by Lily Tuck
I said, “Inez is a Spanish name, isn’t it? Don Juan’s mother’s name was Inez. Who else was there? There was an Inez de Castro.”
Molly said, “Who? Don Juan? Oh, don’t ask me why I just thought of this, Lily. I just did. Price is a Quaker, and I’ll never forget how Inez said when she first met Price’s family and she had to have lunch with them. Before lunch, before they started to eat, and instead of saying grace, Inez said how they had to have a moment of silence at the same time that they all had to hold hands around the dining room table. Inez said how there she was holding hands with Price’s mother and Price’s father and there she was two months pregnant already and she started to laugh. Ha, ha, ha. I know all about inappropriate laughter, Lily. The same thing happened to me in church at the count’s funeral. In France. Thank God, there was a lot of loud music and singing and I was not sitting up in front with Isabelle and her sister and with the rest of the family. I was sitting in the back with the maid and the cook. The gardener was there too. His name was Lucien, and Lucien, I remember, was a very old man, and Lucien told everyone how he could remember the war of—what was it?—the war of eighteen something, Lily. The war when the Russians occupied Paris. Anyhow, this isn’t important—what I remember is how Lucien said that when the Russian soldiers went to eat at the French restaurants, they would bang their fists on the table at the same time that they would shout out to the waiters: Bistro, bistro! which means ‘hurry’ in Russian and the name stuck. The other thing that happened was that I was the only woman in church not wearing a hat. Can you imagine? Everyone in Paris wore a hat to a funeral. I haven’t worn a hat in I don’t know how long. I didn’t wear a hat to my own father’s funeral. You know why? I had to wear a hat to school. It was part of the uniform. One time, I’ll never forget this, I threw my hat into the river—just a small river, the Rivanna River—and the next day, wouldn’t you know, some boy found the hat floating in the water. He brought it back to me. The hat had my name sewn into the brim. To make matters worse, my mother said I was lucky they did not have to drag the river for me and I should give the boy something, a part of my allowance, she said—speaking of which, speaking of money. Price told Claude-Marie he wanted to give the delivery boy something. A reward. The delivery boy, Claude-Marie said, nearly lost his job for delivering the wrong tuxedo, and thank God, too, was what Price said. Thank God, Fiddle did not throw out the tuxedo with the rest of Kevin’s stuff—the condoms and the T-shirts—although what I told Claude-Marie was, dry-cleaners are insured. I told Claude-Marie the second time he called. I told Claude-Marie: Remember the time the dry-cleaner lost your favorite jacket? The tweed Italian sports jacket? Claude-Marie said he was calling from Nora and Ivan’s apartment then, only Nora, Claude-Marie said, was not home yet. Only Ivan was home, and Ivan told Claude-Marie that Nora had had to go to a formal black-tie dinner at the Waldorf Astoria. Poor Nora. Nora said it was almost impossible for her to both eat her dinner and to translate. Nora said, the last time she went to a formal dinner she nearly choked to death on her entrée.”
I said, “Oh, the same thing happened to my father and if the waiter had not been standing behind him, my father, I promise you, Molly, would have died right then and there.”
Molly said, “Yes, Nora was lucky, and one time, I asked Nora: Nora, tell me—when you finally get to bed, what language do you dream in? I told Nora Claude-Marie speaks French to me if he is saying something like: Chérie, je t’aime—oh, this reminds me of this silly joke about what an asset speaking two languages is, the joke Ivan told us. Most of the time I don’t remember jokes, but don’t worry, Lily, this joke is not dirty—this joke is not like the other one, like the one about the horse’s dick—remember? This one is about how the King of Norway goes on a stag hunt and how at the end of the day and after the King of Norway has shot hundreds of stags, this man comes running out of the forest with his arms up in the air and says: Don’t shoot me, King, I am not a stag. And the King of Norway shoots him anyway. Ivan told us this joke the time he and Nora came for the weekend—the day I ran over the cat, the day Nora lost her suitcase, the same day that Inez phoned to say she had found someone to rent her room to—Kevin. Only, I was not home then, I was having a cup of coffee at Alicia Thomas’s house. Inez spoke to Claude-Marie. Claude-Marie said, on the phone, Inez asked him if he knew where LeGrange, Texas, was, and Claude-Marie told Inez he had only been to Texas the once. To Dallas and to Fort Worth. And Claude-Marie said he told Inez: But the new museum in Forth Worth—in his opinion any-way—was the best small museum in the world. The lighting was what Claude-Marie said he told Inez he meant. Also, Claude-Marie was distracted. The whole time Claude-Marie said he was talking to Inez, Claude-Marie was also wondering where I was. Claude-Marie had seen the car in the driveway—I don’t know whether Claude-Marie had seen the fender yet—and Nora and Ivan were standing around in the front hall holding their suitcases—oh, except Nora was not. I told you how Nora had lost her suitcase on Amtrak—the same train I lost Inez’s scarf on—the scarf Inez was knitting for Price. But what was I saying? Oh, the whole time Claude-Marie was talking to Inez on the phone—Claude-Marie, of course, knew all about the divorce and all about Price and Fiddle and how they were going to get married in February, and Claude-Marie had said over and over again how he just did not want to get in the middle—the whole time, too, when he was on the phone with Inez, Nora, Claude-Marie said, was nattering away about her darn suitcase. Nora said her suitcase was right there in the overhead rack. Right there, too, above her head for the entire journey to Old Saybrook. Nora said she never left her seat except for the once to go to the bathroom. Ivan and Claude-Marie never left their seats either. The lost suitcase was a complete mystery. I had to lend Nora a nightgown and Nora talked about her lost suitcase and what was in it nonstop all weekend. You should have heard her, Lily. Nora even called up the railroad. She threatened to sue them, she said, for the brand-new cashmere sweater set she had never worn yet. On the phone, the man from Amtrak laughed. First he told Nora, Nora had to prove negligence. Harry—Suzanne’s husband—is a lawyer, a litigator, although you would never know it, Lily. Harry is so soft-spoken. Suzanne is the one who has the loud voice. Harry told Nora that negligence is difficult to prove and, to prove his point, Harry told Nora the story of Churchill and the radio—God, Lily, even if I have heard Harry tell this story a dozen times, this is one of the worst stories I have ever heard—hello? Hello, Lily?”
I said, “Hello—yes, Harry’s story, I forget.”
Molly said, “I first heard the story years ago and right after Harry and Suzanne had sailed alone across the Atlantic in Harry’s new sailboat—a ketch—and Suzanne stopped smoking. Oh—this is true too, Lily, have you heard this? Suzanne said that somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, a whale started to follow them, follow the boat—the ketch. Although the whale was just playing, Suzanne said—the whale kept diving and surfacing on either side of the ketch—still, with a flip of its tail, Suzanne said, the whale could have capsized the ketch. This went on for hours and Suzanne got so frightened, she said, she got so anxious, that she promised God she would do anything if God would only make the whale swim away. Suzanne said she threw her two cartons of Marlboros overboard. For good measure, she also threw over the gold Cartier lighter Harry had given her for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Later, however, and according to Suzanne, Harry said throwing the lighter into the ocean had been unnecessary. Suzanne said she told Harry that no, she associated the lighter with a bad habit and not with their marriage—oh, speaking of bad marriages, this reminds me of another story, Lily. Were you there? Were you there in East Hampton when Malcolm told us about this woman he had met in an ashram, an Indian woman who was enlightened named Ananda Somebody-or-other, and each time Ananda’s husband tried to make love to her, to Ananda, he—the husband, Lily—got a tremendous electric shock. I don’t know why I mention this now—ha, ha—only Inez, too, I remember, got a kick out of this story. Inez told Malcolm this was one s
ure method of contraception and much more fun than sticking your fork inside a toaster.”
I said, “Molly, will you hold on for a minute? I’m going to get myself something to drink. I’ll pick up the phone in the kitchen.”
Molly said, “Oh, yes, of course, yes. What time is it, Lily?”
I said, “Hello, Molly. I’m here. I’m in the kitchen. I am going to make myself some cocoa. There is nothing like a good cup of cocoa on a night like this.”
Molly said, “I am drinking tea, Lily. My tea is probably cold by now, Lily, but what was I saying?”
I said, “Molly, I am heating the milk. It must be almost three o’clock in the morning, Molly.”
Molly said, “Hello—has it stopped raining? Has it stopped raining in New York yet? It has rained all week in Connecticut and each time, I ask Bibi on the phone about whether it’s raining in France, Bibi says she doesn’t know—but what was I saying, what was I talking about? Oh, Inez. I was talking about Inez, Lily, and how the skin inside Inez’s arm—did you ever notice this, Lily?—was slightly discolored, a little brownish. This happened while Price was still in the Navy, Inez said, while he and Inez were living in Norfolk, and the doctor told Inez it was her decision, and you know what I told Inez? I told Inez: Who is he fooling? Skin grafts are painful. Skin grafts are not like implants. I told Inez to just take a look at my mother, for example. My mother, I told Inez—the time I flew from Paris on one day’s notice and my mother was in the Martha Jefferson Hospital—had to have cataract surgery, and you know what the ophthalmologist told me? The ophthalmologist told me the lens he was putting in my mother’s eye was made out of plastic—the same kind of plastic bomber windshields are made out of—but no, wait, not because the plastic bomber windshields don’t break—no. On the contrary was what the ophthalmologist said, because if the bomber windshields do break and if the plastic does fly into the pilots’ eyes, the pilots do not reject it. The other thing the ophthalmologist told me was that cataracts are genetic, but I am not going to worry about this yet. First, I have to have a root canal. Oh, and remember Matisse, Lily? Matisse could hardly see a thing either. And Matisse, I’ll never forget, was such a gentleman—this was before I had had my hair cut, Lily—Matisse was so complimentary. Matisse, too, kept right on painting from his wheelchair until the very end, Lily. Degas, too, was almost blind. So was Monet. Musicians maybe go deaf—oh, Claude-Marie, Lily. Either Claude-Marie is losing his hearing or Claude-Marie does not listen—like the parking, Lily. I told Claude-Marie: Don’t forget, unless you want to get a ticket. Oh, I almost forgot—forgot, Lily, what I started to tell you. The day Inez phoned about Kevin and Claude-Marie answered the phone, Claude-Marie forgot. Because of the car, the cat, and Nora’s lost suitcase, Claude-Marie said he completely forgot. Claude-Marie only remembered to tell me later, during dinner and while Ivan, in that funny accent of his, was telling us the King of Norway on a stag hunt joke, and what Claude-Marie said then was if he had understood Inez correctly, Kevin was from Fort Worth—Forth Worth, Texas—and Kevin, Inez also had said to him, was involved in the new museum. All of which goes to show you, Lily, how quickly things can get distorted.”
I said, “Wait, the milk for the cocoa is boiling. Hello? What did you say? If you ask me, it is not how old you are, it is how old you feel that matters. Leonard is going to be forty-six this month, Molly.”
Molly said, “You are so right, Lily, and I told Inez the same thing. I told Inez: Just because Kevin is a lot younger and just because Kevin was in one commercial once does not mean Kevin is a talented actor. Oh, did you see it, Lily? The commercial for coffee? I saw it by accident. Nora and I were watching a program on the Kalahari Desert when all of a sudden, there was Kevin smacking his lips and saying this coffee tastes delicious, and Nora said if she were to bet, this was just about sex, and I told Nora about how each time now I went over to Inez’s and how on my way to the bathroom if the door was open, the door to Inez’s bedroom, I mean, and Inez’s bed was unmade—and you know how Kevin kept odd hours, how he slept late—I could still tell, Lily, the way you always can, that Inez’s bed had not just been slept in, that Inez’s bed had been made love in—oh, only Claude-Marie now, and while Price was watering the gardenia plants, Claude-Marie said Inez’s bedroom was immaculate. When he went in there to turn off the lights, Inez’s bedroom, Claude-Marie said, looked as if it had just been vacuumed. Claude-Marie should know. You should see Claude-Marie, Lily. Claude-Marie is so tidy. I am not. Claude-Marie says if I am in a room for more than five minutes, the room looks as if a cyclone had hit it. This reminds me—remember, Lily? This is funny, this always makes me laugh—when Malcolm’s apartment in New York was broken into and Malcolm’s neighbors called Malcolm in East Hampton to tell him about it, the neighbors said how sorry they were and they also said that since the thieves had left Malcolm’s apartment in such a terrible mess, with Malcolm’s things, with Malcolm’s clothes all over the floor, it was impossible for them to assess his actual loss. Well, as it turned out, an old TV and a cheap radio were the only things the thieves had stolen. The apartment was just the way Malcolm had left it—very very messy. But Claude-Marie hangs up his ties according to color—red ties, gray ones, navy-blue. His shoes too are all lined up. Black, brown, suede. Claude-Marie never leaves anything lying around. Claude-Marie, if he has to, will press his own clothes, sew on his own shirt buttons. Some men, I know, actually like to sew and do delicate needlework. They claim it relaxes them—oh, like Inez’s doctor, her obstetrician. Did Inez tell you about him? No, not the first one, the other one—the doctor who delivered the second boy, Matthew. Inez said how this doctor made lace while the women were in labor and while he waited for them—except not with Matthew. Matthew was born so fast the doctor did not even have time to thread his bobbin. Inez told me she woke up in the middle of the night and it was while she and Price were living in Cleveland, and Inez told me how she hated Cleveland, and how even Lake Erie, Inez said, looked dreary to her, and Inez said where they were living, their neighbors had a cat and the cat must have been in heat. Every night, the cat yowled outside their window and when Inez woke up in the middle of the night that night, at first, Inez said, she thought she woke up on account of the cat. Price woke up too, she said. Price got out of bed, and Price told Inez that this time he was going to get rid of this cat once and for good. Inez said she heard Price go get his gun out of the hall closet—a twelve-gauge. Sometimes Price went duck hunting, and Inez heard the screen door slam shut before she realized, she said, that she was in labor. Inez said the contractions were so close together she hardly had the time to time them and she could hardly get out of bed or go to the bathroom. All she could do was yell out of the window to Price to never mind what he was doing now and to come back inside and take her straight to the hospital. Price answered Inez: Wait, first I have to kill the cat. Inez said her water broke the same instant Price fired the gun.”
I said, “Oh.”
Molly said, “After this, Inez told me, no more babies, and I don’t blame her. Frankly, I blame Price. I blame Price for shooting the cat. I know a lot of men like this, and you would be surprised, Lily—someone like Claude-Marie—Claude-Marie whom you would never suspect. But if Claude-Marie ever gets angry, if Claude-Marie ever loses his temper, you would never know Claude-Marie was the same man. One time, Claude-Marie got so angry—no, not over Tom—Claude-Marie threw the kitchen table and knocked a hole in the ceiling. I swear. I’ll never forget this. I just stood there. I couldn’t speak. The table was heavy. The table was solid oak and it was full of dishes. I had no idea Claude-Marie could even lift it.”
I said, “Sam, too. Didn’t I tell you how Sam threw my ring out of the window? Oh, good, this cocoa is delicious.”
