by Lily Tuck
Molly said, “Yes. Inez. Yes, we were talking about Inez. Poor Inez.”
I said, “I still can’t believe what you said—said about Inez—that Inez is—Oh, but speaking of accents, Molly—no, no, don’t get me wrong, I like Ivan, only I have to concentrate—concentrate on what Ivan says, otherwise—oh, and like the time I asked Nora if, besides her yoga class, she also meditated, and you know what Ivan answered? Before either Nora or I could stop him, Ivan told us this long and involved story about how when he was living in an ashram in India, he saw this Buddhist monk sitting cross-legged, two feet up in the air in the lotus position, holding his bowl and eating his dinner. Ivan said how the monk smacked his lips and ate rice with his chopsticks while all the time he was defying gravity—levitating. Can you believe this?”
Molly said, “Oh, gravity, I know—Ivan exaggerates. All Russians exaggerate. I still can’t figure out how on earth Yuri’s mother could have known Chekhov.”
I said, “You’re right, Molly. There is a world of difference between knowing someone and just seeing someone accidentally, for a minute, the way I saw Jack Kennedy—oh, but what was I just thinking? Oh, Inez, and Inez’s two boys. I can’t stop thinking about them—about Price Junior and Matthew—about Inez’s mother too, poor woman. I told you, didn’t I, how I met Inez’s mother at the birthday party and how Inez’s mother said she had to leave early? Inez’s mother said how sorry she was to leave before the gorilla sang Happy Birthday. Inez’s mother said she had to get back to New Jersey. I remember, I asked Inez’s mother which of the two tunnels she preferred—Inez’s mother told me that most of the time she drove uptown, she took the George Washington Bridge. In the long run, the bridge was quicker, Inez’s mother said, and I said I agreed with her. I told Inez’s mother how Sam and I once got stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel for forty minutes. I am not exaggerating—in the middle of summer, in July, Molly. I thought I was going to die. Not just the heat. The lack of air—the lack of oxygen. Sam said for me not to open the car window and Sam said for me to relax and to keep breathing. I said to Sam: What if I hyperventilate? Oh, and Jason, the dog, Molly, was sitting in the back seat. Jason was panting so hard, his tongue looked like it was going to fall out of his mouth.”
Molly said, “I told you, I don’t drive anymore since I ran over the cat, but poor Claude-Marie.”
I said, “Oh, but Claude-Marie, Molly, was going the other way. Claude-Marie was going against the traffic. How long did it take Claude-Marie, did Claude-Marie say, Molly? Three hours? Two hours and a half? Wait until Memorial Day, the traffic will get worse then. Last summer when I drove out to Malcolm’s house in East Hampton, I spent three hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I asked myself: Is a dip in the ocean worth this?”
Molly said, “I love to swim and I told you how I used to drive down from Charlottesville to Nag’s Head, North Carolina, to visit Amy, my best friend.”
I said, “As a child, I spent the summers I did not go to camp on Martha’s Vineyard, and my mother—bless her heart—I told you already, Molly, how my mother would go down to the beach early, before any of us in the house was awake. My mother would swim for an hour by herself and my father would worry about her. My father would say things to her like: Now, Helen, remember your friend Estelle Davidson and remember, if anything happens to you, I told you so and you have no one to blame but yourself. My father always liked to have the last word about everything. Even things he knew nothing about, my father still had to have an opinion. Give him half a chance, my father, I bet, would have told William exactly how to set a broken leg, and my father was not a doctor. My father was very conservative. He could not understand, no matter what the circumstances, why every one couldn’t just pull themselves up by his boot straps—his words, Molly—and go to Harvard and make a lot of money the way he had. My father thought the underclass was just lazy. You couldn’t argue with him. God knows, I don’t blame my mother. In those days people didn’t get divorced so easily. My mother probably went swimming by herself to get away from him. And after what happened to my father in the boat, my father always had what he called a healthy respect for the ocean. I told you, didn’t I, how he had to hang on to the overturned hull of the fishing boat for—well, I don’t know for how long. Each time my father told us the story, it got longer and longer—four hours, six hours, a whole day. Sharks, too. My father said he worried about sharks—oh, I told you how my father said he knew Hemingway. My father said he used to run into Hemingway everywhere in Havana—at clubs, in casinos, in the hotel bars—and even the boat that overturned—my father said it was a much smaller world then—was the same boat Hemingway used to charter to fish for tuna and marlin. The name of the boat was the Eleanora K. I’ll never forget this either because my father remembered, he said, that when he was in the water trying to hold on and keep from drowning the way the other two had—the captain and the man who baited the hooks and netted the fish—he, at the same time, was trying to think what the letter K could stand for. In a way, my father said, this was what saved his life, this was what kept him alive. Thinking of something, he said, was a way of not thinking about drowning, and my mother, when she heard my father say this, said: Oh, but darling, you are just accident prone. Some people are, you know, Molly. William was. So was Sam. Each time I asked Sam to hang up a picture or to fix something, he would drop a heavy tool on his foot or hit his thumb with a hammer. Or he would put his back out. Each time, too, Sam and I went on a trip, Molly, Sam’s back would go out again, and Sam said he could not lift anything or carry my suitcase.”
Molly said, “Claude-Marie put his back out. Claude-Marie says he can’t play golf now.”
I said, “Oh, but what I was saying was the K took my father’s mind off his predicament. Like the time I was just telling you about when Sam and I were stuck in the Lincoln Tunnel and Sam said for me to try and relax and to think of something—and you know what I did then, Molly? I started to recite things—poems. Poetry. I recited all the poems I knew by heart, the way I did later in the desert, the time we ran out of gas and the woman nursing her baby drove Jim back in the tow truck.”
Molly said, “I told you how my mother used to lie on her chaise longue all day reading poetry and smoking these thin little cigarettes—come to think of it, they were Russian cigarettes. Who knows where she bought them in Charlottesville. I told you—Anastasia lived in Charlottesville, and I told you how my mother kept the book by Axel Munthe by the side of—oh, The Story of San Michele that’s what the book is called. I just thought of it. Lily? Are you there, Lily?”
I said, “Oh, and poor Patricia in the overturned carriage in Anacapri.”
Molly said, “Yes, this reminds me—the coat. Inez’s down coat with the leopard spot pattern.”
I said, “And Nora’s new coat—have you seen it? A sheared beaver. Nora said she bought it on sale. You should feel it—soft as velvet.”
Molly said, “Expensive.”
I said, “You can’t take it with you, was what I said to her, to Nora, I mean—oh, I know what you are thinking, Molly. You are thinking about Inez now—you are thinking about the money. Inez asked me—I didn’t tell you this, Molly—Inez said she would also ask Nora, and I said to Inez: But, Inez, just think of their small crowded apartment and Ivan has not sold a painting in months. What about your own mother? Your mother’s new husband, your stepfather, is a wealthy CEO, I said to Inez. This was a Sunday—I remember this distinctly, Molly—I had just walked in the door from the country, from upstate New York, and the phone was ringing. Did I tell you how Leonard shares a house in the country with his partner, Howard? Howard Something-or-other. They each get to use the house on alternate weekends and Howard’s girlfriend—I’ve never met her, Molly, and I’ve only met Howard once—is just like Sara, Price Junior’s girlfriend, she is allergic to down and to all kinds of feathers. All the pillows in this weekend house, Molly, are made out of kapok, and kapok is not as comfortable. Oh, and did I tell you about Howard? About Howard’s ne
w company, the company Howard has started? A spit company. Yes, you heard me correctly. S-P-I-T is what I said. A company that collects spit for testing—now you have heard everything. But what was I saying? Oh, Inez, and the telephone was ringing, and you know me, Molly—I can never say no to people, I cannot say no to anyone, and I told Inez: No. No, I’m sorry, I said. I’m awfully sorry, Inez, I would if I could, but I cannot lend you the thousand dollars, was what I told Inez. I told her about my alimony, I told Inez about my rent. I can’t remember what else I said. I said that they were going to raise the rent—oh, and guess what, Molly? They did. Isn’t this funny? Isn’t this ironic? They will raise the rent on this outrageous hole-in-the-wall of an apartment starting next month. Starting in June. Can you believe this? I got a letter in the mail last week saying that they were raising the rent ten percent. The letter said this could not be helped. Now, is this prescient or what? I ask you. I hadn’t even thought of the rent, I just said the first thing that came into my head. Also, I had an instinct. No, not about the rent. About Inez. About lending Inez the money. I’ve had those instincts before, Molly—strong instincts—for instance, long before we stepped on board the plane to Marrakesh I knew that something was going to happen. I was right. When we got back, Sam and Felicia barely waited three weeks to get married. I should have known, Molly. I should have guessed. All men are liars, and Sam, don’t forget, lied to me in Marrakesh, Sam lied to me in Fez—Fez was where it started, Molly. Fez, I’ll never forget.”
Molly said, “Yes, poor Inez.”
I said, “No. Fez, Molly. Hello? I said, Fez.”
Molly said, “Oh. Oh, Fez.”
I said, “And Felicia is the perfect example—and I am not talking about Felicia’s figure, if you like the athletic type, and if you like the type of woman who has made a career for herself risking her life taking photographs in places like the Middle East and Nicaragua—no, I am not talking about this.”
Molly said, “Like Roberta, and I’ve always said, other people’s sex lives are a complete mystery to me.”
I said, “You’re so right, Molly—I told you, Leonard. You would never know with Leonard. At first, I didn’t know either. Hello?”
Molly said, “Yes, you didn’t know, you said. It must be nearly near five o’ clock in the morning, Lily.”
I said, “Yes, and Leonard is quiet. I told Leonard: Never mind, honestly, I prefer staying home and reading a book. Oh, why am I trying to remember this now? Molly, why did I tell Leonard about the woman who gave me the pottery lessons—was it something to do with being celibate and living in a monastery? The truth is, I told Leonard, in my opinion, the ideal companion is a dog—a dog like Jason, I said,—a golden Labrador retriever. A dog, Molly, who obeys when you call him, a dog who knows how to lie quietly at your feet if you are reading, say—and Jason was like this, Molly. Jason knew almost before I knew myself what it was I was going to do and I told Leonard this. I did, Molly. I told Leonard all about Jason at Michelle’s party. I told Leonard how Jason would follow me around the house without getting underfoot or in my way the way some dogs do so that you are always almost tripping over them. But no, not Jason. Jason had a sixth sense. Jason knew. In the mornings, too, Jason knew when Sam and I were awake. Neither one of us had to move or speak, Jason would stand up, wag his tail, stretch. The way we breathed maybe. The other thing Jason loved was to ride with us in the car. I took Jason with me everywhere and even if I had to leave him alone sometimes, while I went shopping or while I went to visit someone—Sam’s mother, for instance. I told you, didn’t I, Molly, how Sam’s mother lived in Cincinnati? Sam’s mother wouldn’t let poor old Jason set foot in her house. I don’t know how many times I told Sam’s mother how Jason was perfectly trained and still she didn’t believe me, and each time she had to tell me the same old story again about how the last time a dog had set foot in her house, the dog ruined her Aubusson carpet. But the whole point of this, and what I told Leonard, was how I had to leave poor Jason alone in the car and how this was one of the worst things I have ever done in my whole life and how this was negligent and how I will never forget this.”
Molly said, “I know, I know. Like the cat. Like Alicia Thomas’s cat, Lily. I’ll never forget the cat, Lily.”
I said, “No, no, Molly, this was not the same thing. I forgot. I completely forgot. I left Jason locked up inside the car for two and a half hours. I left Jason locked up inside the car while I went to a movie. I had not intended to do this. I had intended to be right back in just a few minutes, only I ran into Marcelline—you’ve heard me speak of Marcelline, Molly. Marcelline was the one who by the time she found the lump in her breast her whole body was riddled with cancer. But this was before this, and Marcelline said to me: Who cares what movie is playing, Lily, the theater is air-conditioned. I left the car parked in the sun—in the boiling sun. Ninety degrees in the shade that day. You don’t know. You have never been to Cincinnati in the summer, have you, Molly? In August? The windows were shut—I told you, Molly—I was intending to come right back. Later, the vet said Jason must have panicked. You should have seen the inside of the car, Molly. The seats, the dashboard, the upholstery were all chewed up. A Volkswagen, Molly. A little yellow beetle—and you know how each time you slammed the door shut on this kind of car you created a vacuum and your ears popped. This was the trouble. The Volkswagen was made to be airtight. And speaking of never driving again. I remember, I told Sam, I liked how the Volkswagen was so maneuverable. I didn’t care that the engine was in the back and that Sam said it was more dangerous this way. I told Sam I preferred driving the Volkswagen any day to driving his Mustang. Molly, I tell you, each time I drove Sam’s Mustang, I felt as if the Mustang was getting away from me. My foot would barely touch the accelerator and, before I knew it, I would look down and I was doing over eighty. And, Molly, you don’t know the Ohio State troopers—the Ohio State troopers are just as fierce as the French police if they catch you speeding. No—keep your Mustang, I told Sam, give me back my little yellow beetle. But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Jason. I was saying I told Leonard all about how when Marcelline and I came out of the movie—I told you already, didn’t I, that it was a matinee? Blow Up— did you see Blow Up, Molly?—was the movie Marcelline and I went to. Blow Up, remember, was sort of a cult film in the sixties and it is about this photographer in London who discovers that he has inadvertently photographed a murder and he keeps enlarging and enlarging the photograph. Actually, I had seen Blow Up before, only Marcelline convinced me on account of the air-conditioning. The heat, I already said, and Marcelline had not seen Blow Up yet—and as I came out of the theater, I suddenly remembered. Oh, my God, I said. Oh, my God, Marcelline, the dog, Jason, and Marcelline said: Who? What are you talking about, Lily? Of course, Marcelline had no idea. Marcelline didn’t know what I was talking about, and I started to run up the street towards my car—the little yellow Volkswagen. I knew, too, Molly. I knew long before I saw that the windows were all fogged over with Jason’s breath that something had happened, that something was wrong, and there was Marcelline running right behind me shouting how I should slow down and how she was out of breath and how it was too hot to run like this, anyway. Funny, if only Marcelline had known then about the lump in her breast, things might have been different. Oh, and poor Jason. I was right, it was too late. You should have seen Jason’s tongue, Molly. This was the worst part. Worse than seeing the seat and the upholstery. I’ll never forget how Jason’s tongue, Molly, was full of little holes with blood still in them that he had chewed there himself. You know what I did, Molly? I told Leonard this. I told Leonard this was what I did instinctively and without thinking and just like what’s-her-name Marietta Tree when Adlai Stevenson had his heart attack in the street with her—remember that photograph, Molly? I got down on my hands and knees and I put my mouth right over Jason’s—over his muzzle, Molly. I tried to give Jason mouth-to-mouth resuscitation just as if Jason was a person. The whole time, too, I could hear Marcelline behi
nd me saying how if I didn’t stop what I was doing I was going to catch hoof-and-mouth disease and die, and asking me when was the last time I had had my tetanus shot. While if you stopped to think about it, Molly, there was Marcelline herself with the cancer already spreading all over inside her, which again just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”
Molly said, “The cat was different. Alicia Thomas’s cat had a broken back, Lily. I had to put him out of his misery.”
I said, “The strange thing—this was what I told Sam later—Jason was still breathing. Jason was still gasping for air when I got to the car. But Sam said he swore to me it was only a spasm. A reflex reaction—you know, like a chicken running with its head cut off or a dead shark closing his jaw on your leg. And this was what I also said to Leonard.”
Molly said, “What? A shark, Lily? Lily, I thought you were talking about a dog, your dog—I must have missed something—missed something you said. Are you still talking about Inez?”
I said, “Yes. This is what my father said—even if the shark is dead, be careful—oh, and Inez. Inez, Molly, loved all animals. Inez loved dogs.”
Molly said, “Inez loved cats.”
I said, “Oh, and Inez loved her gardenia plants and I keep thinking, Molly, of how if only I had more light in this apartment, then I would call Price. Gardenias need a lot of light—I had a ficus tree once. Jim gave me the ficus tree for our anniversary—and you won’t believe this—in less than a month the ficus tree’s leaves had all turned yellow, the next month, the leaves were lying all over the carpet and you should have seen the mess. Jim accused me of not watering the ficus tree—oh, I know, I should have played music and like who said? Oh, Inez’s mother said, I should have played Beethoven to it.”
