Emily had no idea what she was talking about, but nodded, maintaining a concerned neutrality. “Thank you, but what exactly is it that you heard?”
“About Mrs. Miller.”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry. I know you were close.”
Kay gone, and Emily had never visited her. Could it really be true?
Yes. Jim had been keeping an eye on the place while it was for sale. The family had called to let him know.
In back, Rufus continued his racket, but now he seemed far away. Marcia stood on the stoop as if waiting for an invitation.
“Thank you,” Emily said.
“If there’s anything we can do.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
That was all Marcia wanted to tell her. Once she was gone, Emily thought it was unfair, leaving her alone with the news. As she made her way to the back of the house, where Rufus was still going on ferociously, she reflected that Louise had died in the spring, also her father. To make it through the darkest days only to succumb—she suspected there was a lesson in it, one that, in her position, didn’t bear closer examination.
She gave Rufus his treat, dropping it without looking. It hit the floor and split, one piece shooting under the lip of the dishwasher so that she had to toe it out for him.
“You stink,” she said, because he was wet.
Kay. Tiny, birdy Kay with her bangs and bangles and cancerous pink cans of Tab. She was the first of their circle to wear a bikini to the Edgewood Club. With her tomboy’s body she could get away with it, unlike Emily, who felt she was putting herself on display. Kay was a fiend for tennis, and worked on her tan all summer long, holding one mahogany arm beside Emily’s. Every day they were at the club. They took turns driving, loading the kids into those massive old station wagons, wearing nothing but their suits and Tshirts, their hair reeking of chlorine.
When were Jamie and Terry going to let her know, or did they think there was no one left on Grafton Street?
They wouldn’t be far wrong. Of the old crew, she was the last, and once again she wondered where the years had gone, and why she was still alive.
The rest of the day she waited for their call. When it finally came, from Jamie, late that afternoon, she was grateful not to be forgotten.
“Your mother was always so chipper,” Emily said, and though it was true, she felt false, having put off seeing her for so long—forever, now.
Arlene had known Kay, years ago. In the seventies they’d been members of the same ski club, taking trips to Banff and Vail and once even Austria. Emily wanted her to be more upset.
“I guess what I’m saying is, it wasn’t unexpected.”
“It felt unexpected to me,” Emily said.
“How long had she been there?”
“That’s not the point.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Arlene said, but obviously she didn’t.
Neither of the children was surprised. They were both sorry, and asked Emily to please pass their condolences on to Jamie and Terry. Kenneth remembered Kay dressing up as Pinocchio for Halloween. Margaret recalled sleeping over, all of them staying up late to watch Chiller Theater, and then in the morning Kay making them chocolate chip pancakes. Even more than Louise, she’d been the fun mom of their set, instigator of water fights, architect of miniature golf birthday parties, their yard the neighborhood playground. In the past Emily might have been jealous of the children’s easy affection for Kay; now she was pleased, as if these memories were a gift she could give her.
The memorial service was held at Eccles Funeral Home, across the river in Aspinwall, the same place Kay had had Dick’s. It was fine, if lightly attended—another hazard of outliving your friends. Rather than disfigure the guest book with her shaky handwriting, Emily had Arlene sign for both of them. The family had placed framed pictures of Kay at various ages around the room, a tactic Emily found manipulative, the embarrassing hairdos and saddle shoes wrenching her back through the decades to her own lost childhood. Her mother and father, the war, the Penn Royal—how was that world gone now, and everyone in it? Kay’s grandchildren were bored, dressed up in their church clothes, clustered at the end of the front row. Emily and Arlene’s lilies shared the dais with two identically gaudy arrangements. The room was windowless, the air warm and stagnant, and as Jamie read a long, gently comic remembrance of her mother’s love of weddings, Emily thought she’d been to so many of these that she’d become a critic.
She was here because she’d loved Kay, because for so many years their lives and families had been intertwined, yet as she sat waiting for Jamie to finish, her mind catching on the undeniable reason for the gathering, Emily thought she was mourning the passing of that happier time as much as she was Kay. Was it just selfishness, or at this point was every loss personal? Though she knew it wasn’t true, looking back from this bare, ugly room, life seemed meager and short, unfairly so. At the end, had Kay felt cheated too?
Afterward, the family invited everyone to join them for an informal reception at Atria, an overpriced fish place farther upriver. Emily had no real interest in going, but felt obligated, and glanced over at Arlene as if she might rescue her.
No, they would do what was proper.
They stayed just long enough to have a glass of wine and touch base with Jamie and Terry. Out of habit they called her Mrs. M., a name she hadn’t answered to in years. It was plain they had no idea who Arlene was. Jamie, who’d always been smart and confident, had married an orthodontist and lived in the suburbs of Denver with their five children. Terry, who’d had a boyhood crush on Margaret, was balding and twice divorced and working for a plastics company in McKees Rocks. Emily couldn’t help but compare them to her own children, as if she and Kay were still in competition.
“I’m afraid we have to say goodbye or we’ll turn into pumpkins,” Emily said, leaning in and kissing Jamie’s cheek. “It was lovely to see you. If you’re ever in the old neighborhood, please drop by. I’m not planning on going anywhere for a while.”
Outside, it felt like they were escaping. The car was damp, and Arlene turned on her seat warmer. Rush hour had begun, the traffic on Freeport Road crawling by the dingy strip malls. Somewhere in the sprawl behind them was the nursing home Emily had never visited, the carpeted halls and beeping machines. Dusk was falling, the sky in the west smudged red beyond downtown, warning lights blinking on the locks as they crossed the Highland Park Bridge. Just over the dark hillside that rose before them, the zookeepers were feeding the animals, hosing out the cages.
“Thank you,” Emily said. “I’m glad we went to the reception.”
“You didn’t want to at first.”
“I think I’ve had enough of these things.”
“It’s true,” Arlene said. “They tend to blend together after a while.”
“I’ve never been a great fan of Eccles.”
“Oh, I know. It’s depressing.”
“I don’t see why they have to have the casket there. Is that supposed to serve as proof? I don’t need any more proof.”
“They were glad to see you.”
“I was glad to see them. It’s been a long time.”
This nostalgia was dishonest. As she had since she’d heard the news, she wanted to confess that she’d been a bad friend, and a coward, letting her memories of Louise stop her from visiting Kay when she was all alone in that place, and that she would never forgive herself. She recalled the confession of sins, the boundlessness of it: for things done and left undone. Yes, exactly. She wasn’t sure she could wait till Sunday. Tonight, perhaps, as she lay in bed, she could offer this latest failing—surely not her last—to God, for who else would absolve her?
At the end of the bridge, she had to choose which way to go—straight, for Regent Square and Arlene’s, or right, for home. It had been a long day, and she was relieved when Arlene didn’t ask what her dinner plans were.
They swung down onto Washington Boulevard, past the old d
river’s test course and state police barracks, where Henry had taken the children to get their licenses. The make-believe streets had been converted into a fancy bike track, with painted lanes and high-banked curves like a raceway.
“I’ll never get used to it,” Emily said.
“You wonder whose idea it was.”
“Not mine, that’s for sure.”
Dropping her off, Emily suggested that if the weather didn’t improve, they might try the Van Gogh exhibit at the Scaife. Not this weekend—they didn’t want to fight the hordes—but maybe Monday? Just to get out of the house.
“I’ve been wanting to see that.”
“We could have lunch there and make a day of it.”
“That sounds lovely,” Arlene said, and so it was settled.
Driving home through the wet streets of East Liberty, Emily cast ahead. Sunday they had church, Monday the Scaife, Tuesday breakfast at the Eat ’n Park, Wednesday Betty came. And still that left tomorrow and Saturday to get through on her own.
She should have asked Arlene to have dinner with her. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. Just tired. She caught herself biting the inside of her cheek—a habit her mother detested—and made herself stop.
Along Grafton, the streetlights were flickering on, a dull silver. As she slowed for her driveway, the Millers’ house loomed darkly behind its hedges, inescapable, the gables sharp against the sky. The idea that it was haunted now was silly. She frowned at herself, shaking off the thought, and made the turn, concentrating on keeping the car centered so she wouldn’t scrape the fence.
She’d left a light on for Rufus, but still he was upset, huffing at her back as she fixed his dinner. He sneezed as if he were scolding her.
“Shush,” she said. “Stop acting like a brat.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she realized she was talking about herself. Kay was dead, and here she was sulking like a child. It was her own fault. What did she think would happen? At their age, once you went into a place like that, you didn’t come out. She was just lucky Henry never had to go to one.
She needed to eat something, but she wasn’t at all hungry, and poured herself a glass of wine. She took it into the living room, put on some Bach and sat in Henry’s chair with her shoes off, sipping and admiring the designs in the Oriental rug. She hadn’t had much of a lunch, and a pleasant fatigue settled on her, suspending all thought. She sat back and closed her eyes and imagined falling asleep here. Who would care?
As she was picturing herself waking up in the middle of the night in her good clothes, the phone rang. The machine was on—in her funk she’d forgotten to turn it off. After a brief wait for the message to play, a cheery voice spoke from the kitchen: “Hello. This is Lynn Swann with the Republican Party of Western PA. We’d like to remind you that Election Day is Tuesday—”
“I know when it is,” Emily said.
She sat back and closed her eyes again, but the mood was ruined. It wasn’t even six-thirty and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed. She thought of Kay and remembered Louise near the end, telling her she just wanted it to stop. Was that okay? They were alone in her room, one of her rare lucid days when the pain medication was working. She was afraid the boys wouldn’t understand. Of course it was, Emily said. She still believed that. It wasn’t giving up when there was nothing left anyway. The problem was, by that time you couldn’t do anything about it. She imagined Kay never had that choice, and wondered if she would. She’d made her wishes known to the children. What more could she do?
Her mouth was sour, and she could feel the beginnings of a headache, a dull pulsing like a heartbeat behind one eye. She pushed herself out of the chair and padded to the kitchen. She rinsed her glass and stuck it in the top of the dishwasher, poured herself a tall glass of water and then, without hope or desire, began searching through the cupboards for something to eat.
ALMOND BLOSSOMS
Even on a weekday the Van Gogh was a zoo. The galleries were teeming with schoolchildren and harried docents attempting to shout above the din. Loosed from their buses, the children chased one another as if in gym class, squealing and slipping on the polished marble floors. The museum offered an audio tour of the exhibit, so even the solitary strollers gathered in packs, silently paying homage before the more famous paintings. To Emily they looked like the subjects of some mind-control experiment, pressing buttons on a small black box wired to their heads.
As she and Arlene waited for the crowd around Sunflowers to disperse, they browsed a wall of canvases inspired by the Japanese—Hiroshige in particular, a favorite of hers. Under a dark sky, hunched figures hurried over a bridge in the pouring rain. Emily shivered in sympathy. The weather outside wasn’t much better, a fact accentuated by the high plate-glass windows that gave on to the sporadic traffic and shiny black asphalt of Forbes Avenue below. She’d checked her coat downstairs, and now she felt a chill settling in.
“Look how wild the river is,” Arlene said. “That’s what I love about him, everything’s in turmoil, everything’s in motion. Look at those brushstrokes.”
She might have been criticizing her own work, the polite, dingy still lifes that absorbed light instead of freeing it. Emily, who’d never painted anything more ambitious than her kitchen, knew she was being too hard on her, and softened, watching her lean closer and squint at the boatman caught in the current. Barring a miracle, this would be the last time either of them would see these big Van Goghs. She so wanted to enjoy them, to drink them in, and yet, as much as she admired Arlene’s enthusiasm, there was something that prevented Emily from fully sharing it, distracted by the children and the drab streets outside. It seemed a less than ideal way to experience art, and for a brief and selfish instant she understood why the black market thrived. To be alone with a masterpiece was to possess it wholly. No guide’s or bystander’s commentary intervened, no curator’s notes printed in foot-high letters on the wall, just you and the painting, and in that quiet space, intimacy, connection and, perhaps, communion. She wanted to be moved, to be thrilled, and how was that possible in a room full of third-graders?
Moments after she’d given up hope, as she and Arlene maundered along the Japanese wall, they stopped before a simple canvas, a branch of an almond tree in bloom. It was minor, Emily didn’t recognize it. The flowers themselves did nothing for her, but the blue Van Gogh had chosen for the air captivated her—rich and bright, near aqua with a milky whiteness to it, a loudness which would have been laughable on the trim of a house and was nearly an affront here, yet from her first glance Emily couldn’t look away. For months she’d been dreaming of spring. Here it was in all its gaudy freshness, made present through the plainest of emblems—a flower, a branch, the sun-warmed air. While Arlene moved on, Emily lingered, concentrating, as if by paying enough attention she might imprint the vision on her mind.
Part of it, she thought later, when they were almost done, was the surprise, the shock of that wild blue. Sunflowers and Crows over a Wheatfield left her indifferent as a cat, yet that first glimpse held the force of discovery, and an unforgettable one. It wasn’t simply the unexpected that moved her. The grimness of these past few weeks had left her susceptible. How strange that his choice of color, made so long ago, was waiting to dispel her gloom at just that moment. And to think she’d felt it despite the chaos all around her. She couldn’t imagine a greater testament to the power of art, and wasn’t that why they were there, to have their faith in it renewed?
On the way back to the elevators, she made a point of stopping for a last look, and was pleased to find the blossoms held her now, as if she’d overlooked them.
“I think this is my favorite.”
“It’s nice for a study,” Arlene said. “I’m more partial to La Berceuse.”
“That’s completely different.”
“True. There are so many great pieces here it’s overwhelming. I’m glad you suggested it.”
“I am too,” Emily said.
The café
was jammed and expensive, but the onion soup warmed her. She asked Arlene if she minded if they took a peek at the gift shop, just for a minute. She wanted a print of the picture to take home, though, when she thought of her walls, there wasn’t space for anything new. Maybe the upstairs hall, or in Kenneth’s room looking out on the backyard. They didn’t have one anyway, only Starry Night and a couple of other icons. She turned the postcard racks until she found it, but they couldn’t reproduce the blue. It looked flat and lifeless, unworthy of the original, and she left empty-handed, knowing, in time, with nothing to remind her, she would lose that feeling of wonder.
DRIVE-BY
The next week the weather finally turned, releasing her. The snow thawed, soaking the yard, dotted with Rufus’ handiwork, some from as far back as November. She scooped it one disintegrating pile at a time, surprised at not just the amount but the variety—chalk-white, brick-red, dark olive. He ate the same food every day. The different colors, she reasoned, must have come from his treats.
The front wasn’t nearly as bad, but still had to be picked up. As they melted, the dirty mounds left by the plows yielded their treasure. She was out by the curb in her work duds, bent over with a plastic Giant Eagle bag in one hand, gathering the cracked coffee cup lids and flattened straws and soggy cigarette butts, when someone flying down the hill honked at her.
In a single motion, more out of reflex than neighborliness, she glanced up from her task and raised an open hand as the car flashed by, a big white SUV she didn’t recognize. It had deeply tinted windows, which Emily associated with drug dealers and East Liberty, preening teenagers who blasted their stereos so loud the sound shook the air. She was certain she didn’t know anyone who owned a car like that. It paused at the stop sign and turned left onto Highland, revving as it accelerated away.
Was it a joke? Were they making fun of the old lady, trying to frighten her? She was sure she presented a spectacle, a geriatric parody of Millet’s The Gleaners in her headscarf and Henry’s ratty old plaid shirt and her dirty buckskin gloves. She peered up and down Grafton to see if anyone else was watching. When a VW bug turned onto the block from Sheridan, she bent her head as if immersed in her work but kept an eye on it as it passed—harmlessly—and then felt foolish, used, though she couldn’t precisely say why.
Emily, Alone Page 20
