Erasure

by Percival Everett

  “This ain’t gonna happen,” he said.

  I looked at him.

  “This wedding, it ain’t happening.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He pointed across the room. “See her? That’s my wife. She’s Maynard’s daughter. She hates Lorraine. I was up all night listening to how much she hates Lorraine.”

  I studied the daughter, the way she cut glances at Lorraine.

  “I’m Leon.”

  “Monk.” I shook his hand.

  “So, you’re related to Lorraine?”

  “She works for us.”

  He looked at me.

  “She’s our housekeeper.”

  “Your maid?”

  “She’s like part of the family,” I said, trying to recover. “She’s been with us for years, my entire life.”

  “She’s been with you,” he said, slightly (not-so-slightly) mocking. “What are you, rich or something?”

  “No, we’re not rich.”

  “I’m an electrician’s helper. What do you do?”

  “I’m a novelist.” I read the blank expression on his face. “And a professor. Actually, I’m on leave right this year.”

  “On leave. And they’re paying you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So, you’re telling me you’re not working and it doesn’t matter. That makes you rich in my book. How many other servants your family got?”

  “Only Lorraine.”

  Leon laughed to himself and looked back at the television.

  “So, what kind of wedding present you gonna give your servant?”

  His question was both odd and forward, but it caused a flood of thoughts in me. What was I going to give Lorraine? What did I owe Lorraine? What did my family owe her? Had she saved for retirement? Had she ever filed her income taxes? “As a matter of fact,” I said to Leon. “I’m giving the bride ten thousand dollars.”

  Leon looked at me, then at the game, then back at me. He got up and walked across the room to his wife where I am sure that he told her what I had just told him. The daughter then told the nieces and the sister-in-law, who by all appearances was already drunk, and there seemed to be a new air of joy and repose. I was left with a bad feeling, not because I saw the family Lorraine was marrying into as mercenary, not because I had just then decided on my gift, but because I truly didn’t understand how anyone could get so excited over a mere ten thousand dollars. I saw myself exactly as I had never wanted, but always did, awkward and set apart, however unfairly and incorrectly. I turned my attention to the screen and saw a ball sail over the left field fence. I considered that Leon would have no trouble with my having money, no matter how much a figment of his imagination it was, if I were that ballplayer. The problem was the one I had always had, that I was not a regular guy and I so much wanted to be. Can you spell bourgeois?

  My mother stood near a large window and raised a glass of wine above her head. Everyone responded by raising their glasses. But I could see her eyes filling with the vacancy that frightened me so. I stood and walked toward her. She turned those empty orbs to me and hissed.

  My grandfather was very bright, but was not notably funny. He realized this and was famous for the funniest line of our family history. He said, “My claim to having a sense of humor is a singular demonstration of such.” I was ten when he said it and even then the layers of logical play thrilled me. I remember my father near rolling. My grandfather was more playful than my father and had a softer hand with Bill. Bill took it hard when the old man died a month later. He was very old, well past eighty.

  Father was actually tender that day and much of his tenderness was directed at my brother. He sat us down in his study, sat next to Bill on the sofa and put a hand on his knee. I think Bill and Lisa knew what was coming, but I surely didn’t. I watched my father’s face. “Children, your grandfather has passed away,” he said.

  I remember hanging on the expression passed away. Perhaps I was simply trying to avoid the news. Lisa cried. Bill’s face became vacant, hollow and he fell against Father, his head on his shoulder. I would never see them so close again, without barriers, without tension. I didn’t know enough to cry, but I understood that Grandfather was dead.

  At dinner that evening, Lorraine paused in the dining room and asked if Father would like her to say a prayer.

  “Hell no,” he said. When Lorraine was gone, he looked at Mother and the rest of us. “My father loved these lines. ‘And the fisher with his lamp / And spear, about the low rocks damp / Crept, and stuck the fish who came / To worship the delusive flame: / Too happy, thy whose pleasure sought / Extinguishes all sense and thought / Of regret that pleasure cease/ Destroying life alone not peace.’”

  Father cast an eye to the door through which Lorraine had exited. “I ask that grief not push us to the irrational belief in some god. We do not need to believe that Father has gone on to the good light. He told me often that he was not afraid of the dark. Neither am I. And neither are you.” His eyes seemed to find me.

  I did not understand why my father chose that moment to affirm his atheism. Perhaps he felt his foundation shaking. Perhaps he was angry. Perhaps he was simply passing on to us what little he knew about life and death.

  Mother, whose silence was impossible to miss throughout these opening minutes of the meal, cleared her throat and said, “This is not about you.”

  To which Father replied, “Quite right.”

  And we ate.

  Mother snapped. “Who are these people?!” she shouted. “Lorraine, you little strumpet, how dare you let these—these hooligans in here.”

  “Come, Mother,” I said. I tried to guide her away. “She’s sick,” I whispered to Maynard and the others.

  “I’ve never trusted that Lorraine. Only after money, that girl.”

  “See, I told you,” Maynard’s daughter said to the others.

  “How dare you,” Lorraine said to the daughter. “You simpleton.”

  “That simpleton is my wife,” Leon said.

  “They’re all thugs,” Mother said. She twisted away from my grasp and stood on a foot stool. “All of you, out of my house!”

  “Your house?” a niece said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Lorraine was crying now. I was encouraged by the sight of Maynard attempting to comfort her. I apologized again, but when I turned and tried to collect my mother, she bolted across the carpet and into the bathroom. I do not remember hearing a sound as loud as the clicking of the lock on that door.

  I knocked. “Mother?”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s me, Monksie.”

  There was no response. I knocked again. “Mother?”

  The minister took this opportunity to arrive, swinging open the door and saying, “Shall we begin the joyous event?”

  “Mother?”

  “I knew she was a golddigger.”

  “Shut up, you witch.”

  “That witch is my wife.”

  “Everyone, please calm down,” from Maynard.

  I could hear Mother pulling things from the cabinets and I became afraid. I put my shoulder to the door and broke the lock. Mother had her pantyhose halfway down and screamed when she saw me. I pulled up her clothes and carried her crying out of the bathroom and away from the house. At the car, she began to come around.

  “Are we late?” she asked.

  “Actually, it’s over. It was a nice service,” I said.

  Somehow Lorraine and Maynard ended up married. Lorraine came by to collect her things that night on her way to a honeymoon in Atlantic City and didn’t say a word to Mother. She barely spoke to me, saying only, “This is the thanks I get.”

  I handed her an envelope and said, “I’m sorry Lorraine. I hope this helps.”

  Maynard offered me a weak smile, an understanding smile.

  I called Bill and told him that Mother would be committed the next day. He said he would fly in. I told him not to bother, that he wasn’t needed. He
said he would come anyway.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “This is going to be difficult enough as it is.” I heard music in the background. Nina Simone, I think. “It’s all arranged. I’m going to take her and stay the day with her.”

  “We can both visit with her.”

  Some water is so clear that trout will swim to your fly, your silhouette all too visible to them as they gaze up and through the water and air, and will inspect your tying job, the amount of head cement you applied, observe whether you used a good stiff hackle or whether you used natural or synthetic dubbing material, nose the thing, then swim away. Occasionally, one will take the fly, not caring that a bit of thread is visible where the tail is tied down, not even caring that your tippet is corkscrewed. A trout hiding behind a rock in fast, muddy water might or might not take a nymph fished deep through the riffle. For all the aggravation a trout can cause, it cannot think and does not consider you. A trout is very much like truth; it does what it wants, what it has to.

  I was exhausted, my eyes burning from having been open and staring at either Mother or the book in my lap all night. The backs of my legs had gone numb from sitting in the round-rimmed wooden chair. I was completely distrustful of any measure of stability the old woman exhibited that evening of Lorraine’s wedding. I was terrified that I would wake and find her bed empty, then, after a brief search, her lifeless body floating in the creek or simply laid out at the bottom of the stairs. The business of committing her seemed so much more urgent now. I was desperate to know that she was safe and I was desperate to discontinue my feeling of desperation.

  When Mother awoke, she took me in for a few seconds, then said, “Good morning, Monksie.”

  “Good morning, Mother. How did you rest?”

  “Fine, I suppose. I had dreams I didn’t like.” She sat up, smoothing the sheet and light blanket around her. “I can’t recall any of them.”

  “I can never remember my dreams either.”

  “You weren’t in that chair all night, were you?”

  “No, Mother.” As I lied, I wondered how I was going to bathe and dress for the day. I didn’t have Lorraine to watch her now. “Mother, if you wait right here, I’ll bring you some tea.”

  “That would be nice, dear.”

  She began to hum as I left the room. I believe it was Chopin, a polonaise, but I could only place the quality of the melody and not the piece itself. I hurried to my room where I washed up at the sink and threw on a clean shirt and socks. I returned to her door and listened. She was still humming. I could hear her turning the pages of a magazine. I ran to the kitchen, put on the water and sat at the table to catch my breath. My eyes must have closed and sleep taken me because I woke with a start, finding Mother removing the whistling kettle from the burner.

  “You’re tired,” she said.

  I watched as she poured the water into the pot and dropped in the ball that I had already filled with tea. She put the cups and saucers on the table and set the pot between us.

  “Isn’t this nice,” she said.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “My favorite time is always waiting for the tea to steep.” She looked past me to the screened porch. “Where is Lorraine?”

  “Lorraine was married last night.”

  “Oh, yes.” She seemed to catch herself. Then she appeared very sad.

  “Will you miss her?” I asked.

  She looked at me as if she’d missed the question.

  “You were just thinking about Lorraine, weren’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course. I hope she will be very happy.” Mother poured the tea.

  “I’d like you to pack a bag this morning,” I said.

  “Why?” She held the cup in her hands, warming them.

  “I have to take you someplace. It’s a kind of hospital.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I know, Mother. But I want to make sure. I want to be certain that you’re all right.”

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Your father can give me a pill or something.” She sipped her tea, then stared at it.

  “Father’s dead, Mother.”

  “Yes, I know. There was a cardinal outside my window this morning. A female. She was very beautiful. The female cardinal’s color is so sweetly understated.”

  “I agree.”

  Mother looked at my eyes. “I must have spilled something in bed last night.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Shall I pack a small bag?”

  I nodded. “A small bag will be fine.”

  I could feel the leaves wanting to change color. But still the days were warm. I talked Mother into strolling with me down to the beach. The morning was clear, just a few clouds searching for each other out over the bay. Mother had managed to dress herself; however, her sweater was on inside out. This was a mistake that even I could make, but it gave me a much-needed nudge to keep perspective. That morning, while picking up her room, I had found some stained underwear she’d attempted to hide.

  She wore khaki trousers and sneakers and I could tell she was trying to walk briskly. “When you were a little boy the bay wasn’t so dirty,” she said. “You used to dive off the back of the boat and swim around like a fish. You’d go down and disappear under the bottom and my heart would just stop.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Oh, I know. You were just so small. Actually, I enjoyed watching you, Bill and Lisa having fun like that.” We were at the community dock now and she stopped to stare at a line of weathered boards. “I can’t believe Lisa is gone.”

  I put my arm around her. “Neither can I. Lisa was special. She loved you very much, Mother.”

  “I know. I loved her too.”

  “Lisa knew that.”

  She rubbed my arm. “Why aren’t you married, Monksie?”

  “Haven’t found the right person, I guess.”

  “I suppose that’s the important thing, finding the right person. Still, life is short.” She paused. “I wish I were closer to Bill’s children. The distance has been so difficult.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you talk to Bill?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “I think I haven’t talked to him in months. Poor Bill. Bill and your father never got along. Sad thing.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I don’t think Ben was fair to Bill.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “But you. Your father was crazy about you. He’d talk about you when you weren’t around. Did you know that? Well, he did. You were his special child.”

  “I suppose I knew that. Lisa certainly believed it. Bill, too. Actually, I appreciated your evenhandedness more than his attention.”

  “You would.” She smiled at me. “He was right to consider you special.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  The conversation was unraveling my resolve. She was so lucid, so reasonable, so much herself.

  Pollock: You first.

  Moore: No, you.

  Pollock: No, I insist.

  Moore: You.

  Pollock: You.

  Moore: Very well.

  As I stood there with Mother, the breeze off the bay filling my shirt and chilling me, I tried to consider her coming loneliness, waking in a strange bed, with strange faces, strange food, but instead I thought of my own loneliness. I had allowed the letters of friends to go too long unanswered and I imagined they had written me off. I felt small for regarding myself, for being so self-centered in the face of Mother’s coming day and life.

  “Should we be going?” she asked.

  “Mother, I have to tell you what’s going on.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  I held her close and looked at the water while I talked. “Lately, your condition has been getting worse. The doctor said it would happen this way.” I took a breath. “Do you remember standing in the boat out in the middle of the pond.”

 
; Mother laughed. “What?”

  I could see she did not know what I was talking about. “You rowed yourself out into the pond and I had to swim out and get you.” I let her silence settle. “You locked Lorraine out of the house and came to me in the study with Father’s pistol. You locked yourself in the bathroom at Lorraine’s wedding. Mother, I’m afraid you’re going to get lost and hurt. I’m taking you to a new place to live today.”

  She pulled the edges of her sweater. “Is it time to go?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I trust you to do what’s best, Monk.”

  My first table saw had a plastic guard on it. I would faithfully lower it and let it protect me every time I slid a piece of wood through the machine, happy when it cut easily, cursing when the awkward shield caused me to have to switch off the power or bring back the half-sawn wood. But the high whine of the blade, frankly, scared me. I could measure with my eyes and hear the destructive capabilities of the disc and even smell it when a piece of wood would linger against the blade and get burned. Then I learned to remove the guard for larger boards, then screw it back on. I screwed it back on less often, then less often still until I could not say where the thing had been put. I would push the boards through without a thought that I might lose a finger or that the blade might fly off and carve through my cranium. I began to enjoy the burning smell, the whine of the machine, the sight of the first notch the blade made in the bottom corner of the board.

  And so we made the trip to Mother’s new home in Columbia. She was so clear-headed throughout the admissions process that I was ready to take her back to the beach. But the administrator showed no pause, only asked the questions and filled out the forms. We walked to Mother’s suite, an apartment more than a room, though it lacked a kitchen. Mother touched the institutional furniture and frowned slightly.

  “Would you like me to bring some things from the house?” I asked.

  “That would be nice. You decide what.”