“Hot dogs, potato salad, baked beans.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t none of you worry.”
He found the switches and restored the safe darkness. No sooner had he settled on the couch with his newspaper than from the distance there came voices and heavy footsteps. The space outside flared up anew, showing George two tall, youngish white men clumping through his neighborhood towards his house. He stood up quickly. In an instant Louise and the children were at his side.
“Hey,” one of the strangers called, “what’s going on here? What are you people doing?”
“Living,” George said. “My wife’s fixing dinner. My children are doing their homework. The baby don’t do much of anything yet, you know how it is.”
The intruders, holding cardboard coffee cups, stared at each other for a long moment. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the same man, “but if you go quietly now you won’t get into trouble.”
“You’re at my door, but you’re not saying who you are.”
“Your door! For Chrissake ... Okay, okay, I’m the assistant producer and this is the cameraman. We’re shooting an hour-long special in the morning and we need to set up the apartment upstairs. You get it? This is no real place to live.”
“It may not be real,” Louise said, surprising George, “but we are real.”
“I’m real,” said Ronald.
“I’m real too,” said Coralie, and the baby echoed it, as he always did.
“You’re real, sure!” exclaimed the assistant producer. “I’m not quarreling with that. I can also see you’re new here, the way you talk. But the fact is, this is not meant for living in.”
“But I’ve seen people living in it,” said Louise. “And we’re realer than they are.”
“Well, that’s just the point!” he blurted. But then he stopped short.
“Don’t you see, man,” said George equably, “if we’re real and we live here, that makes it a real place to live.”
“Listen. Listen!” The assistant producer began pacing and waving his arms distractedly, like a character in a TV family. “I am not going to stand here having this ... this ridiculous discussion. You don’t belong here and I’m asking you politely to leave. Will you leave now?”
“I’m willing to pay rent,” George said. “Nobody ask me before. Maybe I can’t pay all you want, but I can pay something. We’re both working people.” An image flashed by him—his ordinary family of five, earning their keep by doing their natural living on TV, in front of the cameras. They could speak up loud and clear, act out little scenes, whatever was required. Ronald could be pretty funny when he was in the mood, and the baby was certainly as cute as any TV baby.
“It’s not a question of paying rent! It’s just not the way things work here! Now, for the last time, if you don’t leave I’ll have to call the police and we’ll all waste a lot of time.”
“You going to have the whole family arrested?” George let out a short laugh. “The baby too? What for? My wife for boiling hot dogs? My little girl for doing her spelling? Who are we hurting? What kind of city is this, anyway? No, man. You carry on with your stuff out there, we carry on with our living. We don’t bother you none, you don’t bother us.” He would yield no more. The swift image had evaporated. In truth, he did not wish to live on TV, to make a ranting clown of himself like the small mustached man who lived on the screen, nor to have Louise show herself off like the spunky, long-suffering wife. He wanted his real life in the real world, though it appeared to have no place for him.
“This is too weird,” groaned the cameraman to the other in disgust. “I’m getting to work. I don’t know about you, but I want to get home before midnight.” He tossed his jacket onto a stool and began wheeling one of the cameras to a nearby set.
“Thanks a lot,” the assistant producer called out. All in a row, the family faced him, proclaiming their existence, occupying the space as if it would take heavy machinery to dislodge them. “What are you people planning to do? Stay here all night?”
“First we’ll have our dinner,” George replied, “sit around with the kids, maybe watch some TV. You know.”
“Goddamn!” The assistant producer made fists and struck his own forehead. “Goddamn! What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“These are young children,” George warned. “They don’t hear that kind of talk in the home.”
“Sorry,” the man muttered. “Sorry.”
Killing the Bees
AFTER USE AND MITCH had both been stung twice, Mitch sprayed insecticide around the flower beds at the side of the house, where the bees seemed to congregate. But the very next day Cathy, their youngest child, got stung on the back of the neck. It was a bright May afternoon, the three of them out on the lawn with the Sunday papers, Cathy plugged into her Walkman. Quiet Ilse made a great fuss, jumped up and grabbed a handful of damp soil from the flower bed to slap on the bite, then crooned soothing words—as if, Cathy said with a brave patronizing smile, she were an infant and not almost fifteen.
“But doesn’t it hurt a lot?”
“It hurts, Mom, but I’ll live.”
“What’s the matter?” Mitch must have been dozing behind the travel section. He rearranged his body in the lawn chair and blinked, trying to look alert. He was a graying man of fifty-three, handsome in a ruddy, solid, ex-athlete’s way, with strikingly pale blue eyes. He owned a chain of hardware stores. A safe man, Ilse thought each evening when he returned from work. And decent, competent, sexy: mornings, watching him dress—the ritual bending, reaching, zipping, and buttoning—she felt a reflexive pleasure, compounded with satisfaction, like the interest on capital, at how durable this pleasure had proved. If that was love, then she loved him well enough.
“It’s those bees again. We really must do something about them. Poor baby. Come, let me wash it and put on some ointment.”
“God, what would you do if I had rabies?”
Ilse knew why she was making a fuss: the one time she herself had been stung as a child—at four years old—her usually attentive mother hardly seemed to care. That baffling lapse, the utter failure to respond properly, even more than the throng at the airport or the loudspeaker barking, the pinched, scared faces and the forest of gleaming tall boots, told Ilse something portentous was happening. Her father had already kissed them goodbye and disappeared, leaving her mother teary, and she was close to tears again five minutes later, showing some papers to a mustached, uniformed man at a desk, who waved his clipboard in the air and called them to a halt in a gritty voice. Soon, like a little firecracker fizzling out, he spat a bad name at them and sent them on. Her mother was tugging her by the hand, rushing towards the stairs at the plane, when Ilse let out a howl.
“Shh! Don’t make noise. What is it?”
“Something is in my dress! In back!”
Her mother yanked at the dress and slapped her back hard—to kill the bee, she said later—but that only made the sting worse.
“Be still now, Ilse!” she ordered. “I’ll take care of it afterwards.”
But Ilse wailed running up the stairs, and as they entered the plane people looked up disapprovingly. Her mother kept her head bowed. Only when they were above the clouds did she become herself again, rubbing spit on the sting till Ilse calmed down.
“When we meet our cousins,” she said, belatedly kissing the sore spot, “can you say ‘How do you do,’ in English? How do you do?” She exaggerated the shape of the words on her lips and Ilse repeated. How do you do. But for long after, she felt betrayed in her moment of need.
In England, when she asked for her father, her mother said, “He’s coming. He’ll come as soon as he can.” In time she understood there was a war going on: the children at school wouldn’t let her play and made fun of the way she spoke. Her mother couldn’t get a job and often they were hungry. Just as the hunger was becoming unbearable, food would appear, Ilse never knew how. If she complained, her mother said cryptically,
“Still, we’re lucky. Lucky.” She stopped asking about her father and eventually the war was over. When they went looking for a flat in London she heard her mother tell the landladies he was killed in the war. Then her mother would murmur some words very low, as if she were embarrassed, and the landladies’ granite faces would loosen a bit, and a Mrs. Soloway finally let them have a room.
In bed with Mitch that night, Ilse heard a humming noise, muffled, but rhythmic and relentless like the plangent moan of an infirmary.
“Listen. Do you hear anything?” she whispered.
“Only you breathing.” Mitch lay with his head on her stomach, his arms locked around her hips. Always, after they made love, his voice was heavy and sweet with a childlike contentment. “You sound sensational, Ilse. Do it a little harder.” He began kissing her belly again.
She smiled even though the noise agitated her. “Not that, silly. Listen. It sounds like something in the wall.”
He groaned and sat up, businesslike, turning on the lamp as if that could make the noise clearer. They stared at each other, concentrating, and indeed enlightenment came. “I bet it’s those fucking bees. They’ve managed to get into the wall now. Jesus Christ!” He turned away to roll himself in the sheets.
“Hey, I didn’t put them there,” Ilse said softly. “Come on back.”
“You know what I’ll have to do now? Make a hole in the goddamn wall and spray inside. Just what we needed. A bee colony.”
“My sweet baby,” she said, stroking him. “My prince to the rescue. My Saint George killing the dragon.”
“It’s going to stink to high heaven,” he said.
Mitch slept, but hours later Ilse was still trapped in wakefulness by the humming noise. She pictured a gigantic swarm of bees fluttering their wings together in the dark, a shuddering jellylike mass. It was an unbearable sound, ominous, droning. Of course, she thought. Drones.
The next two evenings Mitch forgot to bring the extra-strength spray home from the store. On the third day Ilse phoned to remind him. “Look, I hate to keep nagging, but I’ve hardly slept.”
“They can’t come out, Ilse.”
“I know. I’m not afraid of bees anyway. It’s the noise. Just bring it, will you please?”
After dinner he listened with his ear to the wall for the place where the noise was loudest, then chipped with a screwdriver until a tiny hole appeared. Quickly he shoved a small rectangle of shirt cardboard over the hole, and using that as a shield, made the hole bigger. When it was about a half inch in diameter, he told Ilse to go out of the room and close the door. She closed the door but stayed, standing back. It didn’t seem fair to protect herself while he was in danger. Besides, she felt an eerie fascination. Mitch moved the cardboard aside and inserted the nozzle of the spray can. The smell was nasty and stinging, but not as bad as she had imagined. Then he covered the hole again and they fixed the cardboard to the wall with thumbtacks. Ilse heard a sharp crackling like the sound of damp twigs catching a flame.
“What’s that?”
“It’s them. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Let’s just hope it gets them all.”
A wave of nausea and dizziness assaulted her, and she lay down till it passed. That night she slept well, in blissful silence.
The following morning, one of her days off—she worked as a part-time secretary at a law firm in town—she was outside, kneeling to put in the marigolds, when she noticed a patch a few feet off that looked like speckled black velvet. She crawled closer. The corpses of bees, hundreds, thousands, the obscene remains of a massacre. She had never thought about where they would go, never thought further than getting rid of them. Why hadn’t they simply rotted in the wall unseen? Peering up, she spied a dark mass the size of a cantaloupe, attached like a tumor to the outside wall not far from their bedroom window, and almost hidden by the thick leaves of the maple. Somehow they had never thought to look for a hive, but now it seemed obvious.
Ilse was not squeamish. She had disposed of dead ants and flies and even mice, but the sight of the slaughtered bees paralyzed her. She knelt in the garden for a long time, then dragged herself inside and phoned Mitch, but when he answered she found she couldn’t tell him right away.
“This must be our lucky day,” she said instead. “Both wanderers heard from.” There had been a postcard from their son, Brian, who was working on a cattle ranch in Wyoming, and another from Melissa, who had just completed her second year of law school and, with three girlfriends, was recuperating for a week in Jamaica before starting her summer job.
“That’s great.” He sounded distracted.
Stammering a bit, Ilse mentioned the dead bees and the hive near the bedroom window.
“A hive, eh? I should have known. Well, just sweep them up, Ilse, okay? I’ll have a look when I get home.”
“Yes, well—you can’t imagine how hideous ... These are enormous bees. It’s like a battlefield. ... What should I do with them?”
“Do with them? Put them in the garbage, sweetheart. Unless you want to hold a mass funeral.”
“I see I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Ilse, it’s just that I’ve got a store full of customers. Leave it if you can’t do it. Or have Cathy do it. It’s not worth bickering over.”
She tried sweeping them into a dustpan, but as she watched the bodies roll and tumble, the wings and feelers lacing and tangling, she felt faint. Finally she abandoned the task and left the marigolds, too, for another day. When Cathy came home from school she asked her to do it and Cathy obliged, with pungent expressions of disgust but no apparent difficulty.
Mitch got on a ladder and sprayed the hive. There was silence for several nights and they thought it was over. Then Ilse woke before dawn and heard the humming in the wall, fainter, but still insistent. She began to weep, very quietly, so as not to wake Mitch.
After the war her mother got a clerical job at the National Gallery in London, where she met an American tour guide and married him.
“We’re going to have a new life, darling,” she told Ilse excitedly. Mostly they spoke German when they were alone, but her mother said this in English. “We’re going to America with Robbie. Denver. You’ll love it, I know.” Ilse nodded. She was a silent child, the kind who seems full of secrets. At school she had few friends, was politely enigmatic, and did her work adequately, but the teachers nonetheless accused her of dreaming. In America she changed. Robbie was all right; he looked like a cowboy and sounded like Gary Cooper, and Ilse treated him as a casual friend of the family. But she did love America. No one shunned her. They liked her British accent and were eager to hear stories of life in London. I can be a normal girl, she whispered to herself one morning in the mirror. From now on. And she behaved as she perceived other normal girls to behave, a tactic which worked so well that she adopted it for the rest of her life. Meanwhile, when she was old enough to understand, around Cathy’s age, she went on a binge of reading books about the war, till she was satisfied that she comprehended what had happened to her father, what his final years or months had been like, and had lived them in her bones up to the point where his own bones lay in a ditch, indistinguishable from the millions of others.
“You never talk about him.” She expected her mother would hedge and say, About who? but she was mistaken.
“What can I say? He died in the war.”
“But I mean, about how.”
“Do you know how?” her mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, so do I. So ...”
She was craving a significant scene, tears and embraces, or lies and shouting, culminating in cloak-and-dagger truths, secret horrors not included in any books, and above all in profundities vast enough to connect the past to the present, but her mother offered nothing.
“Did you cry?”
“What a question, Ilse. I cried plenty, yes.”
But she was not about to cry anew for Ilse. They were lucky, her mother repeated with lips stiff and quaking. “Rem
ember all your life what a lucky person you are.” Ilse fled from the room. Now she had long forgiven her mother. At the time they boarded the plane for London, she realized, the day she got stung, her mother was twenty-four years old. A girl the age of Melissa, who was swimming and dancing in the Caribbean moonlight and about to earn extravagant sums of money. And at the time of their talk, her mother had known Robbie for as long as she had known Ilse’s father. Her mother was truly lucky. In compassion, Ilse stopped pestering her and let her live her lucky life.
Twice more Mitch moved aside the cardboard and sprayed into the hole. Twice more the bees crackled, the room smelled, and the nights were silent, then the noise returned.
“It’s no use. We need an exterminator.” And he sighed a husbandly sigh of overwork.
“I’ll take care of that.” Ilse was expert at arranging for services and dealing with repairmen. In the yellow pages she found just what was needed: Ban-the-Bug, which promised to rid your home of pests for good. Ban-the-Bug’s logo was a familiar black-bordered circle with a black line running diagonally through the center. Three times a week Ilse saw that same symbol, but in red, on the door of Ban-the-Bomb, a local group with a small office opposite her own. Except instead of the mushroom cloud in the center, Ban-the-Bug’s circle displayed a repulsive insect suggesting a cross between a winged cockroach and a centipede. The black line was firm and categorical: it meant, Ilse knew, No More, Get Rid Of, Verboten.
On the telephone, she did not even have to supply details. Ban-the-Bug understood all about the problem and would send a man over late that afternoon.
“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to hear that sound again,” a reassuring, motherly voice told Ilse.
Never again. She would sleep in peace. The soothing promise echoed as she shopped and chatted in the market and set out on the kitchen counter all the ingredients for a Chinese dinner. With another secretary from the law firm she was taking a course in Chinese cooking, and Mitch and Cathy had been teasing her for a demonstration. Cathy had brought a friend home from school, and both girls volunteered to help. As Ilse sautéed garlic and ginger, the kitchen filled with a luxurious, tangy odor. She chopped the pork and set the girls to work on the peppers and scallions and cabbage.
The Melting Pot Page 11
