Florence Gordon

by Brian Morton

  104

  “What are you doing here?” Florence said.

  Emily was at her door. It was Saturday night. Their farewell dinner was about an hour away.

  “You’re always just turning up,” Florence said. “Haven’t you learned by now that that’s just not done in New York?”

  “I know. It’s rude. But here I am.”

  Florence let her in. That’s something, Emily thought.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d walk you over. It’s time for the big dinner event.”

  “You thought you’d walk me over? You think I need walking over?”

  “I just wanted to see you,” Emily said.

  “I’m very touched,” Florence said, in a voice that made it clear that she wasn’t.

  Emily wasn’t satisfied with the conversation they’d had in the café. Something was going on with Florence, and she wanted to know what it was.

  Florence put on a light jacket and picked up her purse and cane and walked toward the door, but Emily didn’t move.

  “What?” Florence said.

  “I just thought we could talk for a minute.”

  “We can talk on the way.”

  “I wanted to just talk for a minute. Here.”

  It was hard for her to stand up to Florence, but it was important to make the effort.

  “Well, go ahead.”

  “I think there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

  “Are you supposed to be my confidante?”

  “I think there’s something you’re not telling anybody.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Florence said. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I think you’re going through something serious, and I think you could use some help.”

  “How have you been spending your time lately?” Florence said. “Watching soap operas? I’m supposed to sit down and unburden myself to you? Is that the way you think it works? You think your grandmother is going through a rough patch and you’re going to help her through? Is that it? You’ll be the hero? Have you been ego-tripping on that thought?”

  When in doubt, attack: Emily knew Florence well enough by now to recognize that this was Florence’s way.

  “Let’s go,” Florence said. “And no more of this foolishness.”

  105

  For a paranoid minute, Florence tried to figure out if Emily had ever spent enough time unobserved in her apartment for her to have gone through her papers or intercepted a phone call from Noah’s office. But if the girl had that kind of hard information, she wouldn’t be nosing around like this. So she knew, but she didn’t know.

  106

  When they were out on the street, Emily saw that Florence’s foot was dragging again. Florence was trying to compensate, but the very effort to compensate made it obvious that something was wrong. She would lift her left leg carefully, as if she were placing it in a stirrup, and then she would lower and plant it with an equal deliberation.

  Their destination was north, but Florence was looking south, at the approaching stream of traffic. She glanced over at Emily, but Emily spoke before she could.

  “I’d suggest taking a cab,” Emily said, “but I know how much you enjoy walking.”

  If the old woman was going to pretend that she was perfectly healthy, Emily was going to make her commit to the role.

  Florence smiled at her—a tight little smile, as if she understood exactly what Emily was doing.

  “Yes,” Florence said. “Yes, I do. Let’s go.”

  They proceeded north. Florence made her way slowly, laboriously lifting her left leg as if avoiding small, invisible obstacles in her path.

  “I guess that sprain is still hurting,” Emily said.

  “It’s not hurting at all.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “There is no problem.”

  It was early September, but the afternoon was sweltering. It was one of those New York summer days where the heat bludgeons you with every step and you wouldn’t mind lying down on the sidewalk.

  “Did you see that enraging article in the Times this morning?” Florence said.

  “Which one?”

  “The one about all the promises Obama’s broken.”

  “Missed that.”

  They arrived at the corner of Broadway and Eighty-sixth Street as the WALK sign was beginning to flash. Florence paused, unwilling to try to make it all the way across before the light changed.

  “Tired?” Emily said. “Almost there, sort of.” And kept going.

  Florence followed. Her face was contorted with the effort to keep up.

  Emily was surprised that she had this in herself. This—what was it? Sadism? Is it sadism to try to force someone to admit she needs help?

  It wasn’t sadism, she decided. It was love, expressed in the only language Florence might possibly respond to.

  They were now in the way of the traffic, crossing against the light. Two cabs went past them, uncomfortably close; a van paused for them, but when the driver saw how slowly they were moving, he leaned on his horn. Finally they reached the other side of the street.

  “I was reading this Virginia Woolf essay that you mentioned in one of your books,” Emily said. “‘Professions for Women.’”

  “Great essay.”

  “She says that in order to become a writer, she had to murder . . . what does she call it?”

  “The Angel in the House,” Florence said.

  “That’s right. The Angel in the House. The spirit that makes a woman defer to everyone else instead of taking care of herself. If there’s a draft, she—”

  “If there’s a draft, she sits in it,” Florence said. “If there’s chicken, she takes the leg. You don’t have to recite it to me. You learned about it from me.”

  She was drawing a breath after each sentence.

  “The thing I was wondering about is this. If a woman needs help but she doesn’t ask for it, isn’t she just playing the part of the Angel in the House?”

  This was her trump card. She’d been thinking about this for days, working out exactly how to phrase it.

  “That depends,” Florence said. “Is she trying to take care of everybody else? Is she putting everybody else’s needs above her own?”

  “I don’t know what she’s doing,” Emily said.

  “I’d say she’s just standing on her own two feet,” Florence said.

  They’d stopped walking. Emily, looking at her grandmother, felt that she’d never cared about anyone more. Florence, looking back at her, gave nothing. There was no hint on her face of a wish to understand or a wish to be understood.

  Florence started to walk again.

  You have to hand it to the old lady, Emily thought.

  At Eighty-eighth Street, with six blocks to go, Emily relented. There was no point in torturing her.

  “Here’s a bus,” Emily said. “Let’s take the bus.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” Florence said, and continued grimly on.

  107

  “Jesus,” Daniel said after he opened the door. “You look like you’ve been playing volleyball.”

  Florence’s face was sweaty. Her blouse was soaked.

  “We have been playing volleyball,” Emily said.

  “It was a good game,” Florence said.

  “Who won?” Daniel said.

  108

  Florence walked toward an easy chair, forcing herself to go slowly so as not to betray the immensity of her desire to sit. Her pulse was drumming in her ears. Janine asked her what she wanted to drink, and answering felt like a challenge.

  After a little bit of rest and a little bit of bourbon, she felt revived.

  There was an odd static in the emotional air of the room. Daniel kept changing the music, Janine kept scrolling through delivery menus. Florence felt as if she and Emily were the only calm ones here. They were like adversaries after a battle, joined by mutual respect.

  “I’m confused,
” Florence said. “How many of you are leaving? And where are you going?”

  “Dad and I are going home,” Emily said. “From there, from thence—I’m applying to colleges. Assuming someplace accepts me, I’ll probably transfer in January.”

  “And you?” Florence said to Janine.

  “She’s got work she needs to finish,” Emily said. “Her thing ends in December. Then she’s coming home too.”

  Janine hadn’t said anything. She reached for her glass of wine, staring at it closely, as if it might have something to say.

  Florence didn’t know if Emily’s version was accurate or if she was intent on preserving some idea of her family that was no longer true.

  “Why don’t you visit us?” Emily said to Florence.

  “I’d love to visit,” Florence said.

  “We should set a date. We should set a date right now. You’re probably pretty free this year. You have a sabbatical, right?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure how free I’ll be. Every time you think you have some free time, the responsibilities start rushing in.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s the thing. You can’t be sure until they do.”

  “But I just want to know what could happen that could prevent you from making a date to stay with us for a while.”

  “Emily,” her mother said.

  “No. I just want to know what kind of responsibilities you tend to have, when you’re a big-time intellectual.”

  “I feel like I’m missing something here,” Janine said. “Subtext.”

  “What’s subtext?” Daniel said.

  “Stop it, Daniel,” Florence said. “You were under the same roof with me and Saul for eighteen years. The same roofs, anyway. You know what subtext is.”

  “Were you and Dad always talking about subtext?” Daniel said.

  “No, we weren’t talking about it. But the idea of it was always there. Like a subtext.”

  “Now I’m totally lost.”

  “I’m not,” Emily said. “I just want to know what my grandmother’s doing this fall. I just want to know why she won’t commit to visiting us.”

  Emily looked enraged. She had the light of battle in her eyes.

  What a magnificent girl, Florence thought.

  109

  It was clear that Florence wasn’t going to say anything to anybody, but if that was the case, Emily thought, she was going to do everything she could to make her feel bad about it.

  “I’m offended that you won’t commit to visiting us.”

  “I have speaking engagements, I have deadlines. I’m trying to finish this book.”

  “You have a laptop. The point of a laptop is that you can move around with it. You can even write with it on your lap. That’s why they call it—”

  “I know what the point of a laptop is.”

  “Anything you need to do, you could do at our house. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but there’s this thing called the Internet—”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Emily,” Daniel said. “I’m not sure I want my mother underfoot. She’s very clean, but she has a lot of demands.”

  “Let’s return to this subject by email, after you get home,” Florence said.

  “I just want to know—”

  “Stop it.”

  There was a new sharpness in Florence’s voice. Emily had been scolded by Florence before, but this tone of voice was something different.

  Emily went to the kitchen and put on some water for tea. Her hands were trembling. Her lips were trembling.

  I’m a lightweight, she thought. I thought I could get into the ring with the big gorilla. But all it took to shut me down was a little slap.

  She didn’t know why she was approaching it like this. She could have just told her parents that she was sure that Florence was hiding something, sure that Florence was ill. But she had too much respect for her grandmother to do that.

  110

  “I’m sorry about that,” Daniel said to his mother. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

  Daniel bored her. Florence didn’t want any of this cottage-cheesy politeness. She loved it that her granddaughter had tried to fight with her.

  “Don’t you dare apologize for her,” Florence said. “If I ever see you people again, she’ll be the reason.”

  It was more than she’d meant to say, but Daniel and Janine, to their credit, only laughed.

  111

  After dessert, after coffee, after a drink in the living room, Florence said goodbye to Daniel and Janine. Emily watched her give them her usual arm’s-length embrace.

  “Let me get you a cab,” Daniel said.

  “I don’t need you to get me a cab. It’s a lovely night. I’m going to walk for a few blocks, and then I’m going to get myself a cab. It’s touching that you want to protect me, but I’ve done well enough so far.”

  “Suit yourself,” Daniel said.

  Emily walked to the hallway so she could have a moment alone with her. She didn’t want to say goodbye in front of the others.

  “Take care of yourself, my young friend,” Florence said, and she opened the door.

  There had to be more. There had to be.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Emily said.

  She thought Florence would say something special to her. But she didn’t know what she expected. Was it that Florence would finally tell her what was going on? Was it that Florence would boil down her entire life’s message? She wasn’t sure. She was only sure that Florence would say something special.

  On the street Florence touched her arm and started south.

  That was it. That was all. Emily never saw her again.

  In the days that followed, Emily kept hoping for a phone call or an email, but she didn’t get one. Three times that fall she wrote to Florence, but Florence didn’t reply.

  Even after Florence’s death—her terrible death, so unforeseen and so foreseeable—Emily kept hoping that a letter would turn up in Florence’s apartment, written for her alone.

  There was no laying on of hands; there was no last word. The old lady had eluded her once again.

  That was one way of looking at it. The other way of looking at it was that the teaching, the passing on of whatever could be passed on, had already been done. This was the conclusion Emily would finally reach, but it would be years before she got there.

  As she watched Florence making her way down the street, Emily couldn’t believe that it was over. She kept expecting her to come back and say something more.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the friends who read early drafts: Emma Barrie, Robert Bedick, Amy Edelman, Todd Gitlin, Vivian Gornick, Liselle Gottlieb, Harvey Klinger, Mark Levinson, Ilana Masad, Howard Parnes, Ann Patty, Katha Pollitt, Marc Siegel, and Chuck Wachtel.

  Thanks to Henry Dunow and Lauren Wein, for their editorial guidance.

  And something more than thanks to Heather Harpham.

  About the Author

  BRIAN MORTON is the author of four previous novels, including Starting Out in the Evening, which was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award and was made into an acclaimed feature film, and A Window Across the River, which was a book club selection of the Today show. He teaches at New York University, the Bennington Writing Seminars, and Sarah Lawrence College, where he also directs the writing program. He lives in New York.