The Wonders of the Invisible World

by David Gates

  After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch—the hide-a-bed, folded up—trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.

  “What would you like Nonny to read, punkin?” she said, once she finally got him squared away. “Your daddy said you could have one story and then off to bed.”

  He went and got the mouse book from the coffee table and put it right in her hands. “That.”

  “He loves that one,” I told Sylvia. “Just so you know, they don’t have any words in it, so you have to sort of make it up as you go. It’s kind of along the lines of the—”

  “Oh, I think Nonny can manage.” She had him up on her lap, playing with his hair. “What do you think, punkin? Does Nonny have it under control?”

  “Just telling you,” I said.

  Sylvia opened the book, flipped through the first few pages, then nodded. “Now, once upon a time,” she said, “there was a little mouse. And one fine day, this mouse happened to meet up with a kitty cat who was as big as a monster.”

  “You don’t need to hold back,” I said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  “I’ll be all right in a sec,” she said. I looked at this lady, fairly well along in years—like I am, sure—pressing a wadded napkin against her eyes, and I thought, I was married to her. I sometimes get the idea that old Harold didn’t turn out to have as much money as he let on. Though of course she’d never say so. Sylvia turned out to be loyal as the day is long—though a little late in the game, from my point of view. She looked at the black stuff on the napkin. “I better go fix my face again. I wanted to look nice for her.”

  “You look fine.” In my pocket, I ran my thumbnail over the ridges of a quarter to make sure it wasn’t a nickel. “I wouldn’t expect her to take too much note anyhow. You know, the first few days.”

  She unwadded the napkin and tried to smooth it out flat with her fingertips. “Have they said anything at all about the long term?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe so.”

  She worked some more at smoothing out the napkin, then said, “I wonder if I hadn’t better start looking for a reasonable place to stay.”

  “But aren’t you—I just assumed you were staying at Dave and Bonnie’s.”

  “Aren’t you staying there?”

  “So?”

  “Well? Don’t you think that would be …”

  “What?” I said. “Christ, they got a big enough house. I can take the den and you can have the hide-a-bed. Or vice versa. I think Dave was sort of counting on you helping out with the baby.” I stood up. “You want anything from the machine? I’m going to get some Raisinets.”

  “Is that what you’ve been eating?” She shook her finger, which was an old joke between us: my mother had a habit of shaking her finger, and I’d told Sylvia how I used to hate it. “What am I going to do with you?”

  We finally got Sylvia settled in, though we had a little go-round about who slept where. I was bound and determined that she should have the hide-a-bed. I’d slept on it the night before and my back was fine; I hated the thought of her trying to get comfortable on that sofa in the den. I was just going to put a couple quilts down on the floor in there. But she said she’d rather have her privacy.

  After supper Dave Senior went back to the hospital, leaving me and Sylvia with the baby. She had a cocktail before supper, but just the one. Afterward, she gave Dave Junior his bath while I cleaned up, then asked me to watch him while she went into the den to finish unpacking. Now she had him on the couch—the hide-a-bed, folded up—trying to zip him into his sleep suit while he wiggled and giggled.

  “What would you like Nonny to read, punkin?” she said, once she finally got him squared away. “Your daddy said you could have one story and then off to bed.”

  He went and got the mouse book from the coffee table and put it right in her hands. “That.”

  “He loves that one,” I told Sylvia. “Just so you know, they don’t have any words in it, so you have to sort of make it up as you go. It’s kind of along the lines of the—”

  “Oh, I think Nonny can manage.” She had him up on her lap, playing with his hair. “What do you think, punkin? Does Nonny have it under control?”

  “Just telling you,” I said.

  Sylvia opened the book, flipped through the first few pages, then nodded. “Now, once upon a time,” she said, “there was a little mouse. And one fine day, this mouse happened to meet up with a kitty cat who was as big as a monster.”

  I shot her a look—the idea was to put him to sleep, not get him worked up. When she pointed at the picture, I got up from the recliner and came over and sat down beside them, and my God, you could smell her breath three feet away. Unpacking. She must have been into it hot and heavy. “So the mouse said, ‘Can’t we even talk about it?’ ” Little squeaky voice for the mouse. “But the kitty cat hated all mice in the world, and he began to run after the mouse. See? ‘Come back, I want to eat you alive.’ ” A big bass voice.

  I looked at Dave Junior, but he was smiling away.

  “So the mouse ran into her hole, and when the kitty cat went after her, he tripped over a grrreat big dog. And there’s the dog, see? And that dog was as big as a monster.”

  “Syl?” I said. “I don’t know about too many monsters.”

  She put a finger to her lips and hissed. “Quiet in the peanut gallery. Now, the dog, who was as big as a monster, hated all kitty cats in the world, and when the kitty cat tripped over him, he took off after her just as tight as he could go. ‘Come back, I want to eat you alive.’ ”

  “You said her,” Dave Junior said.

  “Uh-huh. And there’s the kitty cat.”

  “But before you said—”

  “Sssh. So they ran and they ran and they ran and they ran and they ran. Aaaand—they ran!”

  Dave Junior giggled.

  “And then guess what?”

  He did a big show-off shrug.

  “They ran!”

  Another giggle.

  “Until pretty soon what should they come upon but a man and his wife. See? Now, the wife had just gone to all the trouble of making the most beautiful cake in the world for her husband, and there it is right there. Can you guess what’s going to happen?”

  “The kitty’s gonna run under the chair and they’re gonna go pow and all go flying.”

  “That’s right. Completely ruined. So watch, she’s bringing the cake in, and he’s not paying any attention. Just sitting there with his face in a newspaper. You’re not going to be like that, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dave Junior.

  “What kind of an answer is that?” she said, in a way that made me look at her. “That’s no answer. Let me tell you something. You turn out to be like that, I’ll come back from the grave and cut off your penis.”

  He squirmed around and stared up at her.

  She began to laugh. “Oh, my Christ. Oh, Sylvia. Now you’ve done it. You have done it.”

  I got up and picked him up off her lap. “C’m’ere, young fella. Time to hit the hay. We got a big day tomorrow.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to, you didn’t finish.”

  “Here we go.” I got up as he tried to wrestle out of my arms. “I’ll tell you the rest of your story in bed.”

  “No, Nonny has to tell it.” He started kicking.

  “You run along with Grandpa, sugar,” Sylvia said, just sitting there on the couch smiling, not even looking up at us. “He’s going to give you your milk because Nonny got tired. She’s going to have her milk and go to bed, too.”

  I carried him out to the kitchen, squirming and screaming his head off, and managed to get the icebox open and pour him a cup of milk one-handed; I put it on the
table and sat him down in front of it. He gave me a dirty look, drank it in one big gulp and instantly got quiet. I led him by the hand into his room, put on his night-light and tucked him into bed. He lay quiet while I finished up the story as best I could, but when I left, shutting the door behind me, he started up again.

  I went back into the living room; Sylvia was gone and the door to the den was shut. I sat down on the couch—still warm where she’d been sitting—and listened to him carry on. He was just all keyed up, and probably wouldn’t keep at it for long. Basically he’s a good boy; Bonnie did a fine job with him—or I better say does.

  Jesus, I thought, imagine having all this to do over.

  That night I dreamed the accident was just a false report, and that Bonnie and I were grocery shopping in the Big Y in Greenfield (where I go once a week). I was pushing the basket and she was riding in it, standing up, even though she was a grown woman, and pulling down boxes and cans and throwing them on the floor. Actually, she was sort of Bonnie and Sylvia both. I woke up and it was just starting to get gray outside the picture window. It took a second to understand that none of this was true.

  I thought about getting up and pulling the drapes closed, but once I’m up I’m generally up. For me, a couple hours is a good stretch, and I don’t seem to need more than four or five hours a night. Which can make for a long day unless you’ve got some project going.

  When I first retired up to Shelburne Falls, I figured I’d do some hunting and fishing, not having fished for maybe twenty years. I got a license and borrowed a pole and some tackle from Scotty, but it was all I could do to poke the hook through a nightcrawler. If they’re so backward they can’t feel pain, why is it they start wringing and twisting when the hook goes in? I knew right then that if I was that sorry for a worm, I wouldn’t be much of a hand at shooting deer anymore. You change, you know?

  The one smart thing I did, I moved my shop up. My basement’s only half the size of the one in Clinton, but without the rec-room furniture and Ping-Pong table I’ve got more space. I still turn out some piecework for Wahlstrom—last month I cut two hundred and fifty cams—which gives me a little mad money. We could do everything back and forth by UPS, but it makes a good excuse to drive down and get together with some of the old gang. A few of them still work there, and I guess Fred Wahlstrom’ll outlast everybody. Eighty-one years old and he still comes in at seven-thirty every morning. We have an early supper and I drive back up the same night; somebody always offers to put me up and put up with me, but it’s a straight shot up 91 and I like to sleep in my own bed. Sometimes you sit there at the table and they’ll be talking about how so-and-so did such-and-such the other day, or what a fuddle-dee-dud old man Wahlstrom is, and suddenly you feel like you’ve died and you’re looking on from the other side. Like you can still hear and see them, but if they were to reach out a hand it’d go right through you.

  I must’ve fallen back asleep, because I woke up again and the room was brighter. What woke me up this time was a hissing and the smell of bacon. I’m at Bonnie’s house, I thought, and she’s fixing breakfast. Again, it took a second for it all to come back. I sat up and saw Sylvia out in the kitchen, poking a fork around in a skillet. Dressed to the nines, too, in plaid slacks, white blouse, her hair just so. She saw me, smiled and waved. As if that business last night had never happened. Well, I wasn’t about to bring it up. Old Harold was more than welcome to deal with all that.

  I pulled my robe on over my pajamas, stepped into my slippers and went to use the toilet and brush my teeth. I hadn’t thought to bring toothpaste, and when I opened the medicine cabinet looking for theirs I noticed a prescription vial with Bonnie’s name on it. VALIUM, 5 MG. How long had she been on that stuff? Well, it could’ve been something a lot worse. It was, when she was younger. I guess some people have a couple beers to relax and some people take one of them. I got the cap off (childproof, thank goodness), shook one out, looked at it—it was just a little bit of a thing—then slipped it into the pocket of my pajama top.

  Back in the living room, I folded away the hide-a-bed and replaced the cushions. Now you could smell coffee, too. Sylvia was pouring grease out of the skillet into the dispose-all, and she’d laid the bacon out to drain on paper towels; she’d turned on the coffeemaker, and coffee was piddling down into the glass pot. I’m getting a little hard of hearing, but I could’ve sworn she was humming. Sylvia never could carry a tune in a bucket.

  She didn’t seem to know I was watching—maybe she’s hard of hearing, too—and I felt like I knew every move before she made it: put the skillet in the dishwasher, scoot over to the icebox, get out the eggs. When she opened an overhead cabinet and started reaching for the juice glasses, I could see the muscles of her calves under the pantlegs. This was a woman seventy years old. Supposedly she plays golf and tennis; that’s all since my time.

  I picked out slacks and a sport shirt, and went back into the bathroom to get dressed. I took the pill out of my pajamas and set it on the edge of the sink while I got my shirt on, then put it in the breast pocket. When I came out again, Sylvia had the table in the breakfast nook set for four. “Look at all this,” I said.

  “Good morning,” she said. “You certainly look spiffy. I’ve got coffee ready. Any signs of life down the hall?”

  “Not a peep out of either of ’em,” I said. “You look nice yourself.”

  “Makeup covers a multitude of sins,” she said.

  “Sleep all right?”

  “Like a rock. I was so bushed I can barely remember getting into bed. How about you?”

  “Not so bad.”

  “I thought I heard you get up a couple of times.”

  “While you were sleeping like a rock?” I said.

  “Oh, well,” she said. “You know.” She picked up a cup and saucer with one hand, pointed to it with the other and raised her eyebrows. Her hands were steady enough that the cup and saucer didn’t rattle.

  “Sure,” I said. “Please.”

  She filled the cup and handed it to me, saucer and all. Damned if I could keep my hands that steady, and I’d had one Bud Light—one!—to get me to sleep. I remember many a morning when Sylvia’d be fixing breakfast after a rough night, just as fresh as a daisy. Which scared me more than anything.

  She was pouring a cup for herself when little Dave came in, dragging his stuffed dinosaur. “Well, look who’s here! Good morning, punkin.”

  “Where’s Mommy?”

  “You remember, punkin. Mommy had to go in the hospital?”

  “Want her to come back.” He dropped the dinosaur and grabbed Sylvia around the leg with both arms.

  She stroked his hair. “She’ll be back. I bet you like bacon, don’t you?”

  “Yuck,” he said, making a scrunched-up face I bet a nickel he’d been told was cute. Then he cocked his head, like he was listening to something. “No, wait, I like it.”

  “Well, here.” Sylvia handed him a piece. “That should hold you for a little while.” He stuck it in his mouth: gone in two bites. “My goodness. You’re hungry, aren’t you, punkin? What do you usually like for breakfast?”

  “Yogurt.”

  “Okay, let’s have a look.” She opened the icebox and bent over. “Oh my goodness, yes. We’ve got peach, wild berry … peach and wild berry.”

  “Wild berry,” he said.

  “By God, he’s an opinionated little cuss,” I said. “Ain’t’cha?”

  “Can I hear a please?” said Sylvia.

  He stared as if she was talking Chinese.

  Sylvia looked at me, I shrugged and she handed him his yogurt. He took it over to the table and started right in making a mess. The telephone rang, and I thought, Oh my God.

  Sylvia picked it up. “Carter residence.” She listened for a few seconds, then said, “Well, I was going to, lover. But things got a little hectic.”

  I let out my breath.

  She turned her back, which I took as a hint. Carrying my coffee into the living room, I he
ard her say, “Yes, I made a point of it. What? Yes, of course.”

  I put the TV on and sat down on the couch. The Big Bird and all were on, and of course that fetched Dave Junior; he was on my lap in two shakes, purple yogurt all over his face.

  “This your favorite program?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen for a second.

  Dave Senior came in, his hair wild, in his undershirt, zipping up his trousers. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “Go on back to bed,” I said. “It’s just Harold.”

  “Jesus. What the fuck time is it?” With the boy right there.

  “Early,” I said. “Go back to bed.” It was only seven-thirty, quarter to eight. I counted back: out in Phoenix it wasn’t even six in the morning.

  “And what the hell’s this?” He was giving little Dave a dirty look. “What’d I tell you about eating on the good furniture, Mister? You get in there right now.” He pointed to the kitchen.

  “But I want to see—”

  “Now.”

  Dave Junior got down and stomped off with his yogurt.

  “And get a better attitude,” he called after him. He shook his head. “Too early in the morning for this shit.”

  “I didn’t mean to get him in trouble,” I said. “I didn’t know he wasn’t allowed.”

  “He knows better. He’s trying to see what he can get away with because he knows something’s up.”

  Sylvia hung up the phone and stepped in from the kitchen. “Good morning. How would you gents like your eggs?”

  “I usually have scrambled,” I said.

  “You used to like a three-minute egg.”

  “God, that’s right. I don’t know, I guess I just got out of the habit. Egg timers and all.”

  “Men,” she said. “What about you, Dave?”

  “Bowl of Total, I guess.” He rubbed his eyes and passed his hands back through his hair to smooth it down. You could see where he’d zipped his pants but not buttoned them. He was starting to put it on. “Christ, it can’t be but about five in the morning out there. What the hell’s Harold doing up at this hour?”