Thirty-three Swoons

by Martha Cooley

  “I found this in a closet,” he explained. “On weekends I’ve been helping a contractor buddy of mine renovate a building in Brighton Beach. Almost all the tenants there are from Russia—they call that part of Brooklyn Little Moscow. . . . Anyway, last weekend I’m painting the halls, and I find a box of junk in a coat closet—old books and magazines, mostly. All in Russian. And then I see this little item, and I’m wondering, maybe Cam would want it.”

  Examining the comb closely, I saw it was in excellent condition. I’d read of such relics but had never come across one. “You bet I do,” I said.

  “Can you sell it?”

  Nick was always keen on knowing what various objects would fetch. “Sure,” I answered. “But I think I’ll hang on to this.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  In the early twentieth century, I explained, Russian theaters used to offer their audiences little souvenirs. I pointed at the Cyrillic letters. “See this? It’s the name Meyerhold, and this means ‘theater of.’ Meyerhold was a major stage director in Russia. I can’t believe you found this, Nick. Amazing!”

  “What, the comb or me?”

  I kissed him lightly, and he pulled me into a hug. “Can I drop by later, after you close up?” he murmured. “I can stay awhile.”

  Sensing my ambivalence, Nick stepped back and took one of my hands in both of his. In their grip my captured hand lay unresisting, while the rest of me held back.

  “You know what you want from me, Cam?” he asked gently.

  “I used to think so.” I lacked energy for dissembling. “Lately I’m not at all sure.”

  One of his rough thumbs worked my palm, circling and then pressing on its center; the other thumb ran up and down the sides of my wrist. “I’d like to keep doing this—what we do,” he said. “But not if I’m making you frustrated. What would be the point?”

  “I’m making me frustrated,” I replied.

  “Any idea why?”

  “Oh, Nick, Nick . . .” Unable to stop myself, I started pulling my hand away, but he held on.

  “Does that mean you have no idea, or you have an idea but you don’t want to share it with me?”

  “It means I’ll take a pass.”

  He let go of my hand. “I think I’m getting the message. You want out,” he said.

  A sense of futility overtook me, and with it came an urge to say something harsh, to punish us both. “I am out, Nick. If I wanted in, I’d be doing things pretty differently, wouldn’t I?”

  His shrug was at once self-protective and careless. “I don’t go for that sort of guesswork. People just do what they do.” He put his painter’s cap back on his head. It made him look younger and adorable, and I knew I was going to miss him—absurdly, strongly—if I followed through on my impulse to banish him.

  “The ball’s in your court. I won’t call,” he said. “You know how to find me.”

  AS SOON as he was out the door, I went back to my office. Loneliness coiled around me, snakelike, restrictive. Sitting down, I surrendered to it as helplessly as I’d done on those nights during childhood when I’d awakened to find myself unable to speak.

  After a few minutes, I pulled aside the curtain covering my dartboard. Then I rummaged in my desk drawer for a half-dozen small snapshots. I affixed these to the board, slipping their edges snugly beneath the wire rims. They were all pictures of me—taken, at various points and places, by Stuart. Collecting my darts, I began tossing at my targets hard enough to hear each projectile whistle as it traveled. I managed to hit all six photos on my first tosses, though not always squarely; a few I only nicked. Thereafter I punctured every image but one at its center, and when I retrieved my darts a third time and tossed them rapidly, I didn’t miss a single target.

  The darts’ thwap was as gratifying as it had always been, yet the relief I’d sought didn’t come. I looked again in my drawer, this time retrieving pictures of Sam and Danny. Instead of putting them on the dartboard, I lay them on my desk. Then, removing a photo of myself from the dartboard, I set it between the other two and stepped back to gaze at the trio.

  Sam, me, Danny. Husband, self, and kid. In a manner of speaking.

  I fished around in the drawer and added a photo of Stuart to the lineup. His presence felt instantly natural: husband, self, kid, friend. Then I took Stuart away and replaced him with one of my photos of Eve, placing her to the right.

  Husband, self, kid, cousin.

  Immediately this jarred. I took away the photo of Sam and replaced it with one of my father. Jordan, me, Danny, Eve. One too many? I took myself away.

  Jordan, Danny, Eve.

  After staring at the three of them for a little while, I put myself back, removing Eve. Then I took Jordan away.

  Now only Danny and I were left.

  Next to us, I lay the photo of Eve and her Halloween partner.

  What had I said to Danny in my latest dream? About having to find the fathers?

  I put away all the photos and covered the dartboard. Then I called Stuart at home, knowing he wouldn’t be there, and left a message on his machine. I’m going to Brooklyn tomorrow afternoon, I said. To talk with Danny about her mother’s masked man.

  I MET her in front of the Brooklyn Public Library. We gave each other quick hugs and appraising looks.

  She looked good, wearing a white ribbed T-shirt, a pair of jean shorts, and low-heeled sandals that showed off her long legs. In addition to her usual collection of silver rings, she wore pearl earrings.

  I recognized the earrings. They’d been a gift to Eve from Jordan, on the occasion of her graduation from high school. Sarah, Dan, Jordan, and I had staged a combined graduation-birthday celebration for Eve, shortly before her departure for college—the last such gathering in the apartment on Ninth Street, a momentary display of unity before the dispersal. Dan had presented her with several books, and Sarah had given her some long underwear for the cold winters upstate (a gift at which Eve had later scoffed). I’d made a cake. My father’s present, though, had put all the rest to shame. Large, beautifully lustrous, and set in platinum, the pearls had undoubtedly cost him a good deal of money. Up to then, Eve’s taste in jewelry had tended toward silver-and-turquoise stuff, but she’d liked the pearls so much that she’d taken to wearing them constantly.

  Danny’s hair was pulled into a high ponytail that exposed the white orbs on her ears. As I complimented her on them, I palmed the outside pocket of my bag, into which I’d tucked the letter from Jordan. I’d decided to hand it over to her that afternoon. There was no need for me to hold on to it; I’d practically memorized it.

  WE HEADED into Prospect Park, directly behind the library. The temperature dropped as we passed under one of the stone overpasses at the end of the park’s Long Meadow, and although it rose again as we started along the path, the large, leafy trees shielded us from the sun’s glare. Eve, I remembered, had loved this park, the gentle swoops of its terrain and the unfussy elegance of its design. It had been one of her favorite urban retreats.

  We strolled along a cobblestoned walkway. Now and then we came upon a dog-walker or a couple with a baby carriage, but mostly we had the path to ourselves. Near the Picnic House, ten or fifteen elderly Russians had congregated. As they parted to let us pass, I noticed that the female voices were louder than the male ones, and the women’s hands accompanied their words as a conductor’s might.

  “They come here a lot,” said Danny, tipping her head in the direction of the Russians. “They take the subway in from Brighton Beach and do a few laps around this loop. They always walk slowly, arm in arm—sometimes three at a time. The women are like a chirpy flock of birds. There’s one man who often sings Russian songs. I like it when they all stop and line up on the long benches.”

  “Stuart says if you read Chekhov’s plays, you’ll know exactly what’s going on in Russia now. Or at any time,” I said.

  “Well, maybe . . . By the way, Stuart sent me a nice note after Mom died. I need to write him back.”<
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  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I’d like to write him, though.” She paused. “In his note he talked about Mom’s energy. Her spunk, he called it. He said it’s inherited, he can see it in me . . . And he said you’re spunky, too, but you could use some reinforcement.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Know-It-All.”

  Danny smiled a little. “Sam said I should remember you’re having a hard time with Mom’s death, too.”

  “Well,” I said, “neither Sam nor Stuart is completely off base. Even if they both think they know everything.”

  SHE LED us to a shaded slope overlooking the meadow and a small pond. On the playing fields to our right, two games of softball were under way. The players’ cries wafted over us, whoops mixing with taunts when a ball was hit or fielded.

  Pulling from her backpack an old cotton tablecloth, Danny spread it on the ground. I recognized its yellow-and-blue Provençal print: Jordan had bought it in France and given it to Sarah. Eve must have inherited it. Next Danny produced fruit, cheese and crackers, hard-boiled eggs, and cold seltzer. We settled in, eating and drinking slowly; for a while, neither of us spoke. It felt deeply good to be in the park with her, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but grope our way forward.

  “Sam and his family have been good to me,” Danny said at last. Her gaze was directed at the ducks bobbing serenely on the pond’s calm surface. “One morning he stopped by my office to give me some bath oil Lila had bought for me. And he mailed me a little drawing Abby had done. Of Mom and me. That was pretty intense, but also good.”

  Abby hadn’t ever met Eve, who’d shown no interest in Sam’s kids. “You mean Abby imagined the two of you together and drew a picture of that?”

  “No, she had a photo to work from, actually. Once when I was babysitting her and Zeke at my place, I showed her some of my pictures.” She handed me some grapes. “Abby’s really into babies. She liked one photo of me in particular, so I made her a copy. It’s one I think your father must’ve taken, because Mom and I are in Frenchtown, in his garden. I found it in Mom’s study.”

  I pulled a few grapes off their stems and washed them with seltzer—something to do so I wouldn’t have to meet Danny’s eyes as I asked nonchalantly, “What’s the picture look like?”

  “Mom’s got me propped up, facing forward. I’m maybe six months old. I’m sort of smirking. Mom’s beautiful. Sam said the picture makes me look like a smug little princess. Abby loved it, of course—you know, a baby, roses . . .”

  She leaned sideways, her shoulder and the side of her head landing lightly against mine. “I’d be a mess without you and Sam,” she said softly, laying a hand on my knee. “Thanks for coming out here to see me.”

  “I wanted to,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

  She pulled herself upright. In the lowering light, her face appeared wan; I could see how spent she was. “You’ve probably been wondering what I’ve been up to . . . since Ithaca,” she said quietly.

  I nodded.

  “Mostly I’ve been listening to music Mom liked. Lots of Bach, everything Thelonious Monk ever recorded . . . She told me once that she loved ‘Pannonica’ more than any other jazz tune ever written. She owned tons of albums—everything from Gregorian chants to Diana Ross. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said. “We never talked about music.” Or thousands of other things. Such as ourselves.

  “She never switched to CDs—she liked the old LP sound better. So I’ve had to listen to everything on her record player. I’ve been staying up late with the music.” Danny passed her fingers slowly over her eyes, as if trying to swab off months of fatigue. “It’s like I’m sleepwalking at work. I have no idea how I’m doing my job, Cam. Fortunately I’m good at it, plus my boss is totally clueless. I get away with a lot.”

  “Do you think you need to . . . see somebody?” I began.

  She shrugged. “I’ve been to talk with a therapist a few times,” she said. “It’s been helpful, I guess. But not as much as Mom’s music. And taking care of her African violets . . .” She shook her head. “You know, I can’t imagine not being enraged with her. Or not wanting her back . . . I’d like to ask her if she ever loved my father, whoever he was. Even for a little while.” She paused. “How’d she manage to get up every morning and look in the mirror and not think to herself, I may be irresistible to men, but I’m a fucking loser?”

  She took a deep breath; as she exhaled, her composure buckled, and she began crying in quiet, gulping sobs. I pulled her into an awkward embrace, our bodies torqued and knees bumping. Holding her, I remembered what it had felt like to take her infant body in my hands—how her shoulders used to shudder when she got upset, and how she’d tap the undersides of her tiny wrists together whenever she was excited.

  One of her tear-damp hands lay in mine. I bounced it lightly between my palms for a few moments, until she’d stopped crying. Then I reached for my bag. “I need to give you something,” I said. “And tell you a few things.”

  SHE READ Jordan’s letter slowly, frowning occasionally. Finishing it, she handed me the pages.

  “It’s yours,” I said, giving the letter back to her.

  She stared at it, then at me. “Did you read it?”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me—I did.”

  “I can see why.” She put the letter down and sat in silence, drumming a rhythm on her kneecaps. Then she reached again for the letter and skimmed it, apparently searching for sections to reread. I awaited additional queries, but instead she made a statement.

  “Jordan figured you’d tell me how he died,” she said, refolding the letter. “And so would Mom. But your stories wouldn’t be the same, which is why he set down his own account. Right?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “But why would a terminally ill man write a letter like this about his hopes for a kid he barely knew? No, it’s weirder than that. He wasn’t writing to the kid, he was writing to some fantasized version of her—to the kid as an adult!”

  She hesitated, trying to knit the threads. “I mean, you’re the real audience here, aren’t you?”

  My stomach knotted. “We both are.”

  Danny flapped the folded letter against one of her palms. “Jordan wasn’t around much, was he? It must’ve been pretty hard for him, raising you by himself.”

  “Jordan didn’t raise me by himself,” I said. “Your grandparents raised me. Even your mother, in a sense. Jordan traveled a lot, not just for work. He liked to get away by himself—he was a loner.”

  She pursed her lips, considering this. “I had a sense of that, from Mom. Whenever his name came up, there was something . . . And your mother—did he talk much about her?”

  “Her death shattered him.”

  She nodded. “Couldn’t have been much fun for you either. Not having a mother, I mean. And having a father who wasn’t around.”

  SHE STARED out at the playing fields. The softball games were over now, and the spectators had headed home. A lone cyclist, his shirt flapping gently around his body, sailed down the path dividing the ballfields from the meadow; I could hear the clink of his gears as he downshifted to make a sharp right at the base of the path. Rising on his stirrups after the turn, he leaned forward, picking up speed. As he disappeared from view, Danny began speaking again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t get why Jordan wrote to me. And what was that about your sister? . . . Here it is: ‘Tell Cam to be kind to her sister, and you be kind to Cam!’ Did he usually refer to Mom as your sister?”

  She’d noticed, then—though she’d interpreted it differently, as I’d figured she would. “He usually just called her Eve,” I said. Here was my opening. “Danny,” I began, but before I could say more, she’d sandwiched the letter between her palms and was wagging its pages back and forth before her, as if to shake the truth out of them.

  “Hang on,” she said. Riffling through the sheets, she extracted Meyerhold’s sketches and spread them in
a semicircle around us. “Did you look at these?” she asked.

  “Yes, but not closely,” I said.

  “They’re all drawings of a clown wearing a big ruff. The guy who did these, the Russian—Meyerhold?—he designed a perfume bottle in the shape of a clown’s body. Sort of rotund. With a big-footed base.” She pointed. “The clown’s ruff, here, would be the neck of the bottle. You’d grab it and twist off the top—the clown’s head, see?—which would also have a round shape. Quite a strange concept! Not old-fashioned—these sketches are all done with nice sharp lines. They’re really modern. And sophisticated, not at all childish. But nothing you’d normally associate with a perfume bottle either. Especially this one of the somersaulting clown—I mean, you can’t possibly manufacture a bottle that looks like this! Which makes Meyerhold’s sketches interesting from a design standpoint.”

  She scrutinized the drawings. The most elaborate showed two clowns—one standing, the other with his knees planted on the first clown’s chest. I recognized that posture. It was the one Jordan and I had assumed in a dream, the episode in which the director had scolded us for not playing our parts seriously.

  Danny pointed at this drawing. “Do you know what this means?” She indicated a word penciled in Cyrillic beneath the sketch.

  “I checked that out,” I answered. “Balaganchik means, roughly, fairground booth. It’s the Russian title of Blok’s play, the one Meyerhold mentioned in his letter to Jordan. In the play Pierrot the clown falls in love with a masked woman named Columbine, who’s not real. Pierrot keeps looking for her, and she keeps eluding him, and he ends up alone. That’s the gist of it, anyway. Meyerhold acted the part of Pierrot several times—it must’ve been a favorite role of his.”

  Danny gathered up the sketches and the letter. “Jordan never learned much about this director, did he?” she asked as she inserted the pages into their envelope.