by Melissa Bank
My father seemed to be considering.
"It's triple-filtered," she said.
I admitted that I'd forgotten to taste it.
She said that I might not be able to detect the difference anyway, because cigarettes had probably killed my taste buds.
I said, "I thought the whole point of water was that you didn't taste it."
Henry looked at me. " 'The whole point of water'?"
I got fresh towels for Rebecca and showed her to my room. We'd dismantled the bunk-bed complex a few summers ago, but the room was still tiny, and it seemed even smaller now that I had to share it with Rebecca.
I went out to the deck for a cigarette. I'd smoked outside ever since my father had quit, years ago; I was half acknowledging that I shouldn't smoke, half pretending that I didn't.
The houses across the lagoon were dark. Now that Loveladies had been built up, it felt less like the seashore and more like the suburbs. There was no more marshland, no more scrub. It was just big house, pebble yard, big house, pebble yard.
Back inside, Henry had the TV on and a seventies movie had taken over the living room.
I said, "Henry, do you have to watch now?"
"Yes," he said, playing air guitar to the chase music. "I absolutely have to watch now."
For a minute, I got absorbed in the movie—sexy girls vavooming on motorcycles down Main Street.
"Listen," I said, "I want to talk to you."
He began air-guitaring again and gave me a goofy smile.
"I think you should try not to be late so much," I said. "It tells people they can't count on you."
"There was traffic," he said, and turned back to his movie.
I knew my speech lacked the power Archie's had, but I went on anyway. "We want Dad to know he can rely on us."
He turned and looked at me, and I thought maybe he was considering what I'd said. "Why don't you just say you're mad I was late?"
Then Rebecca walked in. "What's on?" she asked.
"It's either Chopper Chicks in Bikertown," he said, "or Biker Babes in Chopperville."
She sat down beside him. "Groovy."
—•—
Her bed was made when I woke up. Henry was in the kitchen, shaking an orange-juice carton.
"Where's Rebecca?" I asked.
He told me that she was at the wildlife refuge, painting.
"She's just using you for your landscape," I said. Sounding like myself at twelve, I said, "Is she your girlfriend?"
He shrugged.
I said, "Why did you bring her if she's not your girlfriend?"
"She's funny," he said. "And I thought it would be easier with more people around."
I said, "Easier for who?"
"Everybody."
I said, "You don't have to sleep with her."
"Yeah," he said, smiling. "Gross."
I said, "Does she even know about Dad?"
He said, "Of course not."
—•—
Henry and my mother went sailing, and I stayed behind on the porch with my dad. He read a book about how the atom bomb was made. I edited Mr. Putterman.
After a while, I said, "I have a question."
He nodded.
"How come you never told anybody about being sick?"
"It was selfish," he said. "I didn't want to think about it any more than I had to."
I said, "I'm asking so I don't do whatever it was you wanted to avoid. The reason you didn't tell people, I mean."
He smiled at me. "Well put."
Then he took his glasses off and cleaned them, which was what he did when he was organizing his thoughts. He told me that the main reason was that he didn't want people treating him like a sick person instead of who he was.
That's what made me tell him about Archie.
He didn't seem upset. He told me he was glad I had someone to lean on. That was important, he said.
Then he went back to the bomb, and I to Mr. Putterman.
—•—
We had dinner on the porch, steamed lobster and mussels, white corn on the cob, tomatoes, and fresh bread.
Rebecca was back by then, washing up for dinner.
Henry sat next to me at the table. He nodded at the bowl of mussels and said in a low voice, "Vaginas of the sea." I looked at them and saw what he meant.
My mother served. "Everything's local except the lobsters," she said.
"The mussels are local?" Rebecca said. "Is the water here really that clean?"
"I'm sure it's fine," my mother said in a breezy voice.
She passed the bowl of little vaginas to me, and I said, "No, thanks."
"Jane." My mother was annoyed. "The mussels are delicious."
We stopped talking for a few minutes, and there was only the sound of cracking shells and then my father's cough, and I wondered if this was why my mother was tense. "Great corn," I said to her.
My father asked how Rebecca's painting had gone, and she said, "Great."
"I'd love to see," my mother said.
Rebecca said, "When I finish it."
After dinner, my father said he was tired. My mother followed him into the bedroom, and I heard her say, "Marty? Can I get you anything, sweetheart?"
V I I I
I woke up early. I found my mother crying in the kitchen. She'd always been a big weeper; there were balled-up Kleenexes in the pockets of every one of her bathrobes and coats. In the past, I'd teased her about it. We all had. But now I thought of the times she must have been crying about my father and couldn't tell anyone about it. I put my arms around her.
She said that my father had a high fever and his cough was worse; he was talking to Dr. Wischniak on the phone now.
As I got dressed, I could hear him in the next room, not words, but the tone; he spoke as though consulting another doctor about a patient they had in common.
When my mother told me that Dr. Wischniak wanted them to go back to Philadelphia to get an X ray, I said, "I'm going to wake Henry."
She didn't answer.
I said, "I think he'd want me to."
"Okay," she said, though I could tell she wished I wouldn't.
We had breakfast out on the porch. Henry entertained us with stories about his boss, Aldo, who was a great architect from Italy. Aldo kept opera playing in the office all day, which Henry said made everything seem grand and dramatic.
To demonstrate, Henry composed an opera about calling his mechanic: "The transmission?" he sang in a baritone. "No! No! No! That cannot be!"
My father urged me to stay at the shore and enjoy the rest of the weekend. "I'm going with you," I said. "You need me to drive."
He said, "Mom can drive me."
I said, "Has Mom driven you anywhere lately?" I reminded him that she drove the car like it was a bicycle, pushing the gas, then coasting until she slowed down, then the gas again.
"Oh, stop," my mother said.
She was showing Henry what was in the refrigerator for lunch and dinner when Rebecca came into the living room.
"Dr. Rosenal isn't feeling well," my mother explained to her. "I think he'll be more comfortable at home."
"Did he eat those mussels?" she asked.
My mother said, "It is not the mussels."
I felt sorry for Rebecca then, being in our house and not knowing what was really going on.
At the door, my father shook Rebecca's hand and said, "I hope I'll have a chance to see you again."
For a second, I thought he meant, If I live, but then I snapped out of it. "Me, too," I said. "Thanks for the great water."
Henry said, "Call me."
—•—
The X ray was clear, but Eli—Dr. Wischniak—had a tank of oxygen delivered to our house, just in case. It was the size of a small child, and stood by the bed.
My father seemed glad to be at home, in the suburbs. The house was old stone and sturdy, cool inside and pretty. Because they'd lived there for so many years, they had everything just as they wanted it. As soon as
my father got into bed, under the fresh white sheets and blue cotton blanket, he seemed better.
I said so to my mother.
"I'm so glad I had the house painted," she said. "I think it really makes a difference."
"It does," I said, though I wasn't sure exactly what I was agreeing with.
—•—
By dinner, my father's fever was down, and he was making jokes. When he took a sip of water, he said, "Louise, this water isn't triple-filtered."
I rented the kind of action-adventure movie he liked. In the middle, Henry called. My father motioned for me to stop the video, and as I did, I said, "Freeze, asshole."
My dad exhaled a little laugh.
When I got on the phone, Henry said, "Is Dad really okay?"
"He really is," I said.
I X
Before bed, I called Archie. He didn't answer. For a second, I worried that he was drinking. But it was the Fourth of July, and I reminded myself that he'd said he might go to Mickey's roof to see the fireworks. Or he could be napping. Maybe he went out for a walk. But I caught myself on that one; Archie didn't take walks.
—•—
On the train to New York, I tried to remember the last time I'd heard him say, "I'm taking my Antabuse!" I realized that I'd never actually seen him swallow a pill.
I went to my aunt's apartment instead of his. It was musty, and I opened all the windows. Then I went into my aunt's study and called him.
I listened for alcohol in his voice, but I didn't hear any. I repeated what my father had said about being glad I had Archie to lean on, and he said, "Told you."
I hadn't brought up drinking since he'd told me he'd quit. I felt like I couldn't, which seemed to prove its proximity. I said, "You didn't drink while I was away, did you?"
"If you have to ask," he said, "don't ask." Then: "I don't think I've given you any reason to doubt me."
"That's true," I said.
"Well," he said, "get over here." And I went.
X
I finally finished Mr. Putterman and read it over one more time, thinking of it as the test it was. Afterward, I realized I was more nervous about Archie's reaction than Mimi's, which seemed wrong. I decided to give it to her, without showing Archie first.
She read it overnight, and called me into her office the next afternoon. She held up her perfume and I submitted my wrists.
"This is really fine work, Jane," she said.
I said, "Thanks."
"Where's the letter?" she said.
"The letter?"
Slowly, she said, "The letter to Putterman."
I thought, You even want me to write the letter you'll sign?
She went on explaining that the letter to the author should describe the changes "we'd" made to the novel, as well as "our" enthusiasm for the project.
"Almost finished," I said, and took the manuscript back.
—•—
Really fine work, I said to myself on my way home to Archie's. Really fine work.
After dinner, I gave the manuscript to him to read. He took it right up to his study. When he came down, he said, "It looks good, honey."
I said, "I need to know if you think I will ever be really good at this."
He seemed to be considering.
I said, "I need to know if you think I can ever be a fucking great editor."
"Yes," he said. "I think you are fucking a great editor."
I glared at him. There were a dozen cruel remarks I could've made.
He said, "Your aunt Rita always said that the best editors were invisible." Editors worked behind the scenes, he said; it wasn't a job you did for praise or glory—that belonged to the writer.
"You get glory," I said.
"Inadvertently," he said.
I said, "Isn't that what you'd call 'understated self-inflation'?"
He looked at me.
I said, "I don't think there's anything wrong with glory."
He said, "Join a brass band."
"Shut up," I said.
"Snappy retort," he said, and got up to do the dishes.
—•—
In bed, in the dark, he whispered, "I'm sorry I was so hard on you." Then: "You need approval a little too badly, honey."
"I know," I said.
He said, "But you really did do a fine job for old Mr. Putterman."
I said, "Mimi said, 'Really fine.' "
He turned and faced me. "You gave it to Mimi before showing it to me?"
"Yes," I said.
He sat up and turned his back to me, and lit a cigarette. "Why would you do that?" he said, and his tone put me in the third person.
"What you said—I need your approval too much." I lit a cigarette myself and said, "I was relying too much on your judgment."
I could tell how angry he was by how he smoked—deep drags with too brief intermissions. "I rely on your judgment," he said. "I ask you to read my editorial letters."
"You don't need me to, though," I said.
"Of course I do," he said.
I said, "But if I wasn't around to read them, you'd be fine."
He said, "You planning on going somewhere?"
—•—
Mimi called me into her office. "You did a wonderful job on the novel," she said. "But I am a little surprised that it took you as long as it did."
"Oh," I said. I thought of the time my Girl Scout leader told me that I hadn't earned enough badges; she'd said, "You have to work at scouting, Janie."
Mimi said, "I didn't mention it yesterday because I didn't want to diminish the work you'd done. I probably wouldn't mention it at all," she said, "if you didn't also take so long reading submissions."
She was looking at me and I knew that she was expecting a pledge of future speed.
But I just said, "Yeah." And, "Yeah," again. Even to myself, I sounded like somebody who smoked cigarettes in front of the drugstore all day.
—•—
I was sulking in my office, when my mother called. She never called in the middle of the day, so when she said, "How are you?" I said, "What's wrong?"
She said, "Everything's fine." Then she told me that my father had pneumonia and had been admitted to the hospital.
Mimi told me to take as much time as I needed.
Archie left work and met me at his house. He sat on the bed while I packed. "It's going to be hard in Philadelphia," he said. "I don't want you worrying about us."
In the cab to the station, he told me that when he was growing up he'd see a look of pleasure cross his mother's face and ask what she was thinking; she'd say, I was just thinking of your father. "That's how I want us to be," Archie said.
I smiled.
"What?"
I said, "I was just thinking of your father."
X I
I asked my mother when Henry was coming. We were in the car, on our way to the hospital.
She didn't answer.
"Mom?" I said.
"Yes?"
"When's Henry coming in?"
She said that he had a wedding to go to on the Cape that Saturday, and he'd come either before or after.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
She nodded.
At red lights, she stopped, coasted, stopped, coasted. I was getting carsick. "Do you want me to drive?" I asked.
"I can drive," she said. But she pulled over and got out, so I could take her place at the wheel.
—•—
My father had plastic oxygen tubes in his nose. He didn't smile when he saw me. "Hello, love," he said.
I bent down to kiss his forehead.
He was in a VIP suite, which had wall-to-wall carpeting, a minirefrigerator, and velvety wallpaper. "This is a brothel," I said.
He said, "Don't tell Mom."
Out in the hall, I saw Dr. Wischniak and asked when my dad would be going home.
He said, "I can't answer that yet."
I said, "Is my father dying?"
He looked at me steadily. "We're all
dying, Jane."
—•—
In bed, in my old room, I panicked the way I had as a child when my parents had gone out for the evening and the house seemed unprotected and great danger imminent; I'd picture a lion slinking past the den where the baby-sitter watched television or imagine a murderer lurking outside my open door. I'd whisper, "It's never been anything before." I said those words now.
—•—
All through the day, my father's doctor friends visited, in their white coats. They sat on his bed and patted the blanket where his legs were. My dad asked them questions about their children—"How's Amy liking Barnard?" or "What's Peter up to this summer?"—trying to make them comfortable.
When he asked how my job was, I said, "Okay."
"Really?" he said.
"No," I said. I told him that I wasn't sure I belonged in publishing. "I'm getting worse instead of better."
"You keep talking about whether you're good at this or not," he said. "The real question is, do you enjoy it?"
"I might hate it," I said.
He reminded me that I loved books.
"I don't read books," I said. "I read manuscripts that aren't good enough to become books."
"What do you think you'd like to do instead?" he asked.
I said that I'd been thinking about writing a series of pamphlets called "The Loser's Guide." I said, "Like 'The Loser's Guide to Careers.' Or 'The Loser's Guide to Love.' " I wasn't sure whether I was kidding or not.
"Any other ideas?" he said.
I told him about a jewelry store with the sign PIERCING——WITH OR WITHOUT PAIN.
He laughed.
"But I wouldn't want to pierce anything but ears," I said. "Maybe the occasional nose."
—•—
The drugs he was getting made him nauseated, and my mother tried to tempt him to eat. "What about a pastrami sandwich?" she said. "Maybe tomorrow I'll bring a baked potato and a nice steak."
I said, "You always say, 'a nice steak,' like there are also mean steaks."
On our way out to the hospital parking lot, I told her that maybe talking about food while Dad was nauseated wasn't such a great idea.
"He has to keep his strength up," she said.
The way she spoke reminded me more of humming than thinking.
—•—
At home, we had a glass of wine on the screened-in porch, both of us still wearing our visitor tags from the hospital. The sky was the dirty violet of rain coming.
I tried to bring up topics other than my father. I asked about the neighbors I remembered. "How's Willy Schwam?" He had a scholarship to Juilliard. "What happened to Oliver Biddle?" His father died; mother and son moved to Florida.
