at her age, was just that: newness, adventure. That was why she was glad when Sean said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go up by yourself, Maria. I need Annie’s help here in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  Gently, blindly, Malcolm picked the artichokes. It had grown dark in the garden; the sun had set behind the stone wall, and the only light came now from inside the house, illuminating a patch of lawn not far from where Malcolm knelt. There had been a time when he would never have done this sort of thing, get down on his knees and pick his own dinner, muddying his trousers, but such considerations seemed alien to him now. For weeks he hadn’t been able to look himself in the mirror whereas usually his sophisticated appearance filled him with pride.

  He ran his hands up the thick stems of the artichokes, snapping off the bulbs. This way he avoided the prickles. He worked slowly. The smell of the earth rose to his nostrils, damp and mineral. It was the first smell he had noticed in weeks, and there was something intoxicating about it. He could feel the coldness of the ground against his kneecaps.

  In the dark the artichokes seemed to go on forever. As he picked them, and moved farther in, he kept encountering new stalks. He began to work a little faster, and after a time became completely absorbed in his work. He liked picking the artichokes. He slowed down. He didn’t want the picking to end.

  * * *

  The front staircase was long and grand, and as soon as she began climbing it Maria ceased to mind her lonely errand. She felt free, far from home and all the disappointments of home. She liked her clothes, which were thick and baggy; she liked her short hair; she liked the fact that she and Annie were in a place where they couldn’t be found, a place where they could act toward each other as they wished and not as society dictated. An old tapestry hung on the wall, a stag being torn by two threadbare dogs.

  She came to the top of the stairs and went down the hallway looking for the red chest. There were chests all along the hall, most of them dark mahogany. Finally she found one somewhat redder than the others and knelt before it. She opened the bottom drawer. A roll of sheet lay inside, and, taking it out, she was surprised at how heavy it was. She laid the sheet on the floor and began to unroll it. She flipped it over and over again, the metal inside clinking together. Finally the last wrap came undone and there they were—knives, forks, spoons—all laid out in the same direction, glittering up at her.

  * * *

  Once he was alone with Annie, Sean took his time getting the water on the stove. He removed a metal pot from its hook on the wall. He brought it to the sink. He began filling it with water.

  Through all this he was extremely aware of his actions and of the fact that Annie was watching him. When he reached up to unhook the pot from the wall he tried to make his movements as fluid as possible. He set the pot on the stove (gracefully) and turned to face her.

  She was leaning back against the sink, her hands planted on either side of her, her body stretching in a delicate arc. She looked even more appealing than she had by the side of the road. “Since we’re alone now, Annie,” Sean said, “I can tell you a secret.”

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Do you promise to keep this quiet?”

  “I promise.”

  He looked into her eyes. “How much do you know about Church history?”

  “I went to catechism until I was thirteen.”

  “Then you’re familiar with Saint Augustine?”

  She nodded. Sean looked around the room as if to see if anyone were listening. Then he took a long pause, winked, and said: “I have his finger.”

  * * *

  Annie was not so much interested in Saint Augustine’s finger as in the fact that Sean was willing to tell her a secret. She listened to him devoutly, as if he were revealing a divine mystery.

  When Annie flirted she didn’t always
admit to herself that she was flirting. Sometimes she preferred to suspend her mental faculties so that she could flirt, as it were, without her mind watching. It was as if her body and mind separated, her body stepping behind a screen to remove its clothing while her mind, on the other side of the screen, paid no attention.

  With Sean now, in the kitchen, Annie began to flirt without admitting it to herself. He told her about his relic and said that, in consideration of the fact that she was Catholic, he would show it to her. “But you mustn’t tell anyone. We don’t want these heretics shouldering their way back into the true faith.”

  Annie agreed, laughing. She stretched her body even farther back. She knew that Sean was looking at her and, suddenly, dimly, she became aware that she enjoyed being looked at. She saw herself through his eyes: a willowy young woman, leaning back on her arms, her long hair falling behind her.

  * * *

  “Have you got a basket?” said Malcolm, coming into the doorway. His hands were covered with dirt and he was smiling for the first time that day.

  “There can’t be that many,” Sean said.

  “There are hundreds. I can’t carry them all.”

  “Make two trips,” said Sean. “Make three.”

  Malcolm looked at Annie leaning against the sink. The ivory comb in her hair gleamed as she turned her head toward him. He thought once again of Sean’s ability to surround himself with youth and vitality. And so he said to her, “It’s damned pleasant out in the garden, Annie. Why don’t you come help me. Let old Sean boil the water.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. He led her by the hand out the back door, waving goodbye to Sean with the other. “I’ve made a little pile,” he said, once he had brought her into the garden. “It’s a little wet but you get used to it.” He knelt down by the pile of artichokes and looked up at her. In the light from the house he could make out her figure and the slopes and shadows of her face.

  “Make a basket of your arms and I’ll fill it,” he said. Annie did as she was told, crossing her arms with the palms of her hands facing up. On his knees before her Malcolm began picking up the artichokes, placing them one by one in her arms, gently pressing them against her stomach. First there were five, then ten, then fifteen. As the number increased, Malcolm became more precise in the positions he chose for the artichokes. He furrowed his brow and fit each artichoke snugly into place among the rest, as if linking pieces of a puzzle. “Look at you,” he said. “You’ve become a goddess of the harvest.” And to him she was. She stood before him, slender and young, with a profusion of artichokes sprouting from her belly. He placed one last artichoke high up on her chest, accidentally pricking her.

  “Oh, sorry!”

  “I’d better take these in.”

  “Yes, by all means, take them in. We’re going to have a feast!”

  * * *

  When Maria came into the kitchen and saw Sean standing over the stove, peering into the pot of water, she became uneasy. She of course understood quite well what Sean was up to. She saw the looks he gave Annie, noted the affected tones of his voice when he spoke to her. “You girls can have the blue bedroom,” he had said, and his voice had tried to sound grand and generous.

  She moved to set down the silverware on the kitchen counter but caught herself before doing so. It would make too much noise. Instead she stood holding it all, watching Sean from behind, quietly enjoying the fact that she was watching him without his knowing it.

  The room she and Annie were staying in had only one bed. Maria had noticed that at once. When they first went in, carrying their backpacks, Maria had looked at the bed, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Annie was also looking at it. It had been a moment of unspoken understanding. The understanding said: “We are going to sleep tonight in the same bed!” But, in front of Sean and Malcolm, they couldn’t say a word. They both knew what the other was thinking but they only said “This is great” and “Oh, a canopy bed. I used to have one of those!”

  * * *

  Malcolm knelt in the garden, savoring the vision of Annie as a goddess of the harvest. It had been a long time since he had felt such foolish delight. In the last years, at home, Ursula was often in a bad mood. Malcolm tried to find out what was bothering her, but his attempt only seemed to madden her further. After a while, he had stopped trying. They went about their daily lives communicating only when it was absolutely necessary.

  Now he picked up the last few artichokes Annie had been unable to carry. He put them against his cheek to feel how cool they were. As he did this, he was overcome by a feeling he recognized from his undergraduate days when he had first met Sean, a feeling of the beauty of the world and, along with this, his duty, or destiny, to apprehend it, so that it would not go unnoticed before it passed away. Living with Ursula, fighting with her, had narrowed Malcolm’s life to the point where he had lost this ability, this awareness. It wasn’t her fault. It was nobody’s fault.

  * * *

  Sean dropped the artichokes into the boiling water one by one. Annie was standing next to him. Their shoulders were touching. He could smell her skin, her hair.

  At the table Maria was wiping off the silverware. She was hunched over, squinting at the spots, and rubbing her nose from time to time with the back of her hand. Some artichokes were also on the table. Now and then Annie shuttled a new batch from table to stove, handing them carefully to Sean, who dropped them into the enormous pot with the eager abandon of a man tossing coins into a wishing well.

  * * *

  The sight was certainly a happy one, thought Malcolm as he stepped into the doorway, holding his small charge of artichokes. The pot on the stove was steaming. Annie and Sean were washing dust off plates exhumed from the cupboards. On the far side of the kitchen Maria was stacking silverware into neat piles. It was a scene of rustic simplicity—the vegetables harvested from the garden, the mammoth hissing stove, the two American girls reminding Malcolm of all the country girls he had ever glimpsed from train windows: slight figures beckoning from side roads, paused on their bicycles. Everything spoke of simplicity, goodness, and health. Malcolm was so struck by the scene that he couldn’t bring himself to intrude upon it. He could only stand in the shadows of the doorway, looking in.

  It occurred to him that they were about to partake of a miraculous meal. Less than an hour ago they had stared at the open, empty cupboards with disappointment and he had thought they would end up in a pub, eating liver-and-onion sandwiches amid the smoke and the noise. Now the kitchen was full of food.

  From the doorway, invisibly, he watched them. And the longer he watched without their noticing, the stranger he began to feel. He felt suddenly as though he had receded from the reality of the kitchen onto another plane of existence, as though now he were not looking at life but peering into it. Wasn’t he dead in some respects? Hadn’t he come to the point of despising life and throwing it away? At the sink Sean was wringing out a yellow dish towel, Annie was melting the stick of butter over the stove, at the table Maria was holding a silver spoon up to the light. But none of them, not one, recognized the significance of the meal they were about to share.

  And so it was with the greatest joy that Malcolm felt his bulk finally ease forward (from out of the netherworld back into the dear sluggish atmosphere of earth). His face came into the light. He was smiling with the bliss of reprieve. There was still time left for him to speak.

  * * *

  Sean didn’t notice Malcolm enter the kitchen because he was carrying the bowl of artichokes to the table. The artichokes were steaming; the steam was rising in his face, blinding him.

  * * *

  Annie didn’t notice Malcolm enter the kitchen because she was thinking about what she would write home in her next letter. She would describe it all: the artichokes! the steam! the bright plates!

  * * *

  Malcolm entered, took his seat at the table, and deposited his artichokes on the floor beside his feet. At that moment the faces of the girls we
re indescribably beautiful. The face of his old friend Sean was also beautiful.

  * * *

  Annie wasn’t paying attention when Malcolm began to speak. She heard his voice but his words had no meaning for her, were only sounds, in the distance. She was still calculating the total effect of a letter home, imagining her family around the table, her mother reading it with her glasses on, her little sisters acting bored and complaining. Other memories of home crowded in: the backyard grass full of crab apples, the kitchen entrance, in winter, lined with wet boots. Through the parade of these memories Malcolm’s voice kept up its slow, steady rhythm, and gradually Annie began to pick out bits of what he was saying. He had gone on a drive. He had stopped above a cliff. He had stood looking down at the sea.

  In the middle of the table the artichokes fumed on their platter. Annie reached out and touched one but it was too hot to eat. Next she glanced at Sean’s profile and then at Maria’s and saw that they were uncomfortable about something. Only then did the full import of what Malcolm was saying become clear to her. He was talking about suicide. His own.

  * * *

  The idea of this middle-aged, heavyset man throwing himself off a cliff struck Maria as comic. Malcolm’s eyes were moist, she could see that, but the fact that his emotion was genuine only separated her further from him. Maybe it was true that he had contemplated killing himself, maybe it was true that now (as he insisted) this meal had brought him back to life, but it was a mistake to think that she, who hardly knew him, could share either his sorrow or his joy. For a moment Maria reproached herself for not being able to feel for Malcolm (in a voice full of emotion he was describing the “darkest days” immediately after his wife had left him), but the moment quickly passed. Maria admitted to herself that she felt nothing. She kicked Annie under the table. Annie began to smile but then covered her mouth with her napkin. Maria rubbed her foot against Annie’s calf. Annie moved her leg away, and Maria couldn’t find it again. She searched back and forth with her foot and waited for Annie to look at her again so that she could wink, but Annie kept looking down at her plate.