Hey Harry, Hey Matilda

by Rachel Hulin

  Everyone has both masculine and feminine in them, perhaps. however, it was interesting that today on one side of the easel there were straight lines and on the other side—round.

  I was about to read the next entry when I felt hands on my shoulders and Vera whispered, right in my ear (she’s kind of a close talker, Harry):

  “I love that entry. The part you’re reading is about gender and intimacy.”

  Then she slipped around the table to the stool across from me and shimmied in as close to the table as she could get and whispered to me: “Forgive me, but I have to ask.

  “Did you experience any intimacy in childhood, Matilda? With Harry?”

  “Like, closeness?”

  “You know what I mean, Matilda. I can’t ask Harry because he’s afraid of his shadow, but I can ask you. Obviously it’s not entirely my business, but I am quite curious. You know, from a sociological perspective. Or are you afraid, too?”

  “I’m not afraid, Vera.”

  “Are you ashamed?”

  “You know what, Vera? I barely know you. And what Harry and I have goes deeper than you could possibly imagine.”

  “I knew it!” Vera and the volleyball bounced in her seat. “Well, I think that’s hot as hell. You know, I do like to imagine it.”

  And she reached over and took a swig of my drink.

  “Be careful of my nephew’s brain!” I said.

  “No biggie,” she said. “Third trimester!”

  .

  Hey Matilda,

  Shit. Things are worse than I thought. And I’m not afraid of my shadow.

  .

  Hey Harry,

  I know you’re not, Harry. Vera is kind of a piece of work, right? I had no idea what you were up against.

  (You should watch her on those martinis—it would be a bummer to have a love child with far-apart eyes.)

  .

  Hey Matilda,

  Well, this should come as no surprise to you, after your lunch, and perhaps it shouldn’t to me, but I think I’m in a little over my head here.

  With tenure still an open question, and Vera in another city almost all the time (she’s now actually discouraging me from seeing her in person. She thinks it’s more cinematic and romantic, or something). We’ve barely even touched in months. I just feel adrift, and disconnected from anything meaningful.

  I actually am at Mom’s right now, because I just had to get out of my house. There’s no city construct like yours to distract me here. No yellow bodega sign, no pubic hair in the window opposite. No Mom, even. I was going to try to get her to whip up some arugula or stray beets or something for me.

  There are piles of mail here. Have you heard from her lately? Dad said he sent her something but never heard back.

  The weaker all of this makes me feel, the bolder Vera seems to be becoming. Remember how Mom said Dad just became stagnant once he hit forty?

  Am I like Dad?

  I think in your own way you examine these things about yourself much more thoroughly than I do.

  I found this Chinese finger puzzle in my old desk. What was it with everything being dubbed Chinese in the ’80s? Chinese checkers, Chinese jump rope…

  I remember playing this game with you. You’d always pull as hard as you could, even though you knew it wasn’t the way to win. You just couldn’t help yourself. I waited, and was calm, and always won.

  I wish I could be more like you right about now.

  You know what, Matilda? I think I’ve got to make a move before it’s too late. I hope it’s not the wrong thing to do.

  .

  Harry,

  Quite right. Make a move! I always say action is better than inaction, 100% agree.

  I want to help you, but I have to break into your broadcast for a moment, however, for a live one of my own. I’ve just arrived back at my apartment—while trying to get into my goddamned place (I have three locks; what is it doing to me, living with perceived danger like this?), I dropped my keys into the crack of the foyer trestle, which is oddly deep because the super here is just a sketch of incompetence, but, anyway, nestled in there was an envelope, which I wrestled out with a tweezer, and guess what! It’s my genetic results. I’d very nearly forgotten about them, amidst all this baby mama drama. Who knows how long they were hiding down there.

  I’m going to open these for you in real time, Harry, like on TV at the awards ceremonies.

  OK, here we go…looks like:

  All clear for Alzheimer’s and Huntington’s! Thank fucking god. I’m never going to die! (Or at least I won’t forget that I lived to begin with. And then die.)

  And no heightened risks for boob cancer.

  That’s a relief. I feel amazing.

  OK, Harry. Here’s the genetic bit, which I guess we know.

  FATHER: 34% Irish, 30% French, 18% English, 15% German, 2% Native American

  MOTHER: 38% Irish, 25% French, 14% Italian

  Wait. What the fuck? WHO THE FUCK IS MY MOTHER????

  Part Six: September

  Harry,

  Isn’t it funny, how things happen in the end? Like, when you have a big life moment and you’re like “Huh, so this is how sex feels.” Or “Huh, so this is thirty.” Or “Huh, so this is dying.” I bet dying people always think that. They’re probably underwhelmed, like most things. That’s how I felt on my drive out here; it wasn’t even dramatic, just inevitable.

  .

  Matilda,

  Where are you? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you! Why don’t you call the genetics company? There must have been a mix-up in the lab. Don’t panic.

  I’m actually in the city. I came to see Vera, but she’s being elusive. I thought you could help me—I’m remarkably inept at navigating myself around here.

  .

  Oh hey Harry,

  I’m lying under Mom’s coffee table reading your poems from high school. I’ve left New York for good. It’s over. Too many signs at this point to ignore, and now I’m not even who I thought I was—fuck Alzheimer’s, I don’t even have a mother. I’m not even a FUCKING TWIN anymore.

  I was hoping you were going to be here so we could confront Mom together for old time’s sake—it was a nice trip up. I rented a new station wagon and put it on my credit card like a BOSS. But Mom is gone, no sign of her. I guess I’ll search for her myself, like everything.

  I like this “Sixteen” poem you wrote about me. We should revisit all the numbers, don’t you think?

  Sixteen

  By Harrison Goodman

  she had to be taught

  how to hold a cigarette

  how to drag, how to cough.

  she was so eager to learn,

  standing in the stable-cold darkness

  our bodies slowly numbing.

  she held a burning Marlboro to her

  (ruby red movie) lips

  grimaced when she gagged weakly

  said she didn’t understand it.

  I told her neither did I

  and I don’t think I was lying.

  she sits before me, cherryblack

  hair gently straight and

  slick against her back.

  I hold the scissors

  in one hand, split them wide

  and silver, close them down

  against the strands.

  wet little snippets fall

  to the blue towel below.

  she tells me to cut her hair,

  while I want to let it grow green

  and tumble restlessly,

  cascade to the earth.

  but as I trim these tresses

  I swear I smell something wild and green

  leaking wet and seeping

  from the blunted edges

  of every freshcut strand.

  I like the way you used to see me, Harry. Do you ever think of me this way anymore?

  .

  Matilda,

  I remember writing that poem. Do you remember sitting for me while I cut your hair? You gave me
carte blanche to cut it however I liked. You would never do that now.

  .

  Harry,

  You haven’t asked me lately.

  You know, I knew that Wildwood cherry cola reference in your last poem felt familiar. You often pull from your own nostalgic poetic memory. You are a plagiarist of the highest order, taking even from yourself.

  Or maybe if we saw the true shape of the universe, we’d see that you actually wrote those two poems at the very same time, and the memory was only split later into two.

  Maybe that’s why I told Nate my twin had died at birth—because somehow in some pocket of my mind, I knew something was amiss with the story of our origin.

  There’s nothing in the fridge here except low-sodium soy sauce. How sad must one be to buy low-sodium soy sauce?

  .

  Matilda,

  I’m tired of talking about the universe. It’s exhausting. Are you OK? I’m sure there is an explanation for this genetic confusion. They probably sent you someone else’s results.

  .

  Harry,

  Oh, I’m great! Everything is fantastic! I have no idea who my mother is, the mother I thought was my mother is nowhere to be found, Dad is getting MARRIED. Oh! And you are abandoning me for a younger and better educated and possibly more magical person, in the city that I formerly loved but which has now forsaken me. Things are wonderful, Harry. The whole world is just a massive fucking disappointment, that’s all.

  .

  Matilda,

  Yeah, well things are pretty shitty for me, too. I’m currently in an internet café in Chinatown, where I’m emailing Vera from a kiosk like it’s 1994, because my laptop won’t turn on. And she won’t write me back.

  .

  Harry,

  What if there’s no one for me? What if I just keep ruining every relationship I have? I’m running out of time. The lyrics in this Kanye song are for me:

  Chased the good life my whole life long

  Look back on my life and my life gone

  Try calling Vera on the telephone? I hear that’s an excellent method for reaching people.

  .

  Matilda,

  She doesn’t have a phone. Claims they’re “technological babysitters.”

  .

  Harry,

  Young people are so confusing. If they only knew what life was like before cell phones (we were all milling around like sheep, lost in our own pathetic thoughts), they would not be so cavalier. Mom’s not currently answering her phone, but at least she owns one. I left her a great message she’s going to love:

  “WHO THE HELL IS MY REAL MOTHER???!!!” Click.

  You know, I’m so turned around by this parental mystery that I even emailed Dad for clarity! He just evaded the question altogether.

  Hey baby,

  Seems like you’re grappling with the big stuff! Good for you, this is life!

  I’ve got some important news of my own—Marjorie and I are getting hitched!

  It’s a new and significant level of commitment, let’s face it.

  I read a fascinating study to the effect that people were more happy if they married rather than cohabitated. The idea was that by making the decision more irrevocable, people would stop the anxious weighing of pros and cons, and find happiness in what they have. The results were so striking that the main researcher married his girlfriend.

  Have you ever thought about marrying, Matilda? Having a family? It’s never too late, you know. If you do, I favor the wife taking the husband’s name. To me, it’s a powerful sign of commitment and seriousness. It’s got a heavy erotic message; it’s submissive. For the right couple, it binds them together, captures the emotions of the husband, and evokes in him a commensurate dedication. He loves his wife more, and is more determined to cleave, and never to leave.

  Take some advice from your old dad. Love you—

  Oh, and be a good girl and send Marjorie a note of congratulations.

  —kiss and love to Harry and that fabulous gal! Will she become a Goodman herself?—D

  .

  Matilda,

  You can’t really ask Dad for life advice, you know that. That cleave line is rich, though.

  .

  Harry,

  I feel so lonely. I have to use the white-noise machine here to make up for the sound of taxis and drunk people.

  .

  Matilda,

  Dad told me once he doesn’t even remember the ’80s, so he’s not a reliable source anyway.

  .

  Harry,

  I found a clue. Mom’s work email currently has an away message. But it’s all vague, with no period at the end.

  “I am away from my desk at the moment”

  That’s all it says. Usually she says something like “I’m speaking at a conference with Mr. Senator Important-Pants in the District of Columbia and I will return to my desk and resume being locally important at 2 p.m. on Tuesday; in the meantime please contact my much trod-upon assistant Brandi.”

  Aside: Why are assistants always Brandis? Is Brandi ever the boss?

  Did you know that a disproportionate number of dentists are named Dennis?

  .

  Matilda,

  I had actually been planning to come to the city this week for a while. Vera and I were going to look at some apartments, which is why it’s even more frustrating that she won’t get back to me. I’m just getting one-line emails:

  So sorry, on deadline today, and then have to babysit—I’ll catch up with you later!

  .

  Harry,

  Maybe you should start stalking the prenatal yoga studios in eastern Brooklyn. I’m sure she’ll pop up shortly.

  You know—

  I’m in a strange little time warp here. Mom must have had a party recently for some new nonprofit pet cause; there are Mylar balloons floating everywhere—mostly silver, but some rogue golds and pinks and purples. A single aqua. She took that from me, the balloon trick for parties. I wish it was still Mom teaching me things and not the other way around.

  .

  Matilda,

  I’ve been taking the train back and forth between Midtown and Sheepshead Bay, just watching people get on and off. I’m reading a little, writing a little, listening to music. It’s enormously meditative—the ultimate flow activity. I feel like I’m in a music video of my own life, right before the defining moment occurs. Have you ever done this?

  .

  Harry,

  Of course I have. I lived in the city for eleven years, I’m aware of the creative power of trains. God, it’s like you’re a city embryo, starting from the very beginning. We could have done that together, but now it’s too late. How fitting.

  Hey—let’s write snippets of all our ages. What was an especially good one? I’ll start.

  FOURTEEN

  I always had a thing for Humbert Humbert—I could relate to his impropriety. I felt pretty improper myself growing up, if you must know. Perverted, even.

  I wasn’t like Lolita at all. I wasn’t gawky and accidentally lovely or blond or waifish or feminine or sly.

  I was sturdy, athletic, enthusiastic, brash. Boyish, really. They should have a genetic test for testosterone, too, Harry. I think I have too much of it. Makes me aggressive, makes me need things.

  Remember how “pervert” was the worst thing you could call someone in fifth grade?

  It went:

  Cooties

  Two-Faced

  Conceited

  Slut

  Pervert

  Top five insults of childhood.

  Remember the first time, Harry? I think it was the farm, in the hay bales. I remember the day, it was filled with adrenaline and heat and dust and the smell of sweat—ours and the horses’. I have pictures, even, from that day. I was hopeful and scared next to that old gray, shabby quarter horse I thought was so handsome. He couldn’t have been more elegant if he were a goddamned unicorn. I had on tall black rubber boots that were supposed to pass for
leather. (Later I realized the rules of horsemanship dictated that I should have been wearing jodhpurs and short boots, but I didn’t know any of the rules. The older I get, the better I am at knowing and following the rules, but I broke them all that day.)

  Those boots were the only thing I had on that were mine to begin with. So it was a costume I was wearing—someone else’s clothes, and someone else’s horse. Playacting. We were at the Marlborough town fair, a seedy event in seedy central Connecticut, and filled with more 4-H enthusiasts and grilled American-cheese sandwiches than a town in fancy western Connecticut could ever imagine—this was no tony horse show, but it was big to me, it was major. It was my first show and it all scared me. The horses backing off of old, dirty white trucks, slipping in their nervous shits. It felt like a lot could go wrong.