The Visiting Privilege

by Joy Williams

  She left before they flipped the chairs and brought out the vacuum cleaner. When she arrived home the garage door was still open and Freddie’s Mercedes was not there. There would probably be a reminder in their mailbox the following morning that subdivision rules prohibited garage interiors from being unnecessarily exposed. No one likes to look at someone else’s storage, they would be reminded. Francine very much did not want to go into the house and face once more, and alone, the humming refrigerator and the moth floating in the sheltie’s water dish. Given Freddie’s continued absence, she would probably have to call the police. But she did not want to call the police after her experience with the fire department. She considered both of these official agencies and their concept of correctness of little use to her. She eased the car into gear—it sounded as though something was wrong with the transmission again—and drove off once more into the dully glowing web of the city, lowering the roof and then raising it again. Finally she left the roof down, though no stars were visible. The lights of the city seemed to be extinguishing them by the week.

  Stopped at a light at a large intersection, she saw the Barbeques Galore store. The vast parking area covered several acres and was dotted with dilapidated campers, for the store was not closed for the evening but had gone out of business, providing welcome habitat for the aimless throngs coursing through the land.

  She turned in and, threading her car among the vehicles, heard the murmur of voices and saw the silhouettes of figures moving behind flimsily curtained windows. Some trucks had metal maps of the country affixed to the rear, the shapes of the states colored in where the people had been. Dangling from the windshield mirrors were amulets of all kinds, crosses, beads, chains. On the dashboards were cups, maps, coins and crumpled papers, even a tortoise nibbling on a piece of lettuce. And there, swooping in a graceful arc on the darkened margin of the place, Galore, the ineradicable locus of what had been his happiness, was Dennis on his waxed and violet Fat Boy. He hadn’t seen her yet, of that she was sure. But if she went to him, what could be the harm? For he was no more than a child in his yearnings, and his Darla was just an exuberant young girl who could never dream she didn’t have a life before her.

  Hammer

  Angela had only one child, a daughter who abhorred her. Darleen was now sixteen years old, a junior in boarding school who excelled in all her courses. Her dislike of Angela had become pronounced around the age of eleven, increasing in theatricality and studied venom until it leveled off in her thirteenth year, the year she went off to Mount Hastings.

  Darleen’s father had died in a scuba accident when she was but an infant. He had held his breath coming up the last twenty feet of an otherwise deep and successful dive. An absolute no-no. One did not hold one’s breath on the ascent to the light no matter how eager one was to return. He had been instructed in that, as had Angela and everyone else in the resort training course they’d been taking. While he’d been recklessly rising Angela had still been fooling around down in the depths, interesting herself in a rock that was in the process of being dismantled or constructed—it was hard to tell which—by colorful wrasses.

  Angela had known few men after her impetuous young husband, whose name had been Bruce. She lived in the house she had returned to as a widow in the town she’d always lived in. Despite the dislike her daughter felt toward her, Angela was devoted to Darleen and awaited the day when their estrangement would be over, for surely that day would come. At the same time she feared that something would break then in Darleen, never to be made good again.

  Ever since the girl insisted on going off to boarding school, Angela had worked as a masseuse in an old spa on the outskirts of town. She found the work distasteful and yet persisted in it, kneading and pummeling, rapping and slapping, the trusting hides presented to her. The old bodies became delusionarily flattered and freshened beneath her cool hands. Still, she was not as popular as the other masseuses. She spoke little and had no regulars. In her white cubicle on a white wooden table beside the high white-sheeted table was an envelope with her name written on it, a reminder that a gratuity would be appreciated. Seldom did it contain anything at the end of the day, though once an extraordinarily long and vigorously curling eyebrow hair had been deposited there.

  On a cold morning in late February, Angela had a single appointment. She knew the woman, a wealthy and opinionated patron of the arts who was dedicated to social inclusion, moral betterment, sculpture in the parks and dance. She smiled at Angela thinly, disappointed that she was not being served by Margaret, everyone’s favorite. Outside the sky was dark, almost cyclonic, but inside a warm, optimistic light bathed everything. There was an orange on the table that really ought to be thrown out, and Angela left the room for a moment to dispose of it.

  Midway through the session, just as Angela’s tape was about to end—it was Schweitzer playing Bach’s Fugue in G Minor, and she was dreamily placing the shaggy-haired theologian thumping away on an organ in the jungle, pulling out all the stops in a green and unreconciled jungle, which he was not doing at all of course—she snapped her prosperous client’s wrist bone, and before the ambulance arrived she’d been fired.

  “I have no choice, Angela,” the manager said.

  “What if the others signed a petition to keep me on,” Angela asked.

  “They wouldn’t do that, Angela. They wouldn’t trouble themselves, you know that.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Angela said.

  “Of course it doesn’t,” he said.

  Angela did not return home that night. Instead, she drove to the coast several hours away and boarded a ferry that served a number of weedy, unremarkable islands popular with the very rich, who maintained large and hidden homes there. In the tiny lounge of the ferry, people were talking about a dog that had fallen overboard during the previous night’s crossing and had not yet been found. It was a chocolate-colored Lab named Turner. The owners, a young couple just married, were practically keening with distress, according to the purser. Angela stared at the water with the four other passengers. Occasionally, the ferry’s searchlight would cast a broad beam over the waves.

  Angela checked into the inn closest to the ferry slip on the first island. She had come here before in times of distress, usually when she was trying to stop drinking. The following day, in her old wool coat and with a borrowed scarf over her head, she walked along the beach. The few people she encountered referred to the drizzle as mizzle, which had been more or less constant since New Year’s Day. Angela’s thoughts floated beside her. The vigorous eyebrow hair in the envelope appeared more than once, seemingly determined to show its jurisdiction over her most recent months. It had quite attached itself to Angela, though only in spirit, for she certainly hadn’t kept the damn thing.

  When she boarded the ferry the next morning, people were talking about the brown Lab that had been rescued the night before, on the boat’s last run. He’d actually slipped below the waves just before they’d gotten a flotation ring around him. He was an instant from being gone but they’d hauled him in, and he’d smiled the way Labs do, pulling back his lips in a black, rubbery grin. After he’d been warmed and fed, the distraught couple had been called, and when the ferry returned to the mainland the three of them were reunited. But the couple said it wasn’t Turner. In their minds they had endured with Turner the weight of the stinging sea, the whipping of the starless dark, the bewilderment and despair that this animal too must surely have suffered. But this was not their Turner, and they were not going to take him home with them.

  “I never saw a dog looked more like another dog in my life,” the cashier in the galley was saying. “That Turner came in here three days ago with those people and he ate a fried-egg sandwich.”

  The couple apparently had been heckled off the boat.

  “They weren’t crying anymore,” the cashier said. “They were stubborn about it, they’d made up their minds. It was the captain took the dog.”

  Angela pressed herself ag
ainst the rail and looked at the water much as she had earlier, waiting for something to appear. This time she would be the first to glimpse it. There! she imagined herself calling out to the others. Though it was unlikely now. No, it would never happen now.

  She drove home, detouring through the grounds of the old spa, which looked as ruined and complacent as it had when it was a big part of Angela’s life. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys. The fireplace in the game room frequently harbored a meager fire. The immense moribund pines, dying because of the town’s controversial road-salting practices, loomed protectively over the winding narrow road.

  The phone was ringing as she opened the door. It was Darleen, who announced that she was arriving the next day for a brief visit.

  “It would be thoughtful of you if you canceled your appointments at that vile place you work so we could spend some time together,” Darleen said.

  “What would you like to do?” Angela said.

  “I thought I’d help you put in a garden, Mummy.”

  “I don’t have a garden, dear. There was never…I mean nothing’s changed much since you were here last.”

  “I know the conditions under which you live, Mummy. I was just being annoying.”

  “How is school?”

  “They’ve completed the new library, and we’re allowed two days off from classes to move the books from the old institution down the hill to the new institution. We are to be utilized as a merry and willing human chain. I resist being so utilized. I’m here to learn.”

  “So you’re coming here instead,” Angela said.

  There was silence.

  “Which is wonderful,” Angela said. “Really wonderful.”

  “I’m hanging up, Mummy. You can continue with your inanities if you wish.”

  That night Angela had a dream. She was in a furniture store and the salesman was speaking about the wood of a bed she was looking at. Angela was not really interested in the bed and had no intention of buying it but she had been staring at it for some time. No wonder the salesman thinks I’m interested in it, she thought in her dream, I keep walking around and around it. “Now some people,” the salesman said, “they look at a thousand-year-old tree and they say, ‘So?’ They don’t respect it, you know? Thing’s just growing out of the ground. But to cut to the detail, this bed comes to you from Indonesia fresh from a managed forest, what they call a managed forest, and it hasn’t been treated yet so you’ve got to care for it. You’ve got to oil it at least once a year. It’s like it’s still alive. The molecules are still stretching and expanding. I admit it’s not like a fine piece of furniture that your grandmother might have taken pride in and cared for because it isn’t a fine piece of furniture, it’s hacked out by simple Malay Archipelago artisans for export. With fairly crude tools. Now some people like this situation, it’s just what they want. They want to feel they’re doing their part by providing a commitment, a commitment to life, a thwarted life, not just to an inert tyrannical object like the kind your forebears served. And this baby’s cheap. Of course the timber industry is out of control worldwide, and this price hardly reflects the real costs entailed—the invisible costs, you might say. But the opportunity you have right here is to acquire something that’s alive even when it’s dead, do you hear what I’m saying?”

  The salesman had a head that looked like a medicine ball. How heavy that must be, Angela thought. When it began to resemble something more like a brown dog’s head, she woke up.

  —

  Darleen arrived with someone she introduced as Deke, her assistant and guide, a man with graying, slicked-back hair. He wore a leather shirt and extremely tight-fitting leather pants that suggested no knob. Angela couldn’t help but notice this. Darleen had dyed her hair white and it sprang above her pale face like a web composed of bristles and points. She had not, however, adorned her face with rings or studs, as was so much the fashion among the young. The rings always seemed to presuppose some sort of leash to Angela. She was pleased that Darleen had not succumbed to convention.

  “Slippery out,” the man said.

  Upon arrival he requested a bath. His bathing was noisy and prolonged, and when he emerged from Angela’s bathroom the immediate premises smelled fruity and foul. “Bag?” he said to Darleen.

  “I put it in the kitchen.”

  Angela heard him opening and shutting drawers, criticizing the color scheme—green and red or “rhubarb”—and bemoaning the dearth of protein. There was then the sound of a bottle being uncorked. He appeared with a single water goblet filled to the brim with wine. “Glasses look as if they were washed on the inside only,” he complained. “Knives badly in need of sharpening.” He stood before them, sipping the wine appreciatively. Angela’s eyes reluctantly strayed to his remarkable leather pants.

  “Can’t see nothing for seeing something else,” Deke muttered.

  “Dear…” Angela began.

  “I want to marry him, Mummy, I’ll spend years if necessary nursing him back to health. I want a large wedding in an English garden with a champagne fountain.” She chewed on her fingers and laughed.

  Angela decided to ignore the subject and the presence of Deke, assistant and guide, for the moment. “Is everything going well at school? Tell me about school.”

  “We finished our studies of archaic cultures with the Aztecs. As everywhere else in the world, the Aztec elite had more varied ideas about their gods than the common people.”

  “Don’t you go believing that now!” Deke exclaimed.

  “Religious thinking among the elite developed into a real philosophy that stressed the relative nature of all things,” Darleen continued briskly. “Such a philosophy can only develop in a sophisticated environment.”

  She then lapsed into silence. Deke said he was going to take a peek around if it didn’t disaccommodate anyone.

  “What will you be doing this summer?” Angela asked after a while. “Will you be a nanny again for the Marksons?”

  “I hardly think so.” Darleen gazed at her critically. At some point in boarding school she had learned how to enlarge her eyes and make them glassy at will, like some carnivore about to attack.

  “I was on the island just yesterday but I didn’t walk as far as their house.”

  “Am I supposed to find that interesting?” Darleen sighed. “In another class we’re reading Dante. Do you know why he called it a comedy?” She raised a gnawed paw to prevent her mother from replying, although Angela had no intention of interrupting her. “Because it progresses from a dark beginning to redemption and hope.”

  “What translation are you using?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, Binyon. Laurence Binyon. What do you care? That’s not the point I wish to make. My point is that Dante’s imagination was primarily visual. In his time people didn’t dream, they had visions. And these visions had meaning. We only have dreams and dreams are haphazard and undisciplined, the meager vestige of a once great method of immediate knowing.” She gnawed on her fingers again. “You see visions today and you’re considered abnormal, uncouth.”

  Deke hurried past them back into the kitchen, where he poured more wine.

  “This ain’t much of an establishment if you pardon my saying so,” he said to Angela. “No steaks in the freezer, no ice cream, sound system inadequate, music fit only to disinform the listener, no point in hearing it twice, towels thin, washcloths worn and most suspect, bed lumpy, poor recycling practices, few spare lightbulbs on hand, fire extinguishers out of date, no playing cards, clocks not set properly—”

  “I like them a little fast,” Angela conceded. It was all true. He was in no way exaggerating.

  “Potted violets on windowsill in very poor condition, worst case of powdery mildew I ever saw. I could go on.”

  “I remember those violets,” Darleen said. “Those violets are from my childhood.”

  “Now that’s just plain wrong,” Angela protested.

  “Suffering the same fate regardless,” Darleen said. />
  “You got a considerable amount of canned goods, however. Can I take some back to my friends?” Deke’s hair was still wet, but already scurf was bedecking his thin shoulders like fresh snow.

  “See, Mummy, even though a person has no future to speak of, he can take a moment to think of others. He can trust even in the blackest part of night that the daylight is not going to forget to come back for him.”

  “She’s a talker, isn’t she,” Deke said.

  “That surprises me, actually,” Angela confessed. “It really does.” She was brooding about that daylight-coming-back business. You couldn’t think that way about daylight, that’s why the ancients were always so hysterical. It was just too mental, too neurasthenic. Certain things just couldn’t forget to come back. And when they finally didn’t, it wasn’t because they forgot. They did it with deliberation.

  Deke had casually resumed his litany of the inadequacies of Angela’s method of living. “Carpeting not particularly clean—gritty, in fact. No handy cold-care tissues available, no Proust.”

  “You’re the biggest show-off I’ve ever known for someone who a couple hours ago was begging outside the bus station,” Darleen said.

  “Selling newspapers,” Deke said.

  “They were giveaway papers,” Darleen said. “They were supposed to be free.” She turned to her mother. “I was kind of not looking forward to us being together. I needed a respite from you at first. So I gave this one money to come here with me.”

  “You want it back?” From a slit pocket in his shirt he extracted a bill, then proceeded to unfold Benjamin Franklin’s enormous head.

  “Yes, she does,” Angela said. “Of course she does.” She sent Darleen a hundred dollars every month for, the word they had agreed upon was incidentals, and she certainly did not want her to waste the money in this fashion. “I send you a hundred—”