Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You: A Novel

by Peter Cameron

  “I don’t know.” She poured water into the coffeemaker and turned it on. “In bed, I think. Or out, maybe. I just got up, and I’m in a very bad mood, so I wish you’d leave me alone.”

  “Why are you in a bad mood?”

  She turned around and looked at me. “Why am I in a bad mood? I’m in a bad mood because people like you—in fact not like you, but you—ask me questions like ‘Why are you in a bad mood?’ after I’ve asked them to leave me alone.” She returned her attention to the coffee.

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, and then I said, “You know, you’re really turning into a very nasty person.”

  She didn’t answer, just studied the coffeemaker, as if it were a scientific experiment. When it had finished brewing, she poured coffee into two mugs. She got milk out of the refrigerator and poured some into each cup and then added a spoonful of sugar to one. She brought the mugs over to the table and put the sweetened one in front of me. I was stunned: it was totally unlike Gillian to customize coffee (or anything) for me.

  I sipped it and said, “Thank you. It’s very good.”

  She didn’t drink her coffee, she just held it in her hands as if they were cold and she needed to warm them. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m used to it.”

  “No,” she said, “you’re right—I can really be very nasty. I’m awful.”

  “You’re not awful,” I said.

  “Yes, I am. I’m awful. And I’m not going to argue with you about it.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but I don’t think you’re awful.”

  Gillian didn’t answer. She had a strange quivery look on her face, as if at any moment she might burst into tears. We drank our coffees in silence for a minute or two and then Gillian suddenly said, “I’m in a bad mood because Rainer Maria dumped me.”

  “He dumped you?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “Yes,” said Gillian. “His wife got some fantastic job running the universe at Berkeley and they’ve offered him a job, too, and so they’re moving out there and turning over a new leaf and recommitting themselves to one another and reaffirming their vows and a lot of other stuff too revolting to mention.”

  “Well, that’s not dumping you. He didn’t dump you. He may be leaving you, but he isn’t dumping you. There’s a big difference.”

  “Yes, that’s a point he tried to make, but I fail to see the difference. It’s just a question of semantics. I suppose that’s the price you pay for loving a language theoretician.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “I liked R.M. I’ll miss him.”

  “So will I,” said Gillian in an unnervingly unironic way.

  “Well, maybe it’s all for the best. I mean, he was a nice guy and everything, but he was married and a lot older than you. Maybe now you’ll find someone more appropriate.”

  “‘Someone more appropriate’: you sound like a guidance counselor, James. And you’re hardly the one to give advice—what do you know about love?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “My point exactly,” said Gillian.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “You are awful.”

  This rapidly deteriorating conversation was fortunately halted by the sound of my mother coming down the hallway. Gillian said, “Don’t say anything about this. She doesn’t know.”

  “She doesn’t know what?” my mother asked. She stood in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe, her hair disheveled from sleep. She seemed in a bit of a daze, but that’s not unusual, as my mother often begins (and ends) her day in a daze. Neither of us answered her question and she apparently forgot she had asked it. She just stood there looking at us as if we were curiosities. Then she said, “James,” and walked over and sort of patted me on the top of my head. Then she said, “Coffee,” and walked over to the counter and poured herself a cup. Then she sat down at the table with us. I waited for her to continue her naming game and say “Table,” or “Gillian,” but she just sipped her coffee and looked vague.

  I decided that given her stupor it was best to take the initiative. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She looked at me. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  “I should hope you’ll never do it again! And really, it’s John you should apologize to, not me.”

  “I did apologize to John. But I’m not talking about that. I’m sorry about disappearing.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You disappeared?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I didn’t come home last night. You didn’t even notice I was gone?”

  “Ah—no,” my mother said. “I didn’t. I had a very unpleasant evening with Barry and was consequently a bit preoccupied.”

  “Not to mention a bit inebriated,” said Gillian.

  My mother glared at her, but apparently this hurt, for she winced and massaged her forehead.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t notice I was missing,” I said.

  “Get a life, James,” said Gillian. “You’re eighteen years old. Do you still want Mommy to tuck you into bed?”

  “No,” I said. “I just thought someone might notice that I never came home.”

  “Oh, we would, eventually,” said my mother. “You just have to stay away a bit longer next time. Where were you last night?”

  “At Nanette’s.”

  “I see,” said my mother. “And how is she?”

  “She’s fine. Well, actually she seemed a bit tired. In fact she was taking a nap when I got there.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said my mother. “That woman wouldn’t nap if you held a gun to her head.”

  “Well, she was. She was sound asleep.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said my mother. “She abhors napping. She thinks it’s an indication of a weak character.”

  “Actually,” I said, “it was her father who thought that.”

  “Her father? How do you know?”

  “She told me,” I said. “She told me all about him. He sounded like a tyrant.”

  “He was,” said my mother. “Well, I suppose the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree. Like father, like daughter.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And like mother, like daughter.”

  For a moment I could tell my mother didn’t get what I meant, and then she got it. She looked at me with a sort of hurt, amazed expression. “You think I’m a tyrant?”

  “I think you have tendencies toward tyranny,” I said. “And I wish you wouldn’t say mean things about Nanette. She’s my grandmother and I love her, so I wish you’d stop saying nasty things about her all the time.”

  Her amazed/hurt expression grew. It was like she was an actress and the director said, More, more, make it bigger!

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  She reached out and clasped my hand. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry. James, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do it again. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “This is all so touching,” said Gillian. “It’s like an after-school special.”

  My mother began to glare at her again but caught herself in time. She turned toward me. “Well, James, all I can say is if I had realized you were missing last night I would have been very upset and angry. You promised your father and I—no: your father and me—that you would never do that again.”

  “I know it’s none of my business,” said Gillian. “But it’s almost noon. Shouldn’t at least one of you be at the gallery?”

  “I no longer work at the gallery,” I said.

  “You quit?”

  “No, I was fired.”

  “By who?”

  “Who do you think,” I said. “Mom.”

  Gillian looked at my mother. “You fired James? Why?”

  “I fired James for reasons that must remain confidential. But he has been reprieved.”

  “What?” I asked.

>   “You’re no longer fired,” my mother said. “John called me after you left yesterday afternoon. He had been thinking about things and felt he overreacted. He’s still quite upset and angry about what happened, as am I, but apparently he feels able to continue working with you. Consider yourself very fortunate, James.”

  “What happened?” asked Gillian. “What did James do to John?”

  “It’s none of your business, Gillian. This is between John and James and me.”

  Gillian turned to me. “What did you do to John?”

  “I sexually harassed John,” I said. “Or at least that is what’s being claimed.”

  “It’s being claimed because it’s true, James, and the sooner you understand that, the wiser you will be.”

  “What did you do to him?” Gillian asked me.

  “I’m sorry,” my mother said, “but I don’t want to be a party to this conversation. I wish you’d talk about it elsewhere, some other time.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Gillian. “You’re telling us what we can and cannot talk about in our own home?”

  “Yes,” said my mother. “That is exactly what I’m doing, but as you have never listened to me or done what I asked, I hardly expect for you to change now. Your characters are fully formed. My work here is done. I’m going to go take a shower.”

  The phone rang. Gillian answered it, and then she said, “Oh, hello, Jordan. How are you? Are you enjoying your time in the city? Oh, good. Did you? Really? That’s so funny. I saw it Tuesday night. Amazing, yes. Isn’t she incredible? Talk about chewing up the scenery—did you see her clawing at the walls? You’re kidding—two nights in a row! How did you get tickets? No, he hasn’t seen it, but I’m sure he’d love to. He’s right here. Just a second.”

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to me. “It’s Jordan,” she said.

  “Jordan?” I asked. “Jordan who?”

  “Jordan, your roommate. I told you he called yesterday. He wants to talk to you.” She held the phone toward me.

  “Your roommate?” my mother said. “At Brown?”

  “Yes,” said Gillian. “Jordan Powell. Or Howell. He’s charming. He called James yesterday and I told him James would call back last night, but I guess what with running away to Grandmother’s house he didn’t get around to it.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t call him back,” I said. “He’s not my roommate. I’m not going to Brown.”

  “Please,” said my mother, “don’t start that nonsense again.”

  “It’s not nonsense and I can’t start it again because I never stopped it.”

  “One second, Jordan. James will be right with you,” Gillian said. She walked around the table and held the phone out toward me. “James, don’t be an asshole. He’s called you twice. He’s being friendly. He wants to take you to see Long Day’s Journey into Night.”

  “Tonight?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Gillian. “He got up at five o’clock this morning to wait on the cancellation line. Talk to him.” She thrust the phone at me like a gauntlet, but I didn’t take it. My mother started to say something but stopped. They both looked at me, my mother imploringly and Gillian challengingly. And then Gillian did a strange thing. She said, “Please, James.” She spoke softly, in a voice I had never heard her use, and then laid the phone very gently on the table in front of me. She returned to her seat.

  A faint, faraway voice called out from the telephone. It said, “Hello? Hello?”

  There was an odd hovering moment of stillness in the kitchen where time seemed to warp or stutter a little, and then the little voice called out again. This time it sounded disappointed, almost plaintive, as if it were afraid of being abandoned.

  I didn’t know what to do. What could I possibly say if I answered the phone? How could I talk with both Gillian and my mother sitting there, listening? But then I realized this terrible moment would go on forever unless I did something, and the only thing I could think of doing was to pick up the phone, and the only thing I could think of saying was “Hello.”

  17

  October 2003

  THERE’S A STRANGE MEMORY I HAVE OF MY GRANDMOTHER. I’ve never shared it with anyone, not even her, because it’s kind of spooky and I’m not one hundred percent sure that it happened. It’s one of my earliest memories. I must have been about four years old, maybe even younger. I was staying at my grandmother’s house—I don’t know why, or for how long, but I was with her and it was just the two of us. It was a sunny, warm day early in the fall, and my grandmother had spent the morning replacing the screens on her porch with panes of glass. And then, of course, she cleaned all the glass so it was sparkling, so that the porch caught and refracted the sun like a crystal. Anyway, because it was such a nice sunny day we were having lunch on the porch, sitting across from each other at the table that was pushed against the windows. I don’t remember what we were eating, but I can remember sitting there, at the table—the table was painted red—and the bright square of sun coming through the glass and falling on the table, falling on me. And I remember my grandmother said to me, Why don’t you scooch over out of the sun, you won’t be so hot. And I did, I moved down the bench out of the sun, to the part of the table that was in the shade, and continued to eat my lunch. I don’t know how much time passed—it couldn’t have been long because I was still eating whatever it was I was eating—when suddenly the glass window pane I had been sitting beneath fell out of its grooves and crashed down upon the table and the bench, right where I had been sitting. And it was clear it would have crashed down on me, on my head, had I still been sitting there. I remember we made light of it—we laughed and said it was a good thing I had moved out of the sun, and my grandmother swept up the shattered glass, and we finished our lunch. It wasn’t until later, years later, when I remembered this incident, that it occurred to me that something strange had happened. Something miraculous. I don’t know if the falling glass would have killed me—probably not—but I realized, in retrospect, that my grandmother had saved me, if not from death, then from terrible injury.

  I’d always wanted to ask my grandmother about this memory. Does she remember it? Did it happen? Did it freak her out, or did she, like the child me, assume that love could naturally result in clairvoyance? But I’d never spoken to her about that memory. I think I was afraid that if I talked about it, if I let the memory be articulated, it might vanish, or decompose, the way some fragile and precious ancient things turn to dust if they are unearthed.

  I did go to Brown, and maybe it was leaving home, moving away, that made me resolve to finally ask my grandmother these questions. But she died on October 13, 2003, about six weeks after I left for school. It turned out that she had been having a series of small strokes—the first one probably occurred on the day I visited her, and found her uncharacteristically napping—but she didn’t tell anyone, and she finally had a massive stroke. The mailman found her lying on the slate floor in the front hall. Apparently she had fallen down the stairs. So I will never know if this memory is real. But I think it must be, because I can remember it, and I don’t think you remember things that didn’t happen.

  Because my grandmother didn’t believe in funerals or burials or anything like that, there was nothing for me to come home for. I wanted to come home anyway, but my parents told me not to, that she would have wanted me to stay at school, for everything to go on as it had been. I think they really thought if I came home from Brown I might never go back, because I was miserable that first semester.

  Her house is for sale, and sometimes when I’m online I go to realtor.com. I don’t search for houses in the Midwest anymore. I look at my grandmother’s house: 16 Wyncote Lane, Hartsdale: Charming Antique Tudor, All Original Features, Needs Modernization and TLC. I take the virtual tour. It’s like you’re standing in the center of each room and turning slowly around, and you can turn around and around as many times as you like, the room continually spinning around you. The floors and the walls are like p
hotographic negatives: squares of unfaded wallpaper where paintings once hung, the hardwood floors still burnished and brown where they were covered by rugs. The rooms are all empty, everything is gone: all that’s left of her are these ghostly remnants.

  She did leave everything in her house to me. My parents wanted me to sell it all to an “estate liquidator,” someone who comes in and buys everything, and then liquidates it. That’s the word they use: liquidate. But I refused. With some of the money my grandmother left me, I’m paying to have everything stored in a climate-controlled warehouse in Long Island City. I had them take everything, even the National Geographic magazines, the Castle at Heidelberg ceramic dish, the phonograph and all her records, including The Fountains of Rome. My parents thought I was crazy. Be reasonable, they said: Why pay good money to keep back issues of magazines in storage? Keep the things you may want, the things you could use, but sell the rest. Get rid of the junk. Liquidate it.

  But it seems reasonable to me. I’m only eighteen. How do I know what I will want in my life? How do I know what things I will need?

  ALSO BY PETER CAMERON

  One Way or Another

  Leap Year

  Far-flung

  The Weekend

  Andorra

  The Half You Don’t Know

  The City of Your Final Destination

  Copyright © 2007 by Peter Cameron

  All rights reserved

  A portion of this novel originally appeared on nerve.com

  The author wishes to express his gratitude to Anoukh Foerg, Frances Foster, Michael Martin, Irene Skolnick, the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, the MacDowell Colony, and the Corporation of Yaddo.

  www.fsgkidsbooks.com

  Designed by Jay Colvin

  eISBN 9781429927130

  First eBook Edition : March 2011

  First edition, 2007

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data