Acquainted with the Night

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  “She’s very good,” he said. “She never could afford a piano of her own before. It makes her very happy.”

  Paul felt much better when he left. He understood, at least partially, why his father had done this shocking thing. According to Richard, the root cause was that he had smothered his rage at Nan’s compulsiveness and rigidity for many long years. Now it had finally erupted, as it had to someday, in this form. Also, according to Richard, he was not sick but healthy for the first time in his life. His pathology, he outlined carefully in simplified terms that Paul could understand, had been in submitting to Nan’s rigid controls. Now, with maybe twenty or more years ahead of him, he was going to start a new life and integrate his personality. It would be, he said, a voyage of self-discovery. He swallowed some wine as he talked of self-discovery, and in his eagerness to explain, a few drops dribbled along his chin. He had had trouble with women, he said, ever since boyhood—his mother got him off on the wrong track, as mothers tend to do (they both smiled knowingly), and as a result his whole marital relationship with Nan had been an unconscious working out of unresolved hostility towards his mother. He sucked deeply on his pipe amid pained reminiscences of his mother. This revelation surprised Paul slightly. His grandmother was a kindly, frail old woman with an unexpected and remarkable sense of humor; true, he thought, she did have a tendency to shower them with food and gifts on the rare occasions when they visited, but he had never realized, until Richard told him, just how controlling she was. As for Nan, Paul knew of course that Nan kept the house neat and worried excessively about getting places on time, but he had never dreamed of the tortuous ramifications these failings might have had in Richard’s mind.

  “We’ll see each other often, Paul,” Richard said as he was leaving. “We’ll have an even better relationship, now we can be more open with each other.”

  Paul was relieved to find Nan wasn’t waiting up for him. He felt funny—no, he could recognize and accurately name the sensation now, thanks to Dr. Crewes—ambivalent about telling Nan of his visit. He was filled with elation at the true communication he and Richard had achieved, and what he craved more than anything else was to share that elation with someone close. Yet that person couldn’t be Nan since, in some complicated way, it had been achieved at her expense. He had to hide it from her, to protect her from more pain. Paul couldn’t be angry with Nan for her pathology—with his background in treatment he knew better than that; he could only be sad at how it had wrecked the family. With the dim light of the hall behind him he looked in on her from her bedroom door. She was wearing a faded blue flannel nightgown and sleeping discreetly on her side of the big bed, her thumb touching her lips. He pitied her.

  He didn’t get up at the usual time the next morning. When Nan finally came to awaken him he said he had a bad cold and wouldn’t be going to school. He was planning to surprise her with the piano.

  “I’m sorry you’re sick. It’s all that walking in the rain. Can I get you some aspirins? A cup of tea?”

  “No, I don’t have any fever.”

  “You were out late again last night. With friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” she sighed, gazing sleepily around the room, “I’d better run. I’ve got my battered wives group coming first thing in the morning, then I’m taking a couple of hours off, first to see the lawyer, and then I’m seeing Dr. Steinberg for a consultation. I’ve got to get this thing straightened out in my head so I can start dealing with it realistically. I’m just not able to function this way. Patients talk to me at work and I drift off, I just can’t concentrate.”

  “Well, maybe he can help you.”

  “You don’t have an appointment with Dr. Crewes today, do you?”

  “No, tomorrow.”

  “Okay, take care of yourself. I’ll phone later to see how you are. You’re sure it’s nothing more than a cold? Does your throat hurt?”

  “No, I’m sure. So long.”

  As soon as she was gone he leaped out of bed and telephoned the moving company around the corner. He had worked there last summer, so they knew him well. They would do it on short notice if he offered to help.

  When all the arrangements were made he had a sudden doubt—maybe he had better call his father. In the elation of last night he had forgotten to remind Richard to leave his key with the superintendent. Cheryl might not be in, and even if she was, he didn’t feel up to dealing with her yet.

  Richard was with a patient, the secretary said.

  “This is his son. It’s urgent.”

  “What is it, Paul?” Richard’s voice came across anxiously. “Are you all right? Is Mother?”

  “Yes, yes, we’re fine. It’s about the piano. I wanted to get you early. Could you have your super let the movers in? I’m not sure what time. Sometime between one and five, they said.”

  “But, Paul, I don’t remember saying anything about the piano.”

  “But—I told you I was coming today. Don’t you remember? And then we talked, and—”

  “Paul, I’m sorry, I’m with a patient and I can’t talk. There’s been a misunderstanding. Can I call you back in half an hour?”

  “The piano!” Paul screamed, frantically winding the cord of the phone around his arm and stamping his foot. “You’ve got to give back the piano!”

  “Paul, please calm yourself. I can’t talk now. Paul?”

  “You shit, you fucker, you motherfucking lying bastard, I’m going to kill you—”

  “Paul, if you don’t stop I’ll call Dr. Crewes and have her come over and give you something.” In a quieter, muffled tone, “Excuse me, Mrs. Reed, I’m sorry for this interruption—an emergency. Paul, are you there? We must talk this over calmly, don’t do anything violent. Paul?”

  Paul tore the cord out of the wall and hurled the phone to the floor.

  In half an hour he was at the door of his father’s new apartment, breathing hard. He knocked quietly, so as not to alarm her. Paul had it all planned. This time he hadn’t broken his mother’s dishes or uprooted her plants. He had controlled himself with effort, hoarded it for the explosion. It was a new experience for him, dressing swiftly with deft hands, plotting and savoring his vengeance. His excitement was so strong, seething and boiling in his thighs, that it felt almost like physical pleasure. It was uncanny—as he left the building he had an erection.

  “Who is it?” A high young voice. She pronounced the phrase with a rising and falling melody.

  “Paul. Richard’s son.”

  “Oh.” The door opened. In jeans, a navy-blue turtleneck sweater, and high boots she looked completely different, swinging and competent and held together. She wasn’t as plump, either, as she had appeared last night in her long dress. She wore hornrimmed glasses that made her face serious and purposeful. Her skin was bright with morning. “Hello, Paul. I was just on my way out. Your father’s gone to his office already. Would you like to call him?”

  “I didn’t come for him.”

  “Oh, me?” She was bewildered for an instant, then masked it quickly with politeness. “Why, sure. Come in. Have you had breakfast?”

  He shoved past her. It was difficult to keep his arms from flying at the cartons and ripping them apart, but he wanted to carry this out perfectly, according to plan. He had a goal. He went to the living room. The bridge chairs were still close together, facing each other for intimate talk, as he and Richard had left them last night.

  “Do you want to hear me play something?”

  “Well ... sure. Go ahead,” she said.

  He plunged into a flamboyant, racing Beethoven Rondo. His fingers recoiled instantly, for she had gotten the keys dirty with her chicken grease. But he kept on playing.

  “You’re terrific. Listen, please come over and play it whenever—”

  “You like Scarlatti, right? Bach? That’s your sort of thing?” He didn’t need an answer. Her music was right on the rack. Grinding his teeth together till they ached, he tore the first thin book through. She
reached out to stop him, shrieking with disbelief, but he waved her off with a long arm, hitting her on the shoulder so that she stumbled a few steps away. Then he did the other books, one by one, systematically. She looked on in silence.

  Then she said, “Those can be replaced, you know.”

  He shredded every page of her music till the room was scattered with scraps, black notes strewn on the bare floor like trampled insects.

  “Look, I understand your rage. It’s separation anxiety, very common, very normal. Can’t we talk about it?”

  Paul laughed. “Do you want to deal with it too?”

  He came towards her.

  “Paul, you’re upset, you need help. What—”

  She was at the wall, one shoulder tensed and huddled against it. Her hands flew to her chest in a crossed, protective gesture. He liked that sight of her in dread, liked it so much that he paused, relishing it like the taste of something tart on his tongue.

  “Paul, please, I didn’t do anything to you. Listen, my parents were divorced too, I know how you—”

  He hit her across her open mouth and stepped back. At last he felt some small relief from his seething. He was overheated, and took off his heavy jacket.

  “Don’t. Don’t do anything! Please!” It was a little girl’s voice now.

  He laughed again. It made him feel years older to think she was afraid of that. “Stand up straight and look at me.”

  She obeyed.

  “I’m not going to do that. You think I’d do that? You’re crazy. You think I want to be where he’s been, in that filthy hole?”

  He hit her across the face four or five times until he felt satisfied. She tried to fight back, but she was so much smaller and weaker that he could restrain both her wrists with one hand. She kicked at him, aiming for the groin, but he kicked back, flicking her feet away as he might throw off an overeager dog. Her glasses lay smashed on the floor. Then he dragged her through the rooms until he found one with a double-bed mattress on the floor. He pushed her down on it.

  “There. That’s all. Aren’t you relieved? And don’t forget to tell him, when he comes back, that I want the piano.”

  He had planned to do more, to hit her harder and longer and all over, but he had lost the will. It was not the pleasure he had anticipated. He was stretched out on the couch when his mother came home.

  “Paul, are you feeling any better? I called twice but you didn’t answer. Were you asleep?” She set down her packages and came over to feel his forehead. “You feel cool. You don’t look too well, though. Listen,” she went on, “I brought home some Kentucky Fried Chicken for us. I know it’s kind of tacky, but I just couldn’t face cooking. Dr. Steinberg said I shouldn’t try to do everything, just take things slowly, one at a time. Not push myself. I know you could use a decent meal, but—Paul? Are you there?”

  “It’s okay. Actually I adore Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  “I’ll make you some tea with it.” She started towards the kitchen. At the threshold the telephone lay in parts at her feet. “Oh, no ... This is your work, I take it?”

  “Elves.”

  “Oh, Paul. Paul, honestly, I’m not in any state to deal with this now. I swear I don’t know what to say. I didn’t need this. I didn’t need this at all,” she muttered.

  “They’ll come to replace it if you call your business office. You can use the extension meanwhile.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s not returning the piano. His little pussycat plays it too. She’s very talented.”

  “Oh, God. The rotten bastard. It doesn’t excuse this mess, though. Pick it up, for heaven’s sake. And will you call the phone company in the morning? You have to learn to take the consequences of your actions.”

  “Sure,” said Paul. “No sweat.”

  She served the chicken and mashed potatoes on their bone china plates, and opened a bottle of Bolla Soave for herself, pouring it into a wine goblet. Nan had her hair pulled back in a bun, which made her seem older. He saw her as she would be in twenty years, her parched remains. They ate silently for a while, and then abruptly Nan put down her fork and began to speak, her eyes fixed on a point beyond Paul.

  “I had a good session with Dr. Steinberg today. He’s very supportive. God knows I can use some support in this. He says there are whole areas of pathology that I’ve repressed completely, that I must bring out in the open if I want to be in touch with reality. I’ll have a lot to do. But first, he says, I have to deal with the real feelings of loss and jealousy and fear and all that, that I’m feeling. But I haven’t seemed to be feeling them, have I?”

  Paul shrugged. “How do I know what you’re feeling?”

  “That’s the trouble. Neither do I.”

  She drank, gulped, and began to sob loudly over her goblet of wine. “Oh, God, why did this have to happen! We were happy, weren’t we? We seemed all right, didn’t we? I don’t know anything anymore. I can’t even remember, it’s all gone. I know I’m compulsive in some ways, but I never thought—” She pounded her fist on the table. “Why is he so hateful to me? I’d like to kill him. And I’m terrified. Terrified.”

  “Is that what you’re supposed to do when you deal with your feelings?” Paul inquired as he continued to eat. “It didn’t sound quite right.”

  She groaned and shuddered, hiding her face. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m totally out of touch. I can’t even convince myself.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Nan wiped her eyes with her linen napkin. “I have a patient whose husband beats her,” she said dully. “She comes in and talks about it. And I think, while I listen, that’s better than this—this screen between us. I haven’t known him for years. It’s been like a play.”

  He led her to the couch and sat next to her. She seemed genuinely present for the first time in days—it made him want to talk, to seize the opportunity. “Mom? Do you know what I did today?”

  Immediately he regretted his words. Nan raised her head with a start; the familiar shadow of dread crossed her face, and her eyes closed.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. I mean, I just slept the whole day. I guess I was that wrung out.”

  “Oh, Paul, it must be hell for you, and neither of us is doing you much good. You’ve got to rely on Dr. Crewes. She’ll help you, she knows you, and she can be objective about the situation. That’s what you need. You’re seeing her tomorrow, aren’t you? You’ll be well enough to go out tomorrow.”

  The next morning the phone, the extension in the master bedroom, rang before eight, as Paul was dressing. This was nothing unusual; the phone had been ringing steadily ever since his father left—friends calling daily for reports on his mother’s emotional condition. Several called quite early so as to be undistracted, before leaving for tightly scheduled days at the office. Paul ignored it and began getting his books together. In two days he had completely forgotten what was happening in school, that world having flicked off like a light bulb. He even had to check his program card to remind himself which class to report to first. He was trying to fix his thoughts on the day ahead when, passing by his parents’ bedroom on his way out, he saw Nan sitting on the edge of the bed with the phone at her ear, listening, not whispering rapidly as she usually did. As she listened, tears ran down her face, which she wiped carelessly with the belt of her coarse woolen bathrobe. Paul stopped in the doorway to watch.

  “Yes, yes, of course I will. I know.” Her voice was gentle, lower and more intimate than he had ever heard it. He was embarrassed, as if he were surprising her naked. Her whole body seemed to have softened and relaxed; her face was somber but live with emotion. “It’s all right,” she was saying. “You know I do. I can. I’ll do anything.” She hadn’t yet combed her hair, and it hung in soft pale clumps over her forehead and cheeks and neck. Her words came out husky with sleep and tears. She held her unbelted robe loosely around her body with one arm, while she stretched her long
bare legs in front of her, as though feeling their weight and mass after long disuse. “No, no, I’m not crying. I’ll be right there. Don’t do anything. I have to finish dressing.” Paul reddened and turned away.

  “That was him,” she came to tell Paul, tying the robe quickly. She looked haggard now. He noticed how much weight she had lost over the week. “He wants me to come to his office right away. He had a fight with her last night, and he realized he can’t stay with her. Paul, I’m worried. But relieved, in a way. He says he suddenly sees that this is all some kind of pathological outburst, that he’s having a sort of breakdown. He’s canceled all his patients. I’d better get over there.”

  “And you think ... something may work out?”

  “I don’t know. But he turned to me—that’s a good sign. He sounded more like himself, except weak. Like he was ... in need. Oh, Paul, I hope we can ... God knows I’ll do anything.”

  She rushed off to dress.

  Paul didn’t go to school after all, but instead walked the streaming slushy Hyde Park streets most of the day. That afternoon he told Dr. Crewes that he had beaten up Cheryl.

  “Did you want to rape her too?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think I’m ready for rape yet. I’m only fifteen, you know. Don’t rush things.”

  “You can be funny if you want to, but you know it’s just avoidance, Paul. Resistance.”

  “Okay, okay. No, I didn’t want to rape her. I’m not even sure how to go about raping someone, but I think if I wanted to I could have done it. You know I don’t have the proper inner restraints. That’s my problem, right, what we’re supposed to be dealing with?”

  “Maybe you were afraid you couldn’t measure up to your father?”