“Yes you can.” She likes the way he sounds like a little boy, though being his mother isn’t what she wants. She wishes there’d be one more lurch, one more little thunk like before, and one more dizzy spell and she’d be… well, whatever age, of all the ages that women can be, that he likes the best.
“I will not sleep on these things.”
“Don’t be childish,” thinking, be childish.
“Is that another plant?”
“Just a little one. African violet.”
At first she thought he’d said, “another planet”—that he knew, as she did, that it is a whole other world. He looks half-asleep already. She tries to lift his legs onto .the bed, but he resists. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you even remember? You must be really sick. I’m Harriet.” (He finally does let her lift his legs.) “You haven’t forgotten… all those things. Beethoven in the park. We held hands.” (Of course they had.) “We even…” But she can’t speak of that. Had they really gone that far? But he looks to be already asleep, and thank goodness.
She takes off his shoes. Doesn’t dare take off any more (in spite of what they may have done together some other day when he wasn’t sick). She does unbutton his shirt and peek inside. Lots of white hair across the middle of his chest. He’s snoring lightly again, so she dares to rest her hand on his fuzzy chest, the stove… the furnace of life. What a nice world this is turning out to be!
She’ll go sleep on the couch where he lies so often, her head on his cushion. She’ll try to lie there gracefully in case he comes in during the night, though, at her age, what good will that do? At least she won’t let herself sprawl.
Before she settles down, she takes out the photograph of him she had put in her purse. He’s actually smiling in it—a little Mona Lisa sort of smile, though his eyes, she’s glad to see, look just as sad as ever. It’s such a sweet smile, it has to be rare.
She props up the picture on the coffee table so she can study it while she eats her yogurt. She wonders about that other picture of the little boy. Perhaps she should have taken it also. It would be nice to have a picture of such a beautiful child. If she had ever had a child, would he have been as beautiful as this boy? Why not? She hadn’t been bad looking and John must not have been either.
After eating, now what to do? She doesn’t feel like sleeping yet and there’s no TV, only all this fancy old-fashioned music equipment. How settle down when she has so much energy over here in this world? She’ll sit at his desk. She’ll read his poems, his letters, or whatever there is, and if there isn’t anything like those… well, you can learn a lot of things about a person from his bills, too.
And here’s the electric bill, second notice. Second notice on the telephone also. She’ll get out her checkbook and pay them right now. She’ll pay all his bills. Mail them tomorrow. And she’ll get him some decent food: whole wheat bread, brown rice, broccoli… She’ll go home and change her clothes. Wear something she can clean up in. What sort of clothes does he like women to wear? What do men like? There’s probably a book on it. These days there’s a book on everything. She’ll get all there are. She can hardly wait till morning. (Should she buy herself a padded bra?) How courageous she is over here! Why hadn’t she ever taken action before, even there, in that old, drab world next door?
She wakes up early even though she went to bed late—wakes to find herself in exactly the position she wanted to be in, on her side, legs together, curled up, but she doesn’t think he’s been in to see her like that. She lies there, watching the glistening dust motes, watching the oblong of sunlight move across and down the wall. She’d not done either since she’d been a child. She’s thinking how sweet to be so like a child again. Then she thinks back to all the things she had memorized about him the night before. She hopes she hasn’t forgotten one single precious thing.
First thing after breakfast it will be down to the laundromat and over to the store. Then to the library to get books on what men want, though if she starts thinking about it, she already knows a lot about them—like, even though they always say men put women on pedestals, she knows it’s the reverse. Men want to be the ones on pedestals and they don’t like women who don’t put them up there and keep them there. But she won’t have any trouble doing that for him. She’ll let her feelings shine out from her eyes and she’ll say it, too, though it’s probably too soon to tell him that she loves him so.
She’s getting bored and thinking of waking him, when she hears him (she’d left the door partway open) sniffing and coughing and saying, “What the hell? What the hell?”
“I’m here,” she calls. “I’ll be right there.”
She’s by his bedside right away and he’s still saying, “What the hell?” and looking at the brass lamp as if he’d never seen it before. “Where did that come from?” and then, “Who are you?”
Doesn’t he remember anything! “I’m your friend from across the street. I’m Gloria.” (Gloria! That’s exactly how she feels, absolutely glorious!) ‘We’ve known each other for a long, long time. Don’t you remember anything?”
“You said your name was Juliette.”
“I ought to know. You can’t remember anything.” She’s glad to see he’s looking puzzled.
“Where did that lamp come from?”
“My gift to you. A long time ago.”
“I can’t say I don’t need it.”
“You like it. You said you liked it. Before.”
He does like it. She’s sure of it. Probably likes everything but won’t admit it. She knows that about men, too.
He struggles to sit up. Clearly he’s still dizzy, though not as bad as last night. (If she’s lucky, he’ll get worse again in the afternoon.) Looks like he’ll hardly make it to the bathroom, though. She grabs his arm and he lets her help him. She’s thinking, again, how warm, how damp.
He won’t let her come in with him, though she tries to at first, but then thinks the better of it. Lets him shut the door. When he staggers out she’s right there, ready to put her arms around him and help him back to bed. “You’ve sweated up the sheets,” she says, thinking: like a man. “I’ll bring over some fresh.”
“Yes, you go on and do that.”
She can tell he doesn’t know she’s here to stay. She won’t say it, not quite yet, but she tells him that she paid the bills. She wants him to know that. “I paid them all,” she says. “I have to mail them now and then I have to get you some decent food. All there is for breakfast is my yogurt so that’s what you’ll have to have. If you like, I’ll get some steak.” Men always like steak.
“I remember you now. You threw away the Scotch. Don’t bother coming back unless you bring some.”
“Orange juice,” she says, “and milk.”
He says he won’t eat her yogurt, but she leaves it by the bedside anyway. “I know I’ve told you this lots of times before,” she says as she leaves, “but you’re wonderful.” He groans, but she’s sure he likes that she said it. Who wouldn’t?
At the library they only let her take out three books at a time. She gets: Intimate Sexual Play, Women Who Don’t Love Enough (she rejected the opposite title), How to Kindle Passion. Glancing through them as she was picking them out, she learns that being playful and childlike is good during sex, that one shouldn’t give advice (she’ll just clean up and not say a single word), that most men fear intimacy and commitment (she saw that in him right oft), that men like a woman with joie de vivre. Joie de vivre! Perhaps her name over here is Joy.
None of the books has any advice on how or who to be. She’d wanted a book to tell her whether to wear skirts or slacks, and what to do about her hair—a long time since she’s done anything about it at all. She decides before she goes back she’ll have it dyed and curled even though she isn’t sure which, of all the possible styles or colors, he’d like best.
While she’s under the drier, she reads more about men and about love: one should not use sex to manipulate the loved one. (She won’t.) M
ost men don’t want to marry if they can get what they want by other means, though women are always thinking they’ll change their minds.
Back at his front door, there’s the music—too loud. She can hear it from downstairs. He must have gotten up. She had hoped he wouldn’t be well enough. Upstairs, her arms full of groceries, laundry, and books, she unlocks the door and pushes with her knee. The chain is on. She calls out, but the music is so loud he can’t hear, or pretends he can’t. Nothing to do but wait for the slow movement. She puts her packages down and sits on the floor. (She had thought that maybe now it would be easy to get that far down, but it isn’t. She wonders how it will be trying to get up again.) She puts her foot in the opening so he can’t close the door, thinks maybe all that memorizing of him will come in handy after all—even right now. Delicious to remember all those things. She’s so deep in thought that, when the tender, slow movement comes, it fits so well into her daydream she almost forgets to call out.
But he doesn’t answer.
“I’m not going away. I’m not leaving this door.”
Finally he comes and looks at her through the gap. He’s had a shower and combed his hair and he doesn’t look quite as sick, but, happily, his eyes look even sadder than before, and he looks confused. Stares at her.
“You’ve changed. Have you changed your hair?”
She had almost forgotten she’d had it done—that she looks (she hopes) maybe years and years younger with these jet black curls. “No,” she says, “it’s always been this way.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you like.”
“One thing’s sure, you won’t get back in here again unless you bring some Scotch.”
She supposes she’ll have to. She’ll have to. And Housman wrote it. No wonder he likes him. Two of a kind.
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
She, on the other hand, would rather see reality, especially when this is such a nice reality.
She buys the best. Chivas Regal, and two imported beers. Catches sight of herself in the liquor store window with her new hairdo and color. She’d been letting herself go—even after she’d fallen in love and watched him walking home everyday. She must have thought there wasn’t any hope.
He seems relieved just to have a bottle in his hand. He even smiles—one of those rare, treasured smiles, and all for her. “Thank you, Gloria,” he says.
“Gay. I keep telling you.”
He’s sighing. He’s drinking and looking more mellow all the time. He’s going to let her cook the steak. (They’ll not have steak often once she’s settled in. Fish is better for him.) He’s lying back and shutting his eyes. He’s sighing again, but it’s a different kind of sigh this time. Now is probably one of those times the books would say to keep quiet. It’s hard to do when she’s so happy. But now he’s getting up and putting on a record and there’s a man’s bass voice singing out with the gravel and rumble of masculinity. She isn’t tempted to do anything but listen.
The air is fragrant with steak and onions. The late sun slants in again, but from the other side. Dust motes look like tiny diamonds. The man on the record sings while her man lies humming along. Her man’s voice is not quite so deep, but it’s raspy. (If liquor makes him feel so good and makes him let her in, she’ll be sure there’s plenty of it—or, rather, just enough.) Things couldn’t be more perfect than they are right now.
Oh, but they could. The doorbell rings from downstairs and she buzzes the front door open, puts the chain on so she can see who’s there before she opens the door all the way. It’s the whitehaired boy! Older now, maybe ten, but just as beautiful as ever. More so, here in the reality of him. Except he needs a haircut. She can take care of that.
The boy draws back, looks frightened, but she opens the door all the way and reaches out for him. No need to wonder who he is anymore. This is who.
“Come on in,” she says. “I’m Aunt Joy.”
The Start of the End of It All, Mercury House, 1991
Draculalucard
“I’M A GAMBOLING LAMB. I’m a gambling man. I’m a rambler. I’m a riser and a doer,” she says. ‘’I’m a lucky buck. I’m a crazy stork.” She is a crazy stork, or, more likely, some fatter, much smaller bird… a crazy chickadee, calling out in the snow, for there’s snow and she’s outside in it, jumping up and down, running around trying not to look lazy, saying I’m a this and I’m a that and the other, but she doesn’t believe any of it. “I’m a lazy schmuck” is what she’s really thinking. Maybe this is her way of turning over a whole new leaf just by saying so. Or maybe she’s had too much coffee. She leers over her shoulder. Is she going back inside?
Just because she lost five pounds hasn’t made her that different from before. She’s got maybe twenty-five, thirty-five to go, and she’s not tall… not tall enough to turn out tall and thin, ever, no matter how much she loses.
She has wanted to be called “the salt of the earth.” She has wanted to be called Jane or Ann, salt-of-the-earth kind of names. One wonders what she wants to be called now, running around like this, and if she’s changed her mind? She doesn’t act like a Jane. Also she has married the chief inspector. (Long ago.) Does he want her to be the salt of the earth? Not likely.
Now she says, “I’m worth my salt,” but it’s just words. Nothing has changed that much except pretty soon she’s going to freeze out there.
It is a nice snowstorm, no doubt about that. Snowflakes swirling around, going up as much as coming down. Tiny snow stars sit caught in her gray hair, not even wetting it. Midwinter. February something or other. Much too soon to hope for spring and not that good a time to go on out and be one’s best self, though why not pick the hardest season? The darkest, longest nights? Except she’s lain in bed lazy every morning, overeaten, hasn’t paid attention, has a wart on her nose. Her breasts sag and she keeps writing tub for but and king for quit, Ashkenazie for Anasazi. Balboa might as well be Bilboa.
Now she has come back in because she doesn’t have all that much on, but she gets bundled up and goes right on out again. Turns out she’s going to get a new hat, a courageous new hat, kind of like a cowboy’s. A hat—a whole new way of life comes with it. Maybe she’ll get two hats.
Now smile. Now keep quiet. Wait. That’s how she used to do. But courage can come quite suddenly when one least expects it. (And she’s got a reason and a need.) It’s salt-of-the-earth time now or never because not only is she past the menopause, but also the chief inspector has hinted that he might have found a younger woman, more beautiful than she ever was, even when she was sixteen. He’s hinted that maybe he’ll leave, but he’s also hinted that maybe, on the other hand, he’ll stay.
And she has just realized he doesn’t call her anything, let alone not Jane. “Hey,” he says, and, “Get me this or that.” (Can she say about herself that she once was loved or ever will be, and, if she had been salt-of-the-earth, would that have made the difference?)
But she’s back out now, standing on the corner wondering which way to turn and she’s not wearing any hat at all. Her hair is already coming loose from its Psyche knot. Her scarf is flying up behind her. The snow is in her eyes. Had she listened to the radio, she might have known this was a real blizzard, and that it would last not only all day, but all night, too.
There’s a man there, on the corner, looks at her with pale, close-set eyes so light she can’t tell what color they are or if any color at all, though the pupils look extraordinarily black. He’s waiting for the bus. (She had not thought about this being the bus stop until this very moment.) That man probably thinks she’s waiting for the bus, too. He probably thinks she has a job just like everybody else. Maybe he even thinks she’s happy. (She hums a tango just in case he doesn’t.) He has a pale, cool face that shines out with some inner kind of light she thinks she’s seen in deep, dark water.
It goes on snowing. She keeps on humming. It’s so windy the man has to hold onto
his hat, and his white silk scarf blows out and up just like her woolly one does. Finally he speaks, right in the middle of her humming. “I’m Mr. Snow;” he says. “Alucard Snow.”
‘Jane,” she answers, already lying, and not even sure yet if that’s who she really wants to be, but then she does confess that she doesn’t work-that she’s only going downtown for a new hat. It’s embarrassing to say it because it doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing a salt-of-the-earth kind of person would do.
“Many curative possibilities in hats,” Mr. Snow says. “One might do worse than seek out a good one. I, also,” he says, “I was going to buy a pair of shoes specifically in hopes of beneficial results. But now I think the bus won’t come.” Is she mistaken, or hasn’t he a slight accent and a funny kind of lisp?
Well, she’ll not go home, that’s one thing sure. Maybe she’ll walk. She hadn’t even thought to take the bus anyway until she saw Mr. Snow standing there, but “Cup of tea?” he is saying, and, “Corner deli?” Of course she says yes, thinking maybe something is happening now. Maybe something is well on the way to be happening. Perhaps even something a little bit dangerous.
Inside there’s only the two of them and the man who serves them. Her bifocals get so fogged up that, for several minutes, she can hardly see where she is or who she’s with, even so—or maybe because—she begins to tell him all about herself. The chief inspector sleeps alone. The chief inspector comes upon her suddenly when she least expects him. If she’s reading, she forgets whole passages. If she’s dozing, she can’t sleep again for hours. If she’s having just one little drink too many, she’ll have two more. If she’s sneaking into his room or if she’s banging on his door thinking he’s inside, he grabs her from behind and heads her toward the kitchen, where, if he’s in there, she always drops her best china. He talks about precision versus passion. He talks about policies versus pleasures…
The Collected Stories of Carol Emshwiller, Vol. 1 Page 68
