“I’m sick,” Macsofo snapped. He sounded as if he’d swallowed a collection of nail files. “They made me come home because I’m sick, but that means I may lose some pay, and now I find that Father wants to bring food to some crazy lady! We worked for that food. We are trying to buy our way out of this wretched house, and you go and give—”
“Peanut butter and crackers,” Timbor said mildly. “It was Zama’s idea. It is a very good idea. Betty can fix herself peanut butter and crackers even if she has no place to cook.”
“Let her go to the soup kitchen!” Macsofo started coughing, and swigged some more tea. “That is what the free food is there for! This is not Lémabantunk, Father. This Betty is no holy Mendicant!”
“She is a person. My duty is the same.”
“Who’s Betty?” Zamatryna asked, sitting cautiously at the table.
“The woman from yesterday, the one I saw when the nasty man was in the taxi. I told you about her. I found her today. I found her on my lunch break and talked to her. She was afraid of me at first, because many people have hurt her, but then she told me all about herself. Oh, Zama, she has suffered terrible things!”
“She was probably lying,” Macsofo said.
“I do not think she is capable of lying. She is not quite, how do the Americans say, right in the head.”
“You see?” Macosofo said triumphantly. “Crazy! I told you. Let her go to the hospital, if she is crazy.”
“I do not think it is something a hospital can fix. And I do not think she is crazy. She is simple; she was a child who did not get enough air at birth, I think. Zama, I am going now to bring her the peanut butter. Would you come with me? I think she would like to meet you. She has a daughter of her own; she gave the child to a foster family who could care for it better than she can, but she misses the little girl terribly. It would help her if you were kind to her.”
“Sure I’ll go,” Zamatryna said, getting up. She had a lot of questions, but she knew better than to ask them in front of Macsofo, who looked like he was about to combust. “Which car are we taking? Can I drive?” The family had acquired three ancient vehicles, including Stan and Lisa’s old van; they kept all three keys on hooks in the kitchen, and anyone who needed a car took whichever was available. Stan and Timbor and Erolorit spent hours working on the cars, patiently keeping them running, coaxing extra miles out of them.
“The Honda, I think,” Timbor said, and Zamatryna’s heart sank. The Honda was the most ancient and crotchety of all the cars; on the other hand, it was also the least valuable, and therefore the best practice vehicle. Her father said that if she could learn to drive the Honda, she could drive anything, which would make passing her driving test much easier.
So she drove the Honda, lurching and scraping the curbs going around corners, while Timbor briefed her on Betty’s life. “She is forty-two. Her daughter is twelve, and her parents are dead. Her older brother—Zama, slow down now, here’s a stop sign, stop, good girl—her brother, who raised her after their parents died, is also her daughter’s father. Now start again: you’ve stopped long enough. Betty and her daughter are both simple in the brain, yes, but Betty wants the best for her child. Five years ago she married a man who was kind to her, patient with her daughter, and who would stand up to her brother. Slow down, child: you are five miles over the limit. But Betty’s husband is one of the gambling addicts, and so he spent all their money, his own pay and Betty’s disability check, and also money her brother had given her for the daughter. Zama, remember your turn signals, we are taking a right up here, turn the wheel now, yes, very good. So she left her husband and moved in with an aunt and uncle in Winnemucca, but then they told her she had to leave, because they needed the space for a child of their own who was coming home. So she came back to Reno, but her husband had gone, she does not know where. Zama, now you are going too slowly: speed up just a little bit. And so Betty went to the State and told them to take her daughter because she wanted the daughter to have a home. She told the State she wanted to learn to read and to count, so that people would stop taking advantage of her. But it is not clear that she is able to learn to read or to count, and they have not found a place for her to live yet, and she is afraid to go to the shelters. And so she is thinking of moving back in with her brother, who at least will never turn her away. Left up here; mind the child on the bicycle! Why do parents let their children ride bicycles in the street? Without helmets? I do not understand it.”
“That’s horrible,” Zamatryna said. The story had washed over her in nauseating waves as she concentrated on navigating; her hands ached from clutching the steering wheel. “I mean Betty. Not the kid on the bike. Why isn’t her brother in jail? Why isn’t her husband in jail? Why can’t the State find somewhere for her to live?”
“I do not know about the State. I think she does not want to send the men to jail. She does not seem able to be angry at them, although she has acted to protect her daughter. She feels sorry for them; she thinks they cannot help themselves from doing wrong. Look, there she is. Here, Zama. Stop the car.”
Zamatryna pulled over to the curb and stopped the car, and they got out. Betty was sitting on a bench, surrounded by huge black garbage bags. Her face was as black as the plastic and as round as a full moon, and when she saw them and smiled, it was as if that moon had come out from behind clouds. She smelled of sweat and rot; the scent rolled out from her in waves. “Tim. You came back. I didn’t think you would. Where’s your cab?”
“It is at the company lot, Betty. This is my car. And this is my granddaughter, Zama.”
“You’re pretty,” Betty said, nodding. “Zama?”
“Yes, Zama.”
“That’s a pretty name. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“My girl’s twelve. She’s with a family now, so she doesn’t have to live out here. Someday I’ll get her back, when I have a place again. Her name’s Theresa.”
“We brought you some peanut butter,” Zama said, holding out the bag. “And bottled water, and crackers. The crackers will keep a long time, if they don’t get wet.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Did you bring a knife for the peanut butter?”
“Oh—oh, no, how stupid, we didn’t—I didn’t think—”
“That’s all right, darling. I can use my fingers. Or the crackers, but sometimes they break.”
“I’m sorry,” Zamatryna said, feeling wretched. But at the same time she wanted to get away, because Betty’s smell was making her sick. “Do you get cold at night? We could bring you a blanket.”
“No, sweetheart, I have blankets.” Betty patted one of her plastic bags with the hand that had been hidden in her lap, and Zamatryna saw that the hand was moving in a constant, spasmodic flutter, although the rest of Betty was as still as the mountains on the horizon. She thought immediately of Gallicina, of the beetle’s obsessive X, and her chest tightened.
“Betty,” Timbor said gently, “What is wrong with your hand? Are you sick?”
“No, my hand always does that. It always has.”
Zamatryna swallowed. “Even when you sleep?”
“I guess so.”
“Does your arm get tired?”
“I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Do you want some peanut butter?”
“No,” Timbor said. “The peanut butter is for you, Betty. I will come see you again, eh? I will look for you and find out how you are doing.”
“Thank you, Tim. Thank you, Zama. Good-bye, darling.” And as they were getting back into the Honda, she called after them, “God bless you.”
Zamatryna, her own hands shaky, started the car, but after a few blocks she pulled over and said, “Grandfather, would you drive home?”
“Yes. You are very quiet. Are you all right, Zama?”
“I’m sad.”
“I’m sad, too.”
“Can’t we do something for her? Can’t we, I don’t know, bring her home with us and—”
“Like a puppy from t
he pound? She is a person, Zama. And where would she sleep? And how would we convince your uncle?”
“It’s not fair.”
“No. It is not. Many things are not.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence, and arrived to find that Aliniana and Erolorit were home, also. Aliniana was cooking, since Harani was working a late shift at the casino; Erolorit sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, while Macsofo nursed the same mug of tea, or another one.
“Uncle Max,” Zamatryna said, “you should go to bed, if you aren’t feeling well.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. Did you find that woman?”
“Yes, we did. We gave her the peanut butter.” Something in his voice warned her to change the subject. “Where are my cousins?”
“At friends’ houses, where other people will feed them, which is excellent, since you are giving our food to bums.”
There was a short silence. Aliniana turned from the stove, and Erolorit looked up from his cards, frowning. “Yes,” Timbor said calmly, “that is how it works. We feed people, and people feed us. Did you take aspirin, Macsofo? It will make you feel better.”
“Do not treat me like a child, Father.”
“Do not act like one, then.”
Erolorit cleared his throat. “I think—”
“Do not try to think, Brother. You are not very good at it.”
Erolorit shook his head. “Macsofo, we are in this house because of charity. We have been given—”
“Do not remind me what we have been given! We have been given a debt we can never repay! I hate this house! I hate this country! Taking charity is no honor here, do you understand? It means we are weak! And giving our hard-earned wages to bums makes us fools!”
“Macsofo,” Aliniana said. She had turned the stove burners off; she turned now and put her hands in his hair, stroking. “Dear husband, you are not weak, and your father is not a fool, and—”
“Get off,” Macsofo said, and reached up to fling her hands roughly from his head. “You disgust me.” Zamatryna, watching, remembered Aliniana’s story of the first time their hands had touched, the moment when she had known she loved him. She had been giving him water, then. He had been taking charity. She remembered Macsofo supporting Aliniana as they entered the refugee camp, Macsofo saying, “It is a city of Mendicants.” He had been unhappy then, but he had not been cruel. When had he changed?
He had changed when Darroti died, when the entire world had changed.
“This is no way to treat your wife,” Timbor said sharply. Macsofo made a dismissive motion and got up from his chair; Aliniana tried to embrace him, but he pushed her aside, his lip curling. Again she reached out to him; this time he made a spitting noise like a cat. “I told you, get away from me! You are nothing but a spineless slug, and I wish I had never seen you!”
Aliniana tried to smile, and said in a wavering voice, “Macsofo, dearest, surely you do not mean that—”
“Do not tell me what I mean!” He raised his hand as if to strike her, and Zamatryna, standing frozen, saw her father shake himself and move quickly between them.
“Enough, Macsofo. You are not yourself. Go to bed!”
“I will not,” Macsofo said, and pushed past Erolorit out the door, snatching one of the car keys as he went. The door banged shut; they heard an engine starting, and a squeal of rubber as he pulled out of the driveway.
“He is going out to drink,” Aliniana said, her voice curiously even. “That is what he has been doing, when he stays away from home. He is becoming Darroti, whom he hates. Will he kill me, I wonder, as Darroti killed that woman? He has not hit me yet. He will soon; I can feel it. How is it that I still love him? I followed him here. I have been a good wife. I—”
“Auntie,” Zamatryna said, and moved to embrace her. “Auntie, he—he did not mean it. We will not let him hurt you. I think he hates himself, and so he hates us who love him, and—”
“You are a wise child,” Aliniana said, but Zamatryna could feel her shaking. “I must cook now. We must eat.”
“I will cook,” Timbor said quietly. “Zama, comfort your aunt.”
“Come,” Zamatryna said. “Auntie, come into the living room. Sit down, here on the couch. It is all right to cry.” It frightened her that Aliniana, who always wept so easily, was not weeping now. “I am glad you are here, Auntie. I am glad you came with us.”
“You will do well here,” Aliniana said. “My children will do well here. You will be excellent Americans. We have not lost everything.”
“No,” Zamatryna said, and hugged her. “And you will do well too, Auntie, you are already doing well, you are helping people.”
She felt Aliniana shudder. “And my husband hates me for it.”
“No, no, Auntie, he—he is confused, he—”
“He was so happy at our wedding, Zama. I know he was.” Aliniana put her head back against the couch, her voice grown dreamy. “So happy. He was so proud of how much we were giving our Necessary Beggar, and when the Beggar married us and spoke the blessing, Macsofo’s face shone.”
Good. Let her remember, if it would make her happy. Zamatryna held her aunt’s cold hand, and said, “What was the blessing, Auntie?”
“Oh, the same blessing the Necessary Beggar always gives, the wedding blessing. ‘For what you have given me, your errors and those of all your kin are forgiven. For charity heals shortcoming, and kindness heals carelessness, and hearts heal hurt.’ It is very beautiful. It made Macsofo very happy. He told me he would never do anything unkind again.”
“I never heard it before,” Zamatryna said. She had known that the Beggar gave a blessing at weddings, and that this had something to do with forgiveness, but she had never heard the words. “It’s wonderful.”
“It was wonderful then.” Aliniana’s voice was listless, the dreams drained out of it. “What good is it here? It has run out, that blessing, or it cannot work in this new place. We need a new blessing for all the hurts that have happened since then, but we will not get one. That is not how weddings work here. You and your cousins will have American weddings. You will eat cake and get lots of presents, and the guests will get drunk, and no one will be forgiven for anything. And then you will probably get divorced.”
Zamatryna, frightened, chafed her aunt’s icy fingers. Aliniana, often sad, was never bitter. “Do not say that, Auntie! You—”
“Ah, Zama, I am sorry. You are right. I did not mean to curse you, child. You will have a lovely life. You are a good American. You will be prosperous and happy. Here, child, give me a hug. There, there. Everything is all right. Come now: let us go back into the kitchen and eat our dinner.”
Timbor had burned the roast. Aliniana and Erolorit teased him, and Zamatryna sensed the current of some old story, once joyous but now laden with regret. She was afraid to ask what it was. There was already too much ancient pain in the room.
After dinner she went to her room to do homework. She had hidden a piece of green bean in her pocket for Gallicina, and as she put it into the jar, she remembered Betty’s hand moving in tremulous flutters.
She couldn’t concentrate on math. She finally closed the book and curled up on her bed, pulling the comforter over her. She still felt chilled from Aliniana’s hand. She thought about Darroti and Gallicina, about Macsofo and Aliniana, about Betty and the men who had hurt her so. She thought about the words of the wedding blessing, and it came to her, then, what she must do.
She must be a good American. She must do well here, and earn money. But since she was the oldest, she would be the first to marry, and when she got married, she would have a Necessary Beggar: Betty, or someone else, someone who needed gifts, someone who needed to feel honored. And the Necessary Beggar would pronounce the wedding blessing, and her family would be forgiven for everything they had done since Macsofo’s wedding. Macsofo would be forgiven, and Darroti’s spirit would be forgiven, and Gallicina would leave off her vengeance and be at peace, and everyone would be happy ag
ain. She would have helped all of them, would have mended all the broken places in their lives. And then she could be happy herself.
She fell asleep, spinning that story, and awoke still within it. It was a good plan. It would take years to achieve, of course, because her family would not let her marry until she was at least eighteen, and because it would not be easy to find a husband. But it would allow her to begin helping everyone even before she went to law school.
She put the plan aside. She went to school thinking about calculus and Raskolnikov. To her surprise, she found Jerry waiting for her at her locker, smiling. “I think I’ve got it,” he said. “I think I found a name for the club. Planting Pals. Does that work, Zama?”
She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “Planting Pals. Yes, that works.”
9
Timbor
Oh, the things we kept from one another! All those hours sitting at the kitchen table in Lisa’s house, talking and talking about other people: about Betty, and Aliniana’s customers, and Zamatryna’s friends. If Zamatryna or I had once told the entire truth about ourselves, our story would have been very different. But we did not, and who is to say that it was not for the best? We kept our silences out of love, and we found our way at last.
There was a psychiatrist who rode in my cab every morning and every afternoon. His name was Richard Farthingale, and he had to take my taxi because he was not allowed to drive. He had been a drunk, and he had lost his license for DUI; and now he was in AA and sober, but still he was not allowed to drive for three years. He had already been sober a year when he became my customer. And so every day for two years—Zamatryna’s last year of high school and her first year at UNR—I took him to his office and back again. His wife had left him, and he did not want to ask his friends for rides. He worked in downtown Reno and lived in Galena Forest, at the base of Mount Rose. It was a very long drive, very expensive for him; very good for me, because he tipped well, and because the drive toward the mountain was beautiful, and comforted my soul. And because it was a long drive, it gave me time to talk.
The Necessary Beggar Page 21
