by Karen Bender
Vivien whispered to Lena; her words, though unintelligible to Ella, were obviously serious. The girls nodded to each other solemnly, as if to acknowledge the absolute necessity of each to the other, the way each girl needed the other to carve her own distinctive place.
Vivien sat in the chair while Lena, giggling, dressed her. She picked through the pile, selecting the yellow polishing cloths to drape over Vivien, perhaps to make her so bright that it would be impossible not to see her.
Next, Vivien held out her arms, and Lena slipped blue fluffy slippers on her hands and another pair on Vivien’s feet. Vivien slowly moved her tiny blue bear paws. Lena walked around and around the chair, and then stopped and assessed her creation.
When Lena seemed unsure, Vivien helped her. She pointed out the most brilliant items on the floor and coaxed Lena to put a sequin bridal clip in her hair, to drape a pair of silver-flecked pantyhose around her neck as a scarf. Vivien was both sharply aware and supremely unaware of Lena even as her gaze was set on a far, romantic place. Lena did whatever Vivien suggested. She tossed a creamy white piece of velvet over Vivien’s shoulders as a cape and clipped barrettes with clusters of fake white and red diamonds to the cape’s edge. They worked together quietly, and Lena did not mock any request that Vivien made.
Finally, Vivien stood up and held out her arms. She seemed utterly convinced of her magnificence. After turning around to show herself to Lena, she circled the chair as Lena watched, entranced.
“Your turn,” Vivien said.
Lena sat down and Vivien removed the blue paws so that her hands were free. She did not ask Lena for help; she had many ideas of her own.
Vivien made Lena look like a much larger person. She put Lena’s small feet into a pair of huge, dark men’s shoes and encircled her waist with a long belt made of many stockings. Over Lena’s shoulders she hung a big blue jacket from the store’s lost and found closet.
Lena, sitting in silence, was Vivien’s first true audience. In the enormous shoes and large jacket, she watched Vivien perform a proud and languorous dance. Lena had a solemn demeanor, like a member of the clergy.
Vivien had not yet learned formal dance steps. With her arms raised, she whirled in wild circles, her movements almost frenetic. Lena watched in awe.
Ella, still crouched by the door, could not make herself leave. It was as if her daughters’ game would tell her what was to become of them. She was not ready to let herself fantasize again about Vivien’s future. But if she had, she would have seen her on stage in the high school auditorium, at ballroom contests in the Los Angeles Forum, where men and women glided together, their costumes scintillating in the light. She would have seen Vivien rushing proudly into space, her legs flying and her long red hair falling back in the air. She would have seen Vivien as herself.
Eight
ELLA WAS cleaning Lena’s room in Panorama Village. She had pushed open the windows and sprayed Lena’s perfume into the air, plucked up the underwear that Lena had abandoned to the floor, and spread one of Lena’s bathroom towels over the burned rug. The square pink towel wasn’t wide enough, and Ella spent some time trying to make it right. When she stepped back and examined her efforts, she had to admit that the towel looked ridiculous and hid nothing—perhaps she could pretend that Lena had left it there.
She had a sudden urge to turn to Lou and ask him to estimate the damage. She could imagine him walking around Lena’s room and saying, lightly, “Well, why did she do this? Why? She wanted to upgrade. It’s Lena’s way of redecorating.” He’d rub his hands together. “I, personally, would have started with the bedspread, not the rug.”
But he was not here to help her. Ella did not feel less married to Lou because he was gone. She would look at something he had touched—a check made out in his handwriting, the Aqua Velva she kept in the medicine cabinet—and his absence seemed unreal. She still looked up when she heard footsteps on the stairs to her apartment; she still waited to hear his keys in the door. She remembered with great clarity what she loved—the commanding way he gestured when he talked, the dark grace of his eyebrows, the rooster crow of his laugh (which he had, frankly, stolen from her). Now, with his death, their marriage had taken another step; their love was simply different—for it had not disappeared.
Her love for him had become simpler in his absence. She couldn’t get angry at him for leaving his shoes in the den, for laughing with her but not listening, for escaping to the TV. In death, he did whatever she wanted; he was entirely good. At other moments, she longed for him so fiercely that she wondered whether she had become something other than human—a costume of a woman, containing nothing but pure need. This feeling came over her now, as she tried to decide what to do; it rushed out of her, into the morning’s blue haze. She wanted to chase the feeling, but there was nowhere to go.
Sometimes, when she missed him most, she tried to think about another subject. She would think about Lou’s extramarital affair. Ella had no reason to believe that Lou had ever had one, but the idea made her miss him less, so she tried to believe it was true. She would spend a great deal of time conjuring up suspicious moments—the few times Lou came home late with no explanation other than bad traffic; the times when it had taken him several rings to pick up the phone. It was, admittedly, not much evidence, but sometimes she clung to it with a rumbling, righteous anger. His lady friend, she decided, was named Lorraine. She had frosted blond hair and long legs the color of ivory. Lorraine had indulged in some ill-advised plastic surgery, which made her face resemble that of a wax doll. Ella could spend hours imagining Lorraine’s complaints about her plastic surgery and her compliments to Ella on her beautiful face, just as it was.
She also imagined telling Lou about the handymen, for a small, mean reason she didn’t quite understand. There were four or five meaty men whom she called when something in her apartment broke down. The plumber was named Saul, she thought, and the electrician Ned. Each had a particular fragrance—Ned was a little smoky, Saul smelled sharply of Certs. Ella enjoyed having them come to fix things, because they were company. Yet she was sure that each one was making a move on her.
The more vividly she imagined Lorraine, the more she wanted to tell Lou about Saul: how his large hand lingered on her shoulder; how he glanced, longingly, into her eyes. Whenever Saul came over, Ella busied herself with small tasks—balancing her checkbook, cleaning the stove—but the apartment seemed to light up with the man’s suppressed feelings toward her. When he was finished, he would saunter up to her and boom, “Well, Ella, everything looks good now. Got to go.” He’d stand there with his toolbox, his worn face lonely. The air between them twinkled with a curious promise as a thrilled indignation came over her. She handed him his check. “Thank you and goodbye,” she said, smiling brightly, and showed him the door.
Ella missed Lou the most keenly in the morning. When she woke to the clear sunlight in her bedroom, she began the day by touching herself. She started lightly, almost casually, though this action was important to her. She thought of Lou, or sometimes the handymen or other strangers, though she did not know how other men would make love to her, since she had made love only with Lou. She touched herself in ways that she wished he had touched her. She tried to remember the act of sex, but without much clarity, so that she would not long for it; she conjured up Lou in a variety of ways. She saw him standing in a navy suit beside her bed, as though he were about to go to work, watching her; she saw him naked beside her at thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy years old. In her memory, she contained all of the versions of him. All the Lous were there, a quiet, shifting crowd. As her desire built, she felt herself grow larger than the room. Sometimes she wanted to shout in a deep and frightening voice, or to swear, but she did not want to start her day until she had finished. She refused to die until she had finished. There was a shudder, a moment of absolute yearning. Then there was the sensation of having fallen into a pool of damp air.
She knew when she had climaxed. It was never ver
y large. She had never asked anyone, so she was never sure when it was quite time to stop. She looked at her room, her window, the desk, the carpet, and she thought: I am here.
Vivien was standing in the doorway of Lena’s room, watching her mother. She had a slightly lost pose, the way she sometimes stood when she thought no one was looking at her. It was the posture of someone unwilling to make a decisive movement, someone who preferred to remain in shadow. She was accustomed to watching the world quietly, in a strategic way. Her hands were open, aimless, as if they wanted to fit into a pocket. Ella saw this person for only a moment. Then there was the Vivien Ella was accustomed to seeing.
She thought Vivien looked like a movie star, even now, when she was not really dressed up. Vivien had a shy streak, but Ella believed her intrinsically glamorous. That was how her daughter looked now, sleeveless in a navy leotard top, long Danskin pants, and silver platform sandals. Her large sparkling sunglasses were pushed up on her head; her cascading red hair was in a ponytail. It was not just Ella who thought Vivien looked like a movie star; others did, too. This was proven in the photo captions in the local newspapers, where her success in contests was recorded; Vivien was “skillful,” or “notable.” Ella underlined the words with her ballpoint pen. Her favorite caption was from the Santa Monica Evening Outlook. It read: “Vivien Rose is an orchid of grace. When she moves across the floor, the stage is in bloom.” The statement had been made by a judge named Andrea Unger. From the moment she read this statement, Ella believed the name Andrea to be one of the most beautiful she had ever heard. Whatever Andrea meant by her words, Ella had no doubt that she was absolutely correct. To see her own feelings about Vivien corroborated in print made Ella feel that she truly understood something of great importance. The article had appeared in 1971, and Ella carried it in her wallet, until it had become unreadable.
Now, Ella said, eagerly, “Darling, come in. Turn around and let me look at you.”
“Oh, please, I’m not wearing anything—”
“Humor me.”
Vivien shrugged and turned around. Ella experienced the same proud thrill she had when Vivien was seven years old.
“Well, darling,” said Ella, “that is a very distinguished outfit. Though I am not in love with the silver shoes.”
Vivien instantly stopped twirling and gave her mother a onceover. “Well, I don’t understand why women near eighty insist on wearing high heeled pumps.”
Ella stuck out her foot and scrutinized her green pump. “It’s not so high.”
“I worry that you might trip.”
“Well, I enjoy being fashionable,” said Ella, “and I’m not going to trip.”
“All right,” said Vivien and quickly kissed her. Ella’s gratitude for this daughter filled her like clear water.
Vivien walked around, scanning Lena’s room. She was clutching a brown paper bag. Abruptly, she sat down beside Ella. “I brought you a muffin,” Vivien said, taking it from the bag. “Carob bran. It’s delicious.”
Ella looked at the dense, tough-looking muffin and then, longingly at the bag, hoping a paler and more sugary muffin would emerge. No such treat was forthcoming. “Thank you,” Ella said, without enthusiasm. Vivien set the bran muffin beside Ella on a paper napkin, and there it sat, untouched.
“It’s like a brothel in here,” said Vivien. “A brothel from Kmart.”
“That’s Lena’s perfume,” said Ella. “I thought it might hide the fire smell.”
“Good God,” said Vivien, fanning her hand.
“Better this than the other,” said Ella, though the burned odor was still perceptible, dark beneath the cloying sweetness.
“Well,” said Vivien. She picked up Ella’s muffin and took a bite. “It’s not so bad. I thought the roof might be gone.”
She stood up and went to the window and tried to push it up more, but it was open to its widest point. Setting her hands on the windowsill, she leaned out into the warm air, tilting up her face as though waiting for someone to pluck her. She stood there for a moment, the sun white on her face, then ducked back inside.
“Shelley was up at three this morning,” Vivien said, “doing God knows what.”
“Excuse me?”
“She was in the living room. It looked as if she was cleaning, maybe, picking up things and putting them down. She was just touching things like a crazy person, and she was crying.” Vivien’s voice had become hoarse; she sounded like a teenager.
“What did you do?” asked Ella.
“When she saw me, she froze and then ran to her room and wouldn’t talk to me.”
“It’s a boy,” said Ella, firmly. The authority in her voice soothed her, and she continued, just to hear it fill Lena’s smoky room. “She’s twelve years old,” said Ella, “That’s what you should talk to her about. She must be in love with someone. Or someone must be in love with her.”
Vivien wasn’t listening; she seemed to be caught between the vision of her unhappy daughter and the bareness of Lena’s room. After a moment, she shook herself and surveyed the burned room once again, as though she, too, belonged in it. It was the random chance of six years that had granted Vivien an independent life.
“She’s going crazy,” said Vivien. “I did something and raised a crazy daughter.”
“Why do you want to say that about her?” asked Ella.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “But I’m afraid. She’s been like this since the accident. She won’t talk about it.”
“What could she say?” asked Ella.
The room was hushed.
“She wishes she’d saved him,” said Vivien.
“What do you mean?”
“I know my daughter,” said Vivien, passionately. “She was right there. How could she not wish that?”
Ella suddenly wondered where Lena and her granddaughter were at this moment. Before she could ask, Vivien took another bite of the muffin and said, “All right. Enough. Let’s clean up.”
Ella, watching her daughter walk around the room, remembered how argumentative Vivien had been when the two of them were searching for a residence for Lena and Bob. That was twelve years ago. She had sent the coordinators scurrying on their knees with her questions: And where exactly do you take residents on your “creative and stimulating field trips”? Is this really someone’s underwear lying on the floor? What is that strange smell coming out of the kitchen? She had been unrelenting and wonderful.
Now, Vivien was tracing her fingers along the wooden dresser, picking up and setting down some of the snowdomes she’d given Lena after her family’s trips. She shook each one and placed them all in the row, and she and Ella watched the snow swirl inside each tiny dome.
“She’s kept every one you gave her,” said Ella. “Every single one.”
She hoped Vivien would be comforted by this; instead, it made her sad.
“I never thought she would actually keep them,” said Vivien, softly.
“I think it makes her feel like she’s been on trips,” Ella suggested.
“She should be able to go on many trips,” said Vivien, her voice urgent. “She should be able to go to Hawaii.” She quickly turned away from the snowdomes.
“I gave Mrs. Lowenstein a box of See’s candy, and she was very appreciative,” said Ella, brightly.
Vivien looked at her. “Oh, you did?” she said.
“Nougat, mostly,” said Ella, “though I took a chance and included some soft centers.”
“Well,” said Vivien, “if that doesn’t convince her, she is a hard woman indeed.” She bent down, gingerly lifted up the pink towel, and touched the burned carpet. She and Ella quietly looked at the damage Lena had done.
“What do you think?” Ella asked, anxiously.
Vivien rubbed her forehead with one hand, slowly. “Well, it was kind of an ugly carpet.”
“Right,” said Ella. “I wish I’d burned it up myself. Years ago.”
Vivien lay the towel down.
Ella, to reassure
her, quickly said, “It was an accident. Lena’s a peaceful person; she’s not interested in making fires.”
“I know that,” Vivien replied.
“An accident that could happen to any of us,” said Ella.
“Sure,” said Vivien, absently. She rubbed her long arms as though trying to warm herself. “All right. All right. We’ll get this all cleaned up and march Lena over to Mrs. Lowenstein. We teach Lena a little speech. Something like: ‘I am so sorry. It was an accident. I enjoy my room. I won’t smoke in here anymore.’” Vivien paused. “Something easy but heartfelt,” she added.
“We could give the speech,” Ella suggested.
“We’ll practice,” said Vivien, pacing. “So. Mrs. Lowenstein. Hello! I am so, so sorry. It was an accident. I’ve lived here a long time—” She smiled at her mother. “Okay! Let’s practice. Where is she?”
All at once, Ella remembered—and she was horrified. She’d been wondering where Lena and Shelley were, and now she knew: they were not in Panorama Village. They had left for someplace else.
“I think they just went down the hall,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “They’ll be back in a moment.”
“They?”
“Lena and Shelley. You know. Wherever young people go.” Ella tried to laugh. That was the wrong thing to do.
Vivien said, “Shelley? She’s supposed to be home.” She leaned toward Ella. Her eyes were too bright.
“I brought her,” said Ella. “I wanted company.” The words sounded pathetic; she stopped herself. The sound of sparrows, obstreperous and joyful, sparkled through the window.
“Wait here a sec. I’ll be right back,” said Vivien. Her voice was crisp now, official.
