He had told no one his arrival time, and there was no one to meet him. He walked up the concrete stairs alone, relieved to have a few more minutes of silence, invisibility.
Katonah taxis were haphazard operations, cars driven by private operators who had other lives. In the evening, around commuter time, there were always some cabs around, waiting. At midday during the week, often there were none. That day there were several in the parking lot, hoping for a late fare on Christmas Eve. Conrad climbed into a big old American sedan with a loose, coughing engine. The door shut with a solid clunk.
The driver was a heavyset woman in her forties, with a brown, impassive face and long black glossy hair. She looked at him in the mirror. The radio was on low, someone singing.
“North Salem Road,” he told her.
“North Sale Road?” she repeated. Her accent was very thick.
“Just drive east on thirty-five,” he said. “I’ll show you where to turn off.”
She nodded and put the car in reverse. The engine made a gargling sound, like a big motorboat idling. They headed out of the little lot, then out of the village. Conrad thought the woman looked familiar: had she driven him home before? He wondered if she was married to one of the landscape guys who roared around the lawns during the summer. She looked older than they were, though. He wondered how long she’d been in the States. They were mostly illegal, the Latin Americans here. The men lined up by the railroad station in the mornings, waiting for a contractor to come by with a pickup truck and give them a day’s work. They did all the landscaping. They built stone walls, put in pools, dug gardens, clipped hedges, mowed lawns. All over Westchester, dark faces in every yard. His mother talked about it, distressed by the way they were treated.
The taxi came up the little rise on 22 and stopped at the light at 35. The traffic was heavy, everyone hurrying to get home for Christmas Eve. The road was clear, but there was a thin dusting of snow on the ground. The woods crowded along the road, tall and dim, rising up into the shadowy sky. It was nearly dark.
They lived right on the edge, those lawn guys. It was like being in a revolution, coming here illegally. No language, no green cards, always at risk, in fear but determined to work. People claimed they were taking jobs from Americans, but that was bullshit. Americans wouldn’t take those jobs. Those jobs were too menial for people living the American dream, which they did by playing video games and drinking beer. Americans hired these guys to mow their lawns and then complained about illegal aliens. He thought of Ali and the grimy men lined up in the clearing room.
The light changed, and they turned onto 35. Conrad leaned forward. The road narrowed here, rising up the hill and curving along the reservoir. The radio was set to an oldies station: Dusty Springfield was singing, a soulful catch in her voice.
“Just up here,” Conrad said. “Turn left on Mount Holly.”
The woman slowed, waiting for a pause in the traffic. Mount Holly Road was dirt, and once they turned onto it, they were in the country. They bumped slowly along on the narrow lane. The trees met overhead; even in the darkness Conrad could feel them.
“And left onto North Salem, up here,” Conrad told her as they approached the T. It was confusing back here. Mount Holly made a little jog, joining North Salem for a hundred yards, then separating again. Local knowledge. The driver had local knowledge of her own. She knew a village in the south, red dirt and shiny dark leaves, stucco houses with small windows. She would know everything about that village, wherever it was. Here she was on her own. Now it was Dionne Warwick. “Do you know the way to San Jose?” Did she think she could learn a whole American life as though it were hers? Was this her mission? To learn the back roads of Katonah and the musical past of this place, as if she and her parents had grown up here? Or was she putting money away so she could go home?
“This is the house, on the right,” Conrad said as they approached. The house stood on the hillside above the road. It looked festive, all the windows lit and the big sugar maples rising, dark against the ghostly lawn. The cab turned into the driveway and drove up the hill, stopping by the back of the house. Conrad took out his wallet and leaned forward.
“Seven dollar,” the woman said without turning around.
“Gracias,” Conrad said. He handed her the fare and a five-dollar tip. “Feliz Navidad.”
The woman looked at him in the mirror, unsmiling. Her black eyes were large and luminous. The overhead light shone down on her face, picking out a pale scar on her right cheek, stretching all the way into the hairline.
“Thank you,” she said, refusing him entry into her language. “Merry Christmas.”
“Okay,” Conrad said, abashed. “Okay. Yeah. You, too.”
He took his bags and got out. It seemed he’d insulted her, implying that she couldn’t speak the language of the country she’d chosen. He’d meant to be polite, but he’d been a dick.
He leaned back inside. “Merry Christmas to you, too, señora,” he said, “and Happy New Year.”
She glanced at him, suspicious. He smiled, lifting his hand in a wave. She gave him an ambiguous look that turned into a smile. She lifted her hand, and the car moved off down the drive into the darkness.
She was a hero. She had somehow crossed the border concealed in the back of a truck, silent and sweating with fear, or walking, delirious, through the lethal heart of the desert. She’d made her way from that Latin American village or city, wherever it was, to northern Westchester, where she had managed to get a 1962 Chevy and a license to drive people around Katonah. She should have a fucking medal. She should be allowed to decide what language she was addressed in. He thought again of Ali, who was maybe driving a taxi somewhere in a country where they spoke a language foreign to him—and maybe not.
Conrad pushed through the gate. Through the mudroom door he could see the kitchen, all lit up. Lydia was standing at the island, talking to someone out of sight. He dreaded the change that would come over her face; he dreaded being seen.
24
Conrad came in through the back door, marshaling his seabag and his bulky bags of presents. Lydia turned, and her face lightened.
“You’re here!” she said.
“Hi, Mom.” His chest had gone tight. He smiled at her.
The kitchen was steamy and crowded, full of bags and food and packages. Pots rattled on the stove, something sizzled in a pan, something was roasting in the oven. Murphy lay on a pile of magazines on the island. From the library he heard voices and the TV blaring. The whole house was full.
Lydia put her arms around him and he held himself still.
“Con’s here!” she called.
Conrad drew back. Before anyone could come in, he said, “Be right back down. Just taking my things up.” He went up the back stairs two at a time.
In his room, he shut the door and set his things down. The room closed in around him. He could hear talking downstairs; someone laughed. After dinner they would sing carols. He didn’t know if he could go back down. He put his hands on his hips and closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered.
He put on his headphones and found Johnny Cash on his iPod. He lay down on his bed and fell into the sound. The deep, scraping voice and boom-chicka-boom. “Folsom Prison Blues”: the basics. You couldn’t get better than that. He turned the volume up and closed his eyes and sang along in a whisper, tapping his foot in the air.
When Jenny knocked, he didn’t hear her. She opened the door and came into the room and waved at him.
“Con?” She was dressed up for dinner in a green silky top and black pants.
Conrad took off his headphones. He could still hear the beat, tiny but driving. “Hi.”
“Dinner’s ready.” Her voice was tentative. “Are you coming down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
There was a silence, then they both spoke at once.
“Don’t you want to?” she asked.
“Joke.” He sat up. “I’m coming.”
Jenny moved
farther into the room. Her eyes were brilliant.
“Are you mad that I asked you to leave my apartment?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s cool. You were right.”
“You can come back,” she said.
Conrad sat up. “No. I was a dick. And I’ve got Go-Go’s place.”
“Then what is it?” Jenny asked. “What’s the matter? You act so angry at us. Like we’re doing something to you.” She came closer to the bed. “What is it? Why doesn’t it get any better?”
He didn’t want her to touch him. He could feel the air thickening around his chest. Far away, Johnny Cash was growling. “I’m not angry at you. I know you’re all trying to make things better,” he said. “I just don’t want to be here.”
* * *
When Lydia and Marshall went upstairs to change for dinner, Marshall sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. Lydia closed the door and moved to the bureau. She stood still and put her hands over her face. Marshall was turned away from her. He put his shoes side by side beneath the chair.
“Did I lay the fire in the living room?” he said. “I thought of it, but I can’t remember if I actually did. I hope so. I don’t want to do it in these clothes.”
Lydia said nothing. He turned to look at her. Her hands were pressed tight against her face, her shoulders high and clenched.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“What?” He stood and went over to her.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” She dropped her hands. Her face looked drawn and grieving.
Marshall put his arms around her. “Lyd.”
“I know what I’m supposed to do,” she said. “I do it all the time as a therapist, but I can’t do it with Con. I can’t do it.”
“What do you mean?” He led her to the bed and sat down beside her.
“I’m not supposed to reach out to him all the time, he doesn’t like it, I can see that. If he were a client, I’d tell myself to stop.” She put her hands out, palms down. “Just stop. Wait for him to come to me. Be loving but don’t pursue him. Don’t pursue him.” She started to cry. “It’s the first rule, the most basic thing. I can’t do it.” She shook her head. “I’m too afraid. I can’t leave him alone. Every time I see him, I want to put my arms around him and comfort him. I know he hates being touched. He freezes. I can’t stop myself. Each time, it seems so natural I do it again; I can’t believe it won’t work. But it makes it worse.” She shook her head. “What kind of a therapist! What kind of a mother! I can’t stop.”
Marshall put his arms close around her. “Lyd, you’re doing the best you can,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“Who should I blame?” she asked. “Who’s the mental health professional here?” She shook her head again. “I can’t help it. I go into a panic. I’m so afraid.” She pressed her face against Marshall’s shoulder. “It’s worse than when he was in Iraq. Then I knew that sometimes he was in danger and sometimes he was safe. Now I think he’s in danger all the time, every second. And I can’t do anything. I make it worse.”
“Shh,” Marshall said. “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” He held her.
“Marsh,” she said against his chest. “Aren’t you frightened?”
“Shh,” he said.
Lydia reared her head back and looked at him. “You’re not saying. Aren’t you afraid?”
After a moment he answered. “Yes. But it will get better.”
* * *
When Conrad came in, the others were already sitting at the table. The dining room was rectangular, with a bay window at one end and two tall windows giving onto the lawn. Heavy linen curtains with a dim red pattern hung at them. A carved wooden mirror hung over an old pine chest. In the bay window stood a huge fern, foaming over the table like a green waterfall. The table was polished fruitwood, set with heavy silver, crystal candlesticks, silver salt and pepper shakers. A long red woven strip of cloth stretched down the center of the table, and on it was a platter heaped with gold and silver Christmas balls.
The others were dressed up: Marshall, in a tweed jacket and tie, sat at the head of the table. Lydia, at the other end, wore a ruffled red sweater and a necklace of tiny Christmas-tree balls. Jenny’s earrings were red-nosed reindeers. Ollie wore a jacket, and his hair was brushed. Conrad wore the khakis and V-necked sweater he’d worn all day, and his not-clean T-shirt.
Lydia patted the chair next to her. When Conrad sat down, she put her hand on his arm.
“I served you a plate,” she said. “Roast pork, your favorite. We’re glad to have you here.”
“Thanks, Mom. Glad to be here.” Her hand on his arm felt hot.
Marshall lifted his wineglass. “Welcome home,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Good,” Ollie said, looking around and nodding.
It was a non sequitur, typical Oll, wanting things to work out.
Everyone raised glasses, smiling. The whole table was smiling—the gleaming ornaments, the polished silver, the flickering candles. Conrad raised his glass and took a long swallow, closing his eyes. He was going to make the effort. One foot after the other; it would get better.
“Biscuits, Marsh,” Lydia said. “Can you pass them on?”
Marshall handed the basket to Ollie. Then he leaned forward, elbows out awkwardly on the table. “So, guys, I want to know what’s been going on for everyone. Schools, jobs, friends? What’s up?” He liked conducting the conversation as if it were a seminar.
There was a silence; then Ollie volunteered, the good son.
“Well,” he said, “I’m thinking of majoring in film studies.”
“Okay,” Marshall said. “And what is that exactly, film studies?”
“Film as a cultural presence. It’s like literature,” Ollie said. “You know, studying films, like studying books.”
Marshall looked at him. “Does that mean you’ll be watching a lot of movies for homework?”
“Well, yeah,” Ollie said. “And writing papers about them. The way I’d be reading books and writing papers about them. It’s the same.”
“Interesting, Oll,” Lydia said encouragingly. “Which filmmakers would you focus on?”
Conrad could manage this, just sitting and listening, watching the family tide ebb and flow. His father leaning on Ollie, his mother defending him. Next time they’d reverse positions. It was like a seesaw, one parent always defending a child from the other.
“David Lynch,” Ollie said. “He’s a genius.”
“Oh, yuck,” Jenny said. “A total misogynist.”
Ollie shook his head. “Don’t be so narrow-minded. He’s exploring the American love affair with violence.”
“Violence against women,” Jenny said. “And he’s not exploring it, he’s exploiting it. He’s relishing it. He’s encouraging it. If you focus on him, you’re just part of it.”
“So what would you do, Jen?” Marshall asked. “Not include David Lynch in a film course?”
“I’d teach his movies the way people include Hitler in a history class,” Jenny said. “He’s there, he’s part of the story, you don’t pretend he doesn’t exist, but you don’t offer him as an object of admiration.”
“Whoa,” Ollie said. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He looked at Jenny. “David Lynch is Hitler?”
“It’s the way you present him,” Jenny said, ignoring that. “You present him as what he really is. You don’t dress up his sadistic tendencies and pretend that just because he uses nonlinear stories and bad lighting that he’s a genius. He’s a pretentious sicko.”
“So, Jen,” said Lydia. “How do you really feel about David Lynch? Be candid.”
Jenny shook her head.
“Okay, that’s your view,” Ollie said. “Fine, but there are other ways of looking at his films.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and took a bite of the pork.
“Spoken like a real academic, Oll,” Conrad said, impressed. The Ollie of four years ago wou
ld have lost his temper, yelled at Jenny, and left the table.
“Just saying,” Jenny said to Ollie, “if I were in your class, I’d be presenting my point of view. I hope you have some strong women there.”
“No one quite as strong as you,” Ollie said. He grinned at her and Jenny laughed.
“Few woman are that,” Marshall said.
“Okay,” Jenny said. “You want to know my strong woman news? My boss hates me.”
Lydia frowned. “He does not hate you. You’re overreacting.”
“He does. He’s rude to me. All the time.”
“I can’t believe that,” Lydia said. “You’re doing so well! What about that new account?”
“That was before,” Jenny said. “This guy is new. He hates me.”
“What does he do?” Marshall asked.
“He’s rude to me in public,” Jenny said. “In a kind of offhand way. He interrupts me in meetings. He stands up if I’m talking.” Jenny took a swallow of wine, not looking at them, as if that proved her point.
“I thought we talked about that,” Conrad said. “I told you what to do.”
Jenny exploded, snorting a fine cascade of wine out her nose. “It’s true,” she said, wiping her mouth. “You did tell me exactly what to do.”
“And what was that?” Marshall asked. He looked from one to the other.
There was a pause, and Jenny said, “Conrad told me to show him my balls.”
Ollie choked and nearly fell off his chair.
Maybe he could do this.
After dinner they went into the living room to sing carols. The living room was handsome and formal, peach-colored walls and polished furniture. Heavy butter-colored curtains stood in soft folds at the windows; an old Oriental rug in deep reds and yellows lay on the wide-board floor. A mahogany bookcase stood against the inside wall, and over the mantelpiece hung an Audubon print of a red fox sitting on its haunches, nose raised to the sky. The sofa and chairs were covered in yellow chintz. In the bay window stood the Christmas tree, its glittering bulk garlanded with silver, glowing with tiny lights. It was hung with shining balls, carved figures, and clumsy lopsided things they’d made as children: Jenny’s gold paper star, Ollie’s splayfooted clay Rudolph, a weird abstract rooster cut out of sheet metal by Conrad. The tree was hung with the same things each year, and each year Lydia said it was the most beautiful one they’d ever had. Beneath the tree lay the bright jumbled heap of presents. Marshall leaned over and lit the fire. It flickered behind the polished brass andirons. Conrad’s chest tightened.
Sparta Page 38
