by Lydia Davis
There was the terror I felt one night as I was going to sleep—the sudden question that woke me up. Where was she going now? I sensed very strongly that she was going somewhere or had gone somewhere, not that she had simply stopped existing. That she, like him, had stayed nearby for a while, and then she was going—down, maybe, but also out somewhere, as though out to sea.
First, while she was still alive, but dying, I kept wondering what was happening to her. I did not hear much about it. One thing they said was that when her reflexes were worse, according to the doctors, she would move towards the pinch or the prick instead of away from it. I thought that meant that her body wanted the pain, that she wanted to feel something. I thought it meant she wanted to stay alive.
There was also that slow, dark dream I had about five days after her death. I may have had the dream just as her funeral was taking place, or just after. In the dream, I was making my way down from one level to the next in a kind of arena, the levels were wider and deeper than steps, down into a large, deep, high-ceilinged, ornately furnished and decorated room, or hall—I had an impression of dark furniture, sumptuous ornamentation, it was a hall intended for ceremony, not for any daily use. I was holding a small lantern that fit tightly over my thumb and extended outward, with a tiny flame burning in it. This was the only illumination in the vast place, a flame that wavered and flickered and had already gone out or nearly gone out once or twice. I was afraid that as I went down, as I climbed down with such difficulty, over levels that were too wide and deep to be easily straddled, the light would go out and I would be left in that deep well of darkness, that dark hall. The door I had come in by was far above me, and if I called out, no one would hear me. Without a light, I would not be able to climb back up those difficult levels.
I later realized that, given the day and the hour when I woke up from the dream, it was quite possible that I dreamt it just at the time she was being cremated. The cremation was to begin right after the funeral, my brother told me, and he told me when the funeral had ended. I thought the flickering light was her life, as she held on to it those last few days. The difficult levels descending into the hall must have been the stages of her decline, day by day. The vast and ornate hall might have been death itself, in all its ceremony, as it lay ahead, or below.
The odd problem we had afterwards was whether or not to tell our father. Our father was vague in his mind, by then, and puzzled by many things. We would wheel him up and down the hallway of his nursing home. He liked to greet the other residents with a smile and a nod. We would stop in front of the door to his room. In June, the last year he was alive, he looked at the Happy Birthday sign on the door and waved at it with his long, pale, freckled hand and asked me a question about it. He couldn’t articulate his words very well anymore. Unless you had heard him all your life, you wouldn’t know what he was saying. He was marveling over the sign, and smiling. He was probably wondering how they knew when his birthday was.
He still recognized us, but there was a lot he didn’t understand. He was not going to live much longer, though we didn’t know then how little time was left. It seemed to us important for him to know that she had died—his daughter, though she was really his stepdaughter. And yet, would he understand, if we told him? And wouldn’t it only distress him terribly, if he did understand? Or maybe he would have both reactions at once—he might understand some part of what we were saying, and then feel terrible distress at both what we had told him and his inability to understand it completely. Should his last days be filled with this distress and grief?
But the alternative seemed wrong, too—that he should end his life not knowing this important thing, that his daughter had died. Wrong that he, who had once been the head of our small family, the one who, with our mother, made the most important family decisions, the one who drove the car when we went out on a little excursion, who helped our sister with her homework when she was a teenager, who walked her to school every morning when she was in her first year of school, while our mother rested or worked, who refused or gave permission, who played jokes at the dinner table that made her and her little friends laugh, who was busy out in the backyard for a few weeks building a playhouse—that he should not be shown the respect of being told that such an important thing had happened in his own family.
He had so little time left, and we were the ones deciding something about the end of his life—that he would die knowing or not knowing. And now I’m not sure what we did, it was so many years ago. Which probably means that nothing very dramatic happened. Maybe we did tell him, out of a sense of duty, but hastily, and nervously, not wanting him to understand, and maybe there was a look of incomprehension on his face, because something was going by too quickly. But I don’t know if I’m remembering that or making it up.
* * *
On one of her visits to me, she gave me a red sweater, a red skirt, and a round clay tile for baking bread. She took a picture of me wearing the red sweater and the skirt. I think the last thing she gave me was those little white seals with perforated backs. They’re filled with charcoal, which is supposed to absorb odors. You put them in your refrigerator. I guess she thought that because I live alone, my refrigerator would be neglected and smell bad, or maybe she just thought that anyone might need this.
When did she leave the tartar sauce? You wouldn’t think a person could become attached to something like a jar of tartar sauce. But I guess you can—I didn’t want to throw it out, because she had left it. Throwing it out would mean that the days had passed, time had moved on and left her behind. Just as it was hard for me to see the new month begin, the month of July, because she would never experience that new month. Then the month of August came, and he was gone by then, too.
Well, the little seals are useful to me, at least they were seven years ago. I did put them in my refrigerator, though at the back of a shelf, where I wouldn’t have to look at their cheerful little faces and black eyes every time I opened the door. I even took them with me when I moved.
I doubt if they absorb anything anymore, after all this time. But they don’t take up much room, and there isn’t much in there anyway. I like having them, because they remind me of her. If I bend down and move things around, I can see them lying back there under the light that shines through some dried spilled things on the shelf above. There are two of them. They have black smiles painted on their faces. Or at least a line painted on their faces that looks like a smile.
Really, the only present I ever wanted, after I grew up, was something for work, like a reference book. Or something old.
Now there’s a lot of noise coming from the café car—people laughing. They sell alcohol there. I’ve never bought a drink on a train—I like to drink, but not here. Our brother used to have a drink on the train sometimes, on his way home from seeing our mother. He told me that once. This year he’s in Acapulco—he likes Mexico.
We have a couple of hours to go, still. It’s dark out. I’m glad it was light when we passed the farms. Maybe there’s a big family in the café car, or a group traveling to a conference. I see that all the time. Or to a sporting event. Well, that doesn’t actually make much sense, not today. Now someone’s coming this way, staring at me. She’s smiling a little—but she looks embarrassed. Now what? She’s lurching. Oh, a party. It’s a party—in the café car, she tells me. Everyone’s invited.
Learning Medieval History
Are the Saracens the Ottomans?
No, the Saracens are the Moors.
The Ottomans are the Turks.
My School Friend
story from Flaubert
Last Sunday I went to the Botanical Gardens. There, in the Trianon Park, is where that strange Englishman Calvert used to live. He grew roses and shipped them to England. He had a collection of rare dahlias. He also had a daughter who used to fool around with an old schoolmate of mine named Barbelet. Because of her, Barbelet killed himself. He was seventeen. He shot himself with a pistol. I walked across a sandy stretc
h of ground in the high wind, and I saw Calvert’s house, where the daughter used to live. Where is she now? They’ve put up a greenhouse near it, with palm trees, and a lecture hall where gardeners can learn about budding, grafting, pruning, and training—everything they need to know to maintain a fruit tree! Who thinks about Barbelet anymore—so in love with that English girl? Who remembers my passionate friend?
The Piano Lesson
I am with my friend Christine. I have not seen her for a long time, perhaps seventeen years. We talk about music and we agree that when we meet again she will give me a piano lesson. In preparation for the lesson, she says, I must select, and then study, one Baroque piece, one Classical, one Romantic, and one Modern. I am impressed by her seriousness and by the difficulty of the assignment. I am ready to do it. We will have the lesson in one year, she says. She will come to my house. But then, later, she tells me she’s not sure she will be returning to this country. Maybe, instead, we will have the lesson in Italy. Or if not Italy, then, of course, Casablanca.
dream
The Schoolchildren in the Large Building
I live in a very large building, the size of a warehouse or an opera house. I am there alone. Now some schoolchildren arrive. I see their quick little legs coming through the front door and I ask, in some fear, “Who is it, who is it?” They don’t answer. The class is very large—all boys, with two teachers. They pour into the painting studio at the back of the building. The ceiling of this studio is two or even three stories high. On one wall is a mural of dark-complexioned faces. The schoolboys crowd in front of the painting, fascinated, pointing and talking. On the opposite wall is another mural, of green and blue flowers. Only a handful of boys are looking at this one.
The class would like to spend the night here because they do not have funds for a hotel. Wouldn’t their hometown raise the money for this field trip? I ask one of the teachers. No, he says sadly, with a smile, they wouldn’t because of the fact that he, the teacher, is homosexual. After saying this, he turns and gently puts his arms around the other teacher.
Later, I am in the same building with the schoolchildren, but it is no longer my home, or I am not familiar with it. I ask a boy where the bathrooms are, and he shows me one—it’s a nice bathroom, with old fixtures and paneled in wood. As I sit on the toilet, the room rises—because it is also an elevator. I wonder briefly, as I flush, how the plumbing works in that case, and then assume it has been figured out.
dream
The Sentence and the Young Man
A sentence lies exposed to public view, in an open trash can. It is the ungrammatical sentence “Who sing!?!” We are watching it from where we stand concealed in a shadowed archway. We see a young man walk past the trash can several times, eyeing the sentence curiously. We will stay where we are, for fear that, at any moment, he will reach in quickly and fix it.
dream
Molly, Female Cat: History/Findings
Description: spayed female, calico
History:
Found in early spring at roadside curled up against snowbank
Age at time of adoption: approx. 3 yrs
Likely abandoned by previous owners
Confined to bathroom during first week
Would not eat for one week in new home, but played actively in confined space
Skin/coat: Inflamed/irritated around neck
Parasites: flea dirt found
Allowed to run free outdoors after adoption
Keeps owners company in vegetable garden
Nose/Throat: no visible lesions
Eating well, dry food
Hunts small birds, but was not able to retain grip on large blue jay
Broken tooth: upper right canine
Dental disease grade: 2–3 out of 5
Two other cats in house and they all run around in large house
Will not play with other cats
Eyes: no visible lesions
Lungs: within normal limits
Will not play with owners in presence of other cats, but will play with owners in bathroom
Lymph nodes: normal
Heart: within normal limits
Affectionate with owners, purrs and closes eyes when petted
Hangs limp in owners’ arms when picked up
Urogenital system: within normal limits
Urinates inappropriately at home on floor in 2–3 places per day
Getting worse over time, larger puddles of urine
Ears: no visible lesions
Moderate fascial skin restriction over lumbar back, significant over sacrum
Cries when petted just above tail
Sometimes cries before or after urinating
Sometimes cries after nap
Abdomen: no palpable lesions
Nervous system: within normal limits
Weight: 8.75 lbs
Ideal weight: 8.75 lbs
Does not use litter box—defecates on floor in vicinity of litter box
May have fleas
Pain score: 3 out of 10 (over sacrum)
Tolerates exam by vet, nervous but no overt hostility
Pulse: 180
Overall body condition score: 3 out of 5
* * *
Update:
Was urinating in larger quantities on floor when indoors
Chose to go outdoors every day despite adverse weather conditions
Could not be found at midday on very hot spring day
Was found in late afternoon under pine tree, panting and covered with flies
Was brought indoors and laid in cool shower stall
Stopped panting, resumed normal respiration
Died within several hours
Age at time of death: approx. 11 yrs
The Letter to the Foundation
Dear Frank and Members of the Foundation,
I was not able to finish this letter before now even though I began writing to you in my head immediately after your momentous phone call of September 29 all those many years ago. I was aware, in the first few days, of certain instructions you had given me—that I could tell the news to only two people, that I should be friendly to a college reporter, if one should approach me, that I should call you Frank. I did not think of sitting down and writing to you, because you had not specifically instructed me to do that.
I think you did say you were curious about what it was like to receive this grant, but by now I may be confusing something you said with something another person said to me, asking if I would describe for him what it was like. In any case, whether or not you asked me to describe it, I will do that.
I told you right away, Frank, that I wanted to write you a letter of thanks. You told me I really didn’t have to. I said I wanted to, though. You laughed and said, Yes, you are a scholar and a teacher of literature, so you probably have a lot to say.
The trouble is, I am an honest and truthful person and I’m not sure how truthful I can be in writing to the Foundation. I don’t want to tell you things you don’t want to hear, after all. For instance, I don’t think you want to hear that I didn’t intend to work all the time during the period of the grant.
What happened first was that I did not believe I had been given this grant. For a surprisingly long time, I didn’t believe it. I was so used to not receiving this grant. I knew about it. Our department at the college calls it the two-year grant. Other scholars I knew had gotten it. I had wanted it for many years. I had watched others receive it while I did not receive it: I was simply one of the hundreds and hundreds of scholars who ardently want one of these grants in order to be rescued at least temporarily from the life or the work they are subjected to—the heavy course load, the constant exhaustion, the annoying dean of studies or the impossibly detail-oriented acting chairwoman, the committee work, the endless office hours, the flickering fluorescent light in the office, the stains on the classroom carpeting, etc. I was deeply accustomed to being one of those who were passed over by the Foundation, who were rejected, who,
in the eyes of the Foundation, should not receive this award and were less worthy than certain others. I therefore did not really believe I was one of those who had been rescued, or I was very slow to begin believing it, with the help of reminders that also seemed unreal after a while: “Good for you!” one of my colleagues would say. “What are your plans now?”
I was like an amnesiac who accepts what she is told about her life but does not remember any of it herself. Since she can’t remember any of it, she can’t deeply believe it, but she must accept it and become accustomed to it because so many people tell her the same facts over and over.
I will try to reconstruct the experience for you, since you asked.
* * *
It was just after nine in the morning when the Foundation telephoned.
I was getting ready to go into the city. I stopped what I was doing and talked to you. For a moment, I thought you might be calling for another reason. But at the same time, I was thinking that you wouldn’t telephone me at nine in the morning for anything else—you would have written me a letter. The first person I talked to was a shy, gentle woman with a quiet voice. She gave me the good news and then told me that I should call another person from the Foundation right away, a man who might or might not be in his office.
Meanwhile, even as I was talking to her and hearing the good news, I was worried that I would miss my bus. I could not miss the bus because I had an appointment down in the city to the south of where I lived. I called the other person, the man, and he was in his office, which was a relief. I think this man was probably you, although by now, all these years later, I’m not sure. He began to tease me. He tried to make me think I had misunderstood what the gentle woman had said, and that I was not really going to be getting any grant. He must have known that I would be aware that he was teasing me, and he must have known, too, that I would be surprised that he was teasing me, and even worried about it, though I didn’t know exactly in what way I should be worried. I wondered later if I was the only one you teased when talking about the good news, but since I can’t believe that, I have to believe you make a habit of teasing the people you call—if it was you, of course.
