by Molly Giles
“Then what good are you?”
Nicky, confused, looked up at Kay. She steadied her fingers on his shoulder, thinking of the poster she had hung in his room. A CHILD DOESN’T HAVE TO BE SOMEBODY, the poster said. A CHILD IS SOMEBODY.
“He’s very good indeed,” Kay said.
“Oh I know that,” Ida said. “I’d hold you in my lap,” she added to Nicky, “if I had a lap. But it’s gone. The doctors took it away.”
Nicky’s eyes dropped frankly to the space beneath the blanket and Kay looked just as hard at the empty glass by Ida’s side. How long had she been drinking? She seemed to have passed the toujours gai part of the cocktail hour and slipped into the darker humor of her late night drunks. Why did Dad let her do it? The drinks he mixed her were enough to stun an ox. Didn’t he know better? Or did he do it on purpose? Ida lifted the empty glass as Neal approached and jiggled the ice at him.
“Why don’t we all hold off and wait until dinner,” Neal said. “I brought you some nice juice.”
“Neal. Take this goddamn glass and go in the kitchen and get me a goddamn drink. Thank you. Now. Nicky. Give me a hug. Come close. Closer. Don’t be scared. Ouch. Watch out. You stepped on my toe! Ouch ouch, you hurt Grandmère’s toe.”
“You don’t have a toe,” Nicky said.
“Yes I do! You just can’t see it! I have a phantom toe! And now, oh ouch, it’s having phantom pain.”
“So could we just feel phantom guilt about stepping on it?” Kay asked, guiding Nicky off toward the safety of the kitchen.
“Why should you feel anything about it? It’s my problem, isn’t it.” Ida sniffled loudly and covered her face with her hand. Maybe she’ll pass out, Kay prayed. “You’ve got to ignore Grandma when she gets like this,” she whispered.
“It’s Grandmère,” Ida called eerily behind her, “and all I ever am is ignored.”
The acoustics, Kay mouthed to Neal. The acoustics in this house are Satanic. She set Nicky up on the high kitchen counter to draw dinosaurs as she unpacked the salad makings and slipped the casserole into the oven to reheat.
“I’m waiting,” Ida called in an unsteady voice.
“Your drink is coming, Grandmère,” Neal muttered.
“I’m not your grandmère. I’m not that old.”
Nicky giggled and Kay had to grin too. She is awful, Kay thought. But, as Zabeth said, you had to admire her. Fresh out of the hospital and as impossible as ever. She waited until Neal left to take the heavily watered Scotch he had made to Ida, then she opened her purse, extracted the rumpled cigarette, and started to slip it into an open pack Francis had left on the counter. It didn’t want to go in. It bent and buckled. Oh just smoke it, Kay thought.
She picked up a kitchen match, murmured something about needing a clean dishtowel to Nicky, and stepped into the laundry room off the kitchen where she could hide. She struck the match against her shoe, leaned against the dryer, and inhaled deeply. The Merit didn’t draw well, but by the third drag the tobacco finally announced itself: stable hay, sharp as summer sex with a stranger. It made her feel nauseated and excited, evil and doomed. Her heart beat more quickly; her fingertips and toes went ice-cold, her throat burned. She felt scared as a teenager and when the side door banged open and Francis stepped in from the garage, she acted like a teenager, quickly turning to run the cigarette under the laundry sink tap.
“Gotcha.” Francis held a library book under his elbow—the Civil War romance Kay had brought Ida in the hospital. Had he been reading it out in the garage? She remembered last Fourth of July when she had seen him out there, tipped back in the bucket seat of his Porsche, sound asleep. “I thought you were going to set us a good example,” Francis said now, “and quit that vile habit.”
“I have quit,” Kay said. She managed a weak, stupid smile. “It’s just … sometimes.”
“Bad for you,” Francis said. “Very, very bad for you.” He reached into the cupboard over the dryer and brought down a new quart of Chivas Regal. “In case you ever want to know where the good stash is,” he said, “look up here. Del down at the booze boutique gives me a deal when I buy cases. Just don’t tell your mother. She’ll get Greta to bring her bottles in bed. Speaking of not-telling-your-mother”—he reached past Kay and turned the tap back on so the water sounded loudly in the sink—“there’s something else I don’t want her to know.”
Kay prepared for his confession. Zabeth, she thought. He knows I know he’s having lunch with Zabeth. And now he’s going to ask me not to mention it to Mom. She crossed her arms and set her jaw, waiting. But Francis raised clear, tired, innocent eyes. “Jim Deeds and his boys at the hospital found spots,” he said.
“Spots?” Kay stopped, confused.
“On Ida’s lungs. They think she may have TB.”
“On top of everything else? That’s awful. Can they treat it?”
“Oh sure. They can treat anything these days. Just not very well.”
Kay said the first thing that came into her head. “Poor Dad.”
“Not at all. I’m fine. No spots on me. Yet.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. As he bent to his lighter Kay saw his growing baldness. His scalp beneath the strands of stiff grey hair was rosy and freckled and tender as trout skin. She wanted to reach out and touch it, comfort him, if she could, for growing old and having so many worries to deal with. But what could she do? She’d only make things worse. Her hand curled and dropped by her side as he looked up. “Your pushy friend Zabeth,” he said, “wants to meet me for a drug deal on Thursday but that’s the day I have to take Ida in for more X-rays. Think you could call her and cancel? Or I could get Sunny-at-the-Office to do it if you can’t.”
“Sure,” Kay said. She hid a smile of relief. If he won’t even call Zabeth himself, it must not be a “date.” It must be no more to worry about than the “spots.” Tuberculosis was curable these days after all; Ida would be fine. “Do you want me to reschedule?” she asked brightly. She felt like Francis’s loyal, hardworking secretary, Sunny-at-the-Office herself.
“Hey.” Francis turned the water off and cocked his head as Coco yipped from her cage. “I do believe the Lion is telling us that the Christians have arrived. Repent. While there’s still time.” He led the way out of the laundry room and Kay followed him into the kitchen. “Well now, looky,” he crowed. “Sister Stacy and Brother Vic.”
Stacy, her arms wrapped around Nicky at the kitchen counter, tipped her head and giggled, her tongue curling up. She was dressed, as Kay was, in some awful ethnic outfit Francis and Ida had brought back from their travels, but the Swiss dirndl skirt and peasant blouse suited her, emphasized her curves and softness. Kay tugged again at the mandarin collar and resolved to give the damn dress to charity tomorrow. Stacy beamed and swung Nicky back and forth. “What a cutie,” she said. “And getting sooo tall.” Nicky squirmed, thrilled, ducking away as Victor came up to give him a feint to the belly. Victor laughed, flushed and handsome, the one with the looks in the family, his gold hair and blue eyes from Ida, his small nose and long lashes from Francis. He and Kay exchanged cold grins, then he turned to Francis and shook his hand.
“How’s it going, Dad,” he said. “You holding up okay? Just saw Mom out there in the living room. She looks great as ever.”
“She keeps getting shorter,” Francis complained.
“Sure. But hey. What a constitution, you know? Just back from the hospital? Old Neal couldn’t take it. He’s white as a sheet. Watching the football game.”
“He is?” Kay reached for the wine and poured herself a glass.
“Yeah. Mom was telling him about the doctors and stuff and he just got up and went into the TV room. But Mom’s cool about it.”
“She’s super,” Stacy said.
“She is indeed,” Francis agreed. “Runs on blood, guts, and alcohol.”
“Unless Neal makes my drinks,” Ida called from the living room, “then I run on tap water. Someone bring me a real drink?” She shook the ice in her glas
s.
“Coming, dear,” Francis said, tiptoeing backward.
“Smells delish,” Stacy said, moving to make Ida’s drink for her.
“Not bad,” Victor agreed. “What kind of wine did you use with the beef?”
“Same kind I drink.”
“Yeah? Night Train?”
“Children,” Francis said. “Don’t forget: you’re not anymore.” He disappeared into the laundry room and Kay heard him open the back door and pad into the garage. He still had the book, she remembered. And the quart of Chivas. And—her eyes scanned the countertop—the pack of Merit 100s. He could sit in the Porsche and read and drink and smoke in peace until dinner. A real family man. Not as macho as Neal though. Actually getting up and walking away while Ida told him about her operation: that was extraordinary. That took passive-aggressive to a whole new level. “He doesn’t have enough fire for you,” Ida had said the first time she’d met Neal. And she was right. Charles Lichtman had fire. But Charles Lichtman would probably never speak to her again.
“Want to help?” she asked Victor. “You could set the table.”
“Better get Stacy to do that. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to Mom yet.”
“Amazing.” Kay watched him walk out of the kitchen carrying the fresh drink Stacy had measured and poured. “Does he help you out at home?”
Stacy giggled, her tongue pink through pink lips. “He’s sort of traditional,” she admitted. Then, “Look at you.”
Kay looked. Terrible dress, torn hose, terrible shoes. “What?”
“Cute.”
“Cute?”
“Really cute.”
“Thank you.” Kay wondered when, if ever, she and Stacy would have a real conversation. Perhaps it was impossible. Yet she knew there was more to Stacy than this weird little female impersonator she appeared to be: She had survived gonorrhea and a conversion to Christianity so total that she and Victor had torn up their marijuana plants by the root and written a joint letter of confession to the local papers, recanting their past lives as “helpless hopeless hippies.” She taught Sunday School, helped edit a right-to-life newsletter, and read the Bible to blind people once a week.
“Let’s get the table done together,” Kay suggested. “I’ll do the silver if you’ll get the napkins.”
They used crystal and linen and hand-painted china. Someone—Francis?—had set the banged-up bleeding heart in the center of the table. Kay lifted it off, set it outside on the deck to die, and replaced it with red leaves she quickly ripped off a Japanese maple in the dark by the swimming pool. All the Sunday dinners as far back as she could remember had been this formal, with candles and monogrammed napkin holders and the salt and pepper clogged inside the old silver shakers. She straightened a corner of the lace tablecloth, then hurried back into the kitchen to slice the French bread, make the salad dressing, unwrap the butter. Sometimes she felt as if she were on roller skates here, or in some old movie, jerkily zipping from chore to chore like a silent actor. She poured more wine into her glass, drained it quickly, and poured just a touch more. She started to slice tomatoes into the salad bowl but jumped when Francis came in from the garage. He pointed at the cut she had just given herself, right above the burn on her thumb.
“Anything in that salad,” he asked, “besides blood?”
Five
“I could eat a cat,” Ida said, as Victor wheeled her to her place at the head of the table. “I’ve never been so hungry. They don’t feed you in the hospital. Do you know what people die of in the hospital? Nicky? Do you? Malnutrition!” She lifted one arm and plucked the loose skin. “I’m malnutrified. Do you know what size this dress is? Kay? Do you? Six. Size six. I haven’t worn a size six since I was nineteen.”
“You were nineteen for five years,” Francis reminded her.
“Oh joke, joke. Now I’m the same size as Glo Sinclair.”
“Mrs. Sinclair’s a two,” Stacy said. “But you’re cuter than her.”
Ida’s smile faltered, then flew through the candlelight. “She,” she corrected. “I’m cuter than she.” She paused, delighted with herself. “I really am, too, aren’t I?”
Stacy laughed and patted the chair next to her for Nicky, who slipped into it shyly. Francis said, “What’s this? Eating again? I thought we ate yesterday,” and wandered off down the hall. Victor stared into the candle flames, silent. Kay raced back and forth with the salad, bread, plates of steaming bourguignon, a special platter of lentils and steamed vegetables for Neal. She set it down and went to see where he was; he might still be watching the football game. But then she heard his voice in the hall, talking to Francis, which was odd, because after the first few attempts, he and Francis had settled into silence years ago. But now he was going on and on, using that monotone she hated so. It must have irritated Francis too, for she heard him say, impatient, “Not now, later, come into the office and we’ll talk about it next week,” and then the two of them appeared, expressionless, and took their places. Kay tried to catch Neal’s eye—what was going on?—but he ignored her. She hoped it wasn’t about money. She had made him promise years ago never to ask her parents for money.
She sat down, shook her napkin out and touched her fork, waiting for Ida to take the first bite. But Ida sat with her head bent, not moving. So did Stacy, Victor, and, after a second, Nicky and Neal. Kay appealed to Francis but Francis only shrugged. Scowling, she bent her own head. They had never said grace when she was growing up.
“We thank you Dear Lord,” Victor intoned, “for returning my mother home safe from the hospital after her successful leg treatment and we celebrate her return to good health with the fruits of Thy bounty. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Ida.
“Leg treatment?” Kay stopped at Neal’s warning look and tried not to laugh. This was probably what he meant by her “tricks.”
“When can we hear your concert?” Stacy said, after a minute. “Ida says you’re going to play with an orchestra.”
“It’s not a real concert.” Kay reached for her wine and took a deep sip. “And it’s not a real orchestra. Just some people from town. We sound pretty awful so far.” She watched Victor cut a piece of meat and chew it, intent. “I have more formal training, with my one year at the conservatory, than anyone else in the group,” she added. “If that tells you anything.”
“The director’s in love with her,” Neal said.
“Well of course,” said Ida. “Who wouldn’t be? You big fool,” she added under her breath.
“You used fresh thyme,” Victor announced.
“Yes.” Kay waited.
“It makes all the difference.” Victor continued his slow, thoughtful chewing. “Where’d you find it?”
“I grow it.”
Victor nodded, swallowed, said, “Good.” Kay sat back, ridiculously relieved, and took another sip of wine. Ida, beside her, ate with quick inept greed, her knife scraping back and forth on her plate, food falling off her overfilled fork.
“Oh damn,” Ida said, tearful. “I’ve gone and spilled on my new size six. Nicky, mon cher, would you do me a favor? Come here and tie a bib around my neck?” Nicky glanced at Kay, who nodded. He stood up slowly. “You always think I’m going to bite you,” Ida complained. She handed him her napkin. “Now just tie it around my neck as if I were a baby.” She opened her mouth wide and flapped her hands. “Waaaa,” she cried. “Waaaa. Waaaa.” Nicky bent his head and tied. “That’s good,” Ida said. “You’re a good baby bib tier.”
“Now you can spill as much as you want to, dear,” Francis said from his end of the table.
“It’s too good to spill.” Ida looked directly at Kay. “You don’t know how hungry I’ve been.”
Her voice was flat and factual and Kay, held by her darkened gaze, paused, hearing the truth. Every so often she saw her mother’s life as it really was, stripped of its glamour and clownishness. Just the hard, quiet, bare-boards life of an invalid. Tomorrow, Kay thought, while we’re all out in the wo
rld, she will still be in that wheelchair, alone, in pain, and she will still be there the day after and the day after that. She will never walk or run again. She’s stuck. It’s real. And it’s terrible! Terrible! She looked away.
“Speaking of spilling,” Ida said loudly, and laughed, for Nicky just then tipped over his milk. Kay hurried to the kitchen for a sponge. When she returned, Ida was saying, “Sticky Nicky, Sticky Nicky”; Neal was saying, “That’s what happens when you give kids milk”; Victor was saying, “Our church raised four hundred dollars to buy dry milk for children in Tanzania”; Stacy was saying, “They sent us the cutest thank-you letter”; and Francis was saying, “Kay used to throw her milk out the window to get rid of it. Don’t know why she thought we wouldn’t notice the hydrangeas turning white.”
Victor gave his insincere salesman’s laugh and cleared his throat. “I remember I threw a fried egg out the window once and Dad brought it back inside on a garden trowel and made Kay eat it.”
“Why did she have to eat it?” Nicky asked, interested.
“I don’t know,” Victor said.
“It was filthy,” Kay remembered. She looked up from the tablecloth she was sponging. “It had dirt all over it and it was greasy cold and it was Victor’s egg.” She turned to Francis. “Why did I have to eat it?”
Francis shrugged and pushed his plate back. “Don’t ask me. I had to go to work, remember. I couldn’t hang around the house all day checking up on who threw whose hard-earned food out the window.”
“Anyway,” Victor said, “payback came when I got punished for picking the gold letters off the piano—which is something you did, Kay.”
“But I didn’t,” Kay protested.
“You’re both liars,” Ida said evenly. “Thieves and liars.”
“Peasants,” Francis agreed. “Your mother and uncle,” he added, turning to Nicky, “were very bad children.”
No we weren’t, Kay thought. She carried the milk-sodden sponge back into the kitchen and rinsed it out. We were good: much better than we are now. Obedient, quiet, eager to please. I got straight A’s and came home every day to practice the piano for two and a half hours. Victor was a Boy Scout. I did all the housework. Victor mowed the lawn. And what were they doing all that time? Mother was either at dance lessons, tennis lessons, ceramic lessons, painting lessons, French lessons, meditation lessons, aqua ballet, or flower arranging; Dad was either at work or playing golf. When we came in to kiss them goodnight they’d be propped side by side in their huge bed, Dad with a murder mystery, Mom with some homework assignment, both of them with a lit cigarette in one hand and a nightcap in the other. They’d look up as if they’d never seen us before. We should have worn name tags. She remembered the friends she’d brought over who’d asked to leave in the middle of dinner; the friends Victor had over who cried for their own beds at midnight.
