Did you have a good flight? I asked her. I was feeling a pressure between and behind my eyes, a desire to cover them, close them. I got out of the stiff, functional hotel chair and made my way toward the sofa, with its satin stripes, grape and vanilla. Naomi’s eyes widened. You don’t seem well, she said, and she heard the edge in her voice as much as I did so she repeated the observation, but softer the second time. I’m fine, I said. A bit tired. I’ll bet you are, my mother said. As she said this she pointed at me, and then at the side of her own head, and then at me once more.
I was bleeding again. The human head, in addition to its other freight, is awash in blood.
I excused myself and retreated to her bathroom. The stark, dazzling cleanliness of Norwegian things! The shallow white parallelogram of a sink gleamed; the tile floor looked as if it had never been stepped on. Open-heart surgery has been performed in rooms less clean than this one. The mirror was spotless; I hated to disturb it with my unshaved, unkempt, bleeding upper half. I turned on the bright silver faucet. The water was icy, and I brought a couple of handfuls to my face. What a pleasure. I felt Deirdre’s hands on my waist and I backed into her, causing her to tighten her grip on me, such are the simple pleasures, the little mercies life can offer. Where would we be without these things, without contact, without caresses, without the knowledge that someone wants to touch you? I hated to do it, but I needed one of those towels. I needed to dry my face, and I needed to press the towel against the side of my head to soak up that persistent trickle of goo. I pulled the pristine towel off its equally pristine crystal rod. I looked around the bathroom and saw that I was alone. I knew all along Deirdre was not there, that I had imagined it, I wasn’t that far gone, but thinking that, saying to myself Of course it was my imagination, was not nearly so convincing as the feel of her hands on my hips. The chic little black telephone fixed on the marble wall rang, and this time Naomi picked up. I heard her say Hello, with her familiar little interrogative warble.
I wandered back into the suite, tying the towel around my head so I wouldn’t have to hold it any longer. Tying a towel around your head is difficult for beginners. It kept flopping down in front of my eyes. I’m sorry, it’s just not possible, my mother was saying to whoever had called her. Who could it be, if not Romulus? Well, thank you, that’s very nice of you, she said, softly. I finally got the towel wrapped right, and I walked to the window, wondering if my mother’s suite on a higher floor might give me a better look at Oslo. First, the sky, bluebird blue, with the long narrow clouds gliding along like albino alligators. I looked down at Seventh Avenue, an artery jammed with the plaque of traffic, mainly yellow taxicabs except for one nonambulatory ambulance, stopped in the middle, its warning lights spinning out a frenzy of red shudders. I snapped my fingers. Of course! I finally remembered how I’d gotten to the emergency room after my mishap back in New York. Someone had called an ambulance. Finding that missing piece filled me with confidence and sweet relief. I turned from the window and said Mom? But she put up a finger to quiet me because she was still talking to Romulus, who, I gathered, was having a problem taking No for an answer, since he had been primed to believe he would have at least ten days of life in which no woman would deny him anything, though surely neither Castle nor Gabrielle would have dared to suggest, even in the heat of, say, encouraging Romulus to spring for the Platinum, that he would have access to another tour member’s mother. Okay, okay, my mother was saying, now you’re just exaggerating. Exaggerating what? I said, reaching for the phone, ready to take it out of her hands and start shouting threats at Linwood, who I imagined was making some overtly sexual remarks, but my mother turned her back to me and tossed her shoulder in my direction, as if to shoo me away. I’ll call you later, she said. No you won’t, I said, loud enough for Linwood to hear. Yes, she said, I remember. Room 625. But Rom, I suggest you participate in the program that’s been arranged for you. And with that she hung up the phone and stood with her back turned toward me, shaking her head.
This is really too much, Mom, I said. What am I supposed to do? she said, still not facing me. Well you’re certainly not supposed to be forming relationships with men on the tour. She nodded her head, took a deep breath. Who is he anyhow? I don’t know anything about him, she said. He says he’s rich, but he doesn’t seem rich. He’s a door-to-door knife salesman, Mom. And what difference does it make? Why are you here? The towel I had so carefully tied around my head was slipping, covering my eyes, and I was forced to unwrap it. An inkblot of blood had seeped into the center of it. You poor thing, she said. I knew I did the right thing, coming here. We’ve got to get you to a doctor. I don’t need a doctor, Mom. I’m okay, I’m fine. I just need a little rest, if anything.
The curtains were parted and I leaned over, tugged on them to close the gap. My mother folded her hands, placed them on the table, and she said When you got married straight out of college I was very upset. Did you know that? No, I said, I didn’t. Well, I was. You seemed so young and so uncertain. She, of course, was madly in love with you. Why of course? I asked. Oh, stop. What are you, fishing for compliments? You were quite a catch. So charming and so handsome. That’s insane, I said. You’re insane, she countered, with considerable force. You know, Avery, one day you’re going to have children, and you’ll understand how painful it is to see them making mistakes, especially if they make the same mistakes you yourself made, that’s what hurts the most. It’s what a friend of mine down in Nosara calls the old double whammy. You feel bad because your child is in trouble, and you feel bad on top of that because it’s trouble that maybe he inherited from you.
I tried to take this in, I really did. I nodded, swallowed, gave it time. But, finally, I could not stop myself from saying You actually think your friend in Costa Rica coined the phrase double whammy? What in the hell is wrong with you? my mother shouted.
It might have been the architecture of the room, or perhaps it was the silence that followed her outburst, but my mother’s voice seemed to echo. I don’t know if you ever outgrow the deep, instinctual fear of being shouted at by your mother. My heart curled up in my chest, like a caterpillar that’s been poked with a stick. I was not used to my mother shouting at me—she left the heavy lifting of child rearing to the fathers, while she herself tried to keep me in line with quick, urgent glances, pursed lips, and an occasional tug at my arm when she would walk me into the next room to counsel patience. You’re just making things worse, she’d say to me. You’re digging a hole for yourself. What’s the point of arguing? He’s tired. He’s had a bad day. You know how he gets. Sometimes the little boy needs to act like the grown-up. Don’t make me ashamed. He’s been so generous. Just go upstairs and be quiet; I’ll take care of it.
Listen to me, she said. I really want to put things right between us. I thought so as soon as I heard you were hurt. You did? I said. Yes, of course, but now, here, seeing what you’re doing, it seems more important that ever. This thing, Avery, this thing between us, this thing that goes around and around in your head, it’s gone on long enough; it’s time to put it right. Put what right, Mom? I really don’t know what you mean. I mean you and me, that’s what I mean, that’s what I want to put right. The whole mess of it. Starting with your father, your real father, who stood over your cradle and wrung his hands and gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t cry, that’s how happy he was, that’s how crazy about you he was, that’s how much he loved you. Oh Mom, don’t. I don’t think I can take this. Not now. Well, you’re going to have to, because I came a long way to talk to you, and who knows when we’re going to have another chance. Your father, your father was the love of my life, and being able to give him something so precious, giving him that, a baby, his son, it was the most wonderful thing I was ever able to do. That’s not very modern, I realize that. But I loved that man. You think we didn’t know anything about birth control? We had it all—better than there is now, if you ask me. But I said Plant your seed in me, we’ll keep it in there, protect it, we’ll let it grow
and grow and then one day a child will come; I don’t care if I’m too young, I don’t care if it hurts. I was just a kid, and I was scared to death. My mother had filled me with such horror stories of childbirth, I was sure I was going to be torn into shreds.
The telephone rang. My mother gave no indication of even hearing it. Andrew Kearney was a different story, Naomi was saying. What we had in common was we both loved your father. And that wasn’t enough. I never should have married anyone when I was so unhappy. I was still madly in love with Ted. I married hastily and it ended. Is that a crime? I wanted to be loved, and I wanted to love someone. Do you think I don’t know I made a mistake? I go over these things, over and over them. They say that having time to think is a luxury; well then bad memories is the luxury tax.
I guess it was the name-changing thing that ended up bothering me the most, I said, hardly feeling it, but saying it anyhow out of loyalty to myself because I had felt it for so long, it was a feeling that had amassed enough seniority to have the right to be expressed, even if its time had passed. I know, Avery, I know. But we were in a complicated situation. First of all, you hardly remembered your real father. And given the circumstances of his death, I thought it would be best if I could start you on a fresh path and not have you carry around a name filled with so much sadness. I didn’t want all the kids in school to ask a lot of questions about your name, like Who is your father? Where is he? How did he die? And the other thing was, your father stole money from Andrew, and having that name in the house could have been a problem. But didn’t you just say that you and Kearney loved my father, and that was the main thing you had in common? It’s never that simple, Avery. You know that. Everything has layers; every little string has a hundred knots. Come on, you’re a writer, you should know this.
Ringing. At first, I thought it was the telephone; then I realized it was the door. Is this going to be Romulus Linwood? I asked my mother. She frowned. Get over it, Avery. Given the nature of your little journey, I don’t think you can begrudge me striking up a conversation with someone I meet in a hotel lobby. The doorbell rang again. Avery? a voice called out. It’s me, it’s Nina. Are you in there? Can you open the door?
I got up to let her in, but my mother reached for me with great urgency. No, Avery, please. I know who’s at the door, one of the prostitutes, right? This has got to stop, Avery, I mean it. You can’t do this. It’s a little late for that, I said. If you let her in I’m leaving, she said. I’m going to get up and go right down to Romulus’s room, and I’m not kidding.
I hear you in there, Avery! Nina called through the door. Please open for me, I have massive information. Hold on for a second, I shouted back at her. Then, to my mother, Come on, this is insane. I can’t just leave her out in the hall. I’m going to let her in and see what she wants. I could tell by my mother’s expression she was uncertain what to do next, and so I pressed my point. Please, Mom, it’ll be fine. Oh, you’re full of charm, aren’t you? That was the one thing Gene worried about. Gene? Well, you know, he was such a basic, honest person, he didn’t trust charm. And he saw how you would try and charm people, work them this way and that, spin things so you’d get your way. He thought there was something just a little bit sneaky in you.
Gene said that? About me? I felt what little strength I had desert me. It was like staggering around, trying to keep your balance after being hit by a wave, only to be hit by another. Nina rang the doorbell again, and then again. We all know what you did to help Heidi, Nina said though the door. In the elevator with the ice. That was good, Avery. Oh, don’t take it so hard, my mother was saying. There are things he did for you, you don’t even know about them. He couldn’t have loved you more. It was one of the main reasons I married him. Because I knew Gene Jankowsky loved you. It was the main thing we most had in common, did you know that? The main thing. He was all about art and a sort of hippie nature-worship thing—which, by the way, I understand a lot more now than I did then—and our sex life was a disaster. Especially after Norman. Blake? I cried out. I hate even hearing his name! I know he was moody, my mother said. Why do you think I put up with it? Not that it was right, not that I don’t wish I would have thrown him out on his ear the first moment I noticed he was being so hard on you, not that I haven’t cried myself to sleep many a night thinking about the things I let that bastard get away with. But nature had been very generous with Norman. Oh please, Mom, this is really making me ill. She smiled, placed her hand over her heart. Oh my, she said. You’re like a child. Don’t you want your mother to have been happy at least once in her life? You were happy with Blake? Well, that’s what I’m saying, yes, I was, in that way. If only he hadn’t been so goddamned grumpy. Grumpy? Mom, he was a sadist. She shook her head. You love to argue about words, don’t you.
The doorbell rang again, and this time the knocking that followed was louder, made by a heavier hand. Avery, open up. We’re getting out of here. It was Lincoln Castle. Meet in the lobby in ten minutes. I looked at my mother. I have to see what’s going on, I said. She waved, conceding the point, and I opened the door. Castle and Nina hurried in, as if to gain their perch inside the room before I changed my mind.
What’s going on? I asked Castle. Webb got carried away, he said, and we’re getting out of Dodge. If we don’t, we’re going to get bogged down in a real mess. He got carried away? I asked. How far did he go? Don’t worry, Castle said. We’re not taking him with us. He can clean up his own mess. Nina was at my side now. She linked her arm through mine, leaned her head against my shoulder. Well, look at that, Castle said. That’s what I like to see; that’s what makes it all worth it. Do you mind? He reached in his pocket, pulled out a digital camera, and before I could object or turn away he pressed the button and the little window in the camera’s corner, no larger than a postage stamp, exploded in blinding white light.
Are you all right? Naomi asked. She held a flute of white wine; she was tilted far back in her leather seat. We were in the Fleming jet, banking over the choppy gray Baltic, coming in toward Riga. Our pilot, Beau Clark, or maybe it was his brother Francis, was chatting up Piedmont near the back of the plane, laughing at everything Michael said. Clark may have misjudged how close we were to the Riga airport because suddenly he was walking very quickly—almost running—toward the cockpit. That’s a disquieting sight, isn’t it, I said to my mother. Seeing your pilot running. Yes, well, she said, if you’re in a certain kind of mood everything seems like it’s a sign that something bad is going to happen. I looked around. Stephanie was sitting with Len, who seemed to have plunged into still deeper despair. Tony was wrapped in a blanket; all that was visible of him was his face, his open mouth; he was sleeping, but he looked dead. Linwood was talking to one of the Metal Men and making something of a show of being absorbed in conversation, exclaiming Why that’s fascinating, and I’ve always wondered about that, in the same spirit, it seemed to me, that I, in sixth grade, tried to prove to Polly Greenwood that I was over her by laughing uproariously whenever she passed by, usually enlisting whoever was at hand to flesh out the ruse, but, if need be, prepared to go it alone.
The Riga airport was a long glass box, nearly empty. There’s something I want to tell you, my mother was saying. It’s good news, at least I think it is. It’s good news if you make proper use of it, anyhow. We were walking through Pasu Kontrole and then through Deklare jamo nav. It was as if we weren’t even there. Latvian security officers, wearing green jackets with red patches, paid us no mind. I could use some good news, I said. Okay, my mother said, when we get to the hotel. Riga was sedate; the buildings thrust out their chests like unbowed soldiers in a defeated army. They dripped decoration: painted plaster princesses and sword-wielding centurions were perched over doorways, embedded in pastel walls, wedding-cake swirls, cornices, columns, chalices. Nothing was simple here. You looked at it and you gasped for breath. What peaks of whimsy were these people attempting to scale? Though it was daylight, every car in the city drove with its headlights on, as if traffic wa
s one immense funeral procession. We checked into the Hotel Guttenberg, on a little side street, across from a tile-encrusted Greek Orthodox church. The reception area was small, stifling; there was a little bar off to one side and a line of tall, ladder-back chairs against the wall. All the men were crowded in; we could smell one another. Maybe our parents will hook up, Jordan said to me, as we all waited for Gabrielle and Stephanie to expedite the paperwork and get us into our rooms. You never know, I said. The clerk behind the desk was a toweringly tall middle-aged man with long gray hair and a cautious, uncertain face. He wore a dark blue jacket, green shirt, a black tie. Call your director, Gabrielle was saying to the clerk. Let him know we have come a day early, and he will tell you to give us our rooms.
There was no extra room for my mother. You guys are going to have to bunk in together, at least for tonight, Stephanie told me. We shared the elevator with Tony Dinato, who looked as if he hadn’t entirely woken up from his nap on the plane. Have you noticed that I’m angry with you? Tony asked me. Why in the world would you be angry with me? Because you didn’t tell me that your father was the artist who made the Jankowsky Cross. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the cross. Will you look at that? my mother exclaimed. What a small world. Tony put the cross back in his shirt, gave it a comforting pat. I heard you were going through some religious conversion experience, I said. That is true, Tony said. Is there, I asked, some sort of contradiction? Between the conversion and what we’re doing? Yes, there is. But there must have been a reason why I chose to come on this trip, and I’m going to see it through.
Willing Page 27
