She thought she wouldn’t hear the voices in San Francisco. Dan and the Columbia professor telling her she couldn’t pass up this chance.
Mama saying, “Why do you need to travel so far from me? And aren’t you serious about Daniel? You want to lose him with this self …” she started to say ‘selfish,’ but changed it to—“‘independent’ move?”
Janet’s voice, she knew, wouldn’t judge her either way.
Her friend did listen as they walked the streets of San Francisco, shopped in Chinatown, drank long coffees in North Beach, visited touristy Fisherman’s Wharf.
The third morning she awoke on the perfectly comfortable hide-a-bed feeling jetlagged, achy, tired and sick to her stomach. Evelyn was not a delicate person. From her mother, she’d learned to get on with things. She rarely got flu or colds. As she folded the sofa bed, she was already planning the strawberry shortcake she’d promised to make for Janet’s first married dinner party. They’d invited Herb’s cousin Paul and the Bickersons, neighbours from the building.
That night, while Herb fiddled with his new stereo and dithered about the perfect Cat Stevens album to launch the party, Janet and Evelyn puttered in the kitchen. It was like old times in Minneapolis. No, Evelyn reminded herself, everything had changed.
“You’re too critical,” Janet declared. “Terrified of making a mistake. Really any decision carries drawbacks and benefits.”
“That’s what’s so unfair. I don’t want to make any more decisions. I worked hard to get into grad school. I searched carefully to find the man in my life. I love Dan with all my heart. And Columbia is the best opportunity. Why must I choose?”
Janet glanced from the salad bowl. “Because you have the choice. You want the best, Evie, you always have. And now you have the best school and the person you think is the best guy. You’re lucky, sweetheart.”
“You can talk. Married and living in California where you always wanted to be.”
“I’m going to teach high school. Compare that to being a foreign correspondent. You’ve always had more ambition.”
Evelyn almost cut her finger on the strawberries. “Ambition! I just want to do what I want to do well.” She felt as if she’d been slapped. Did her best friend think her arrogant, ruthless? What did she mean by ambition?
Janet hugged her. “I believe you have talent. Wings. And one day you’re going to fly further than any of us imagined.”
“You think I should go to New York.”
“Do you feel OK? You’ve been looking a little pale.”
“I’m just stressed out. Don’t change the subject. Do you think I should go to New York?”
“I didn’t say that.” She concentrated on the onion.
Their doorbell chimed.
The next morning, after Janet left for Berkeley’s pre-registration, Evelyn finished up the dishes. Then she phoned the academic advisor at Columbia to request a year’s deferment. She’d been thinking about this a lot. Surely Dan could transfer to a New York school after a year.
“Sorry, we can’t do that.” He had a concerned, fatherly tone. “We’ll have a different stream of students next year. Is there something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” she said distractedly.
“You know, we really want you to come. We granted you a fellowship.”
“Yes, thank you again. I’m looking forward to everything.”
He sounded more removed. “You must inform us if you’re not coming. We have eager people on the waiting list.”
Great, now she was responsible for those less lucky kids on the waiting list. “Yes, of course,” she said in a solemn First Generation American voice, “I understand.”
Snap out of it, Evelyn shook herself. Janet was right. She was fortunate to have so many choices. She needed air, exercise to dispel this odd malaise and dull throbbing. Too much wine last night. The Bickersons were OK. Naturally, it wasn’t their name. Herb called them that because they quarrelled so much. Happily, she’d sorted this out before they arrived. Bickerson, that’s not a name. Dickerson, maybe, or Nickerson, why had she been so dense? The more she drank to relax, to loosen her tongue, the slower she felt. She wasn’t sick. She needed a brisk walk.
Golden Gate Park was colder than she had anticipated, however, she’d brought “layers” of clothing per Janet’s advice. Her friend was right, this windbreaker kept out the chill. There was so much to see in one park: conservatory, planetarium, aquarium, Asian and African museums. Minnesota weather made it hard to keep in shape, but here she could walk forever. Maybe the anxiety was giving her all this adrenaline. Or maybe it was the excitement of being in a new place. And so, as she hiked along the trails and across the meadows, she reviewed her conversations with Dan, the Professor, Janet, Mama. By late afternoon, she found herself in a Haight Ashbury coffee shop, wondering if she believed in journalism, in herself, in God. She wanted to do something in the world. She also wanted to be happy. Was she making any sense? Did she feel faint or just tired from the day long ramble. Here she had the perfect chance to make the wrong decision, affecting her whole life and Dan’s and even the poor waiting list student. Maybe that unknown young journalist would go on to win the Pulitzer Prize if only she made way for him or her.
A dark, bearded man flowed over to her table.
Evelyn stared at brown dregs of coffee in her cup, willing him to disappear.
“Hey, sister.”
She’d always longed for a brother, but this guy was no one Mama would raise. She glanced up, in spite of herself.
“You seem down. No reason to be down. It’s a glorious evening. The fog has lifted.”
She stared at him, seeing a holy card Sister Dominic had given her, a picture of Jesus at the well. The guy seemed to shimmer a little.
“Moon is rising now.”
Evelyn admired much about the counterculture, but she didn’t know how people found time to be hippies.
“I’ve got some good shit here. We could go to the park and watch the sunset.”
No, not Jesus. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi …
“Sunset!” she heard her exclamation. She was supposed to meet Janet at the Marina two hours before. How could she explain? Another person she was turning into. A space cadet.
On Evelyn’s last day in California, she was wakened by Janet calling her name louder and louder, as if from an overseas phone.
“Yes,” she stared. “What’s the matter, did I oversleep? Am I in the way?” Of course she was in the way. She was camped in their living room. In their complicated just-getting-started-in-a-new-city-lives. Good thing the plane left in the morning.
Janet looked more worried than angry. “What’s the matter? Just what I’m wondering. You’ve been sleeping for eighteen hours. At first I decided you were exhausted from yesterday’s ridiculous marathon, from all your decisions. But eighteen hours is a long time. Herb phoned one of his professors at the medical school and he said we should bring you in for a blood test.”
“Blood test?” Evelyn sat up abruptly, ignoring the dizziness, a normal symptom of oversleeping.
Janet waited.
“Blood test! You think I’ve been cavorting with unsavoury types?” She recalled Jesus in the coffee shop.
Janet didn’t smile. “Just yourself.”
“Really, I’m fine. At most, it’s a touch of flu. Hospitals are expensive.” What she didn’t say was, the only time Papa went to a hospital, he didn’t return.
“You have insurance. And I’ve no desire to announce your demise to Mama Esposito. She’d murder me.”
Too weary for further resistance, she would mollify Janet, although obviously there was nothing to do for the flu except to wait it out.
The blond doctor shook his head at the lab sheet and directed them to an examination room.
No tenderness on the right side. Or the left side.
“What’s all this bloating?”
She thought she’d been overeating. “Chocolate sundaes? Strawberry shortcake?�
��
He didn’t laugh. Rather he turned to Janet, the more sober informant. How long had she been exhausted? What were her other symptoms?
“Well,” he said finally, “you’re a lucky girl to have such a vigilant friend. My guess is acute peritonitis and a ruptured appendix. We need to sign forms before the surgery.”
“Surgery?” She didn’t have time for surgery. She had to catch a plane. She had to get to graduate school. People were expecting her. Too many people. Who was that person on the waiting list?
“Emergency surgery. I’d say if your friend hadn’t brought you in, you’d have had about four hours.”
“Four hours?”
“To live,” he brusquely handed her the forms. “We have to do the anaesthesia soon.”
In a trance, she answered all his questions. No previous surgeries. No allergies.
He did not ask about graduate school.
“The front desk said you forgot this: parents’ names, address, phone number.”
“Oh, I’m 21. I don’t require parental approval. Let’s just leave my mom out of it.”
“Best to give her a call.”
“You don’t know her. She’ll worry.”
“All mothers worry. Think about how she’ll feel afterward, if she didn’t know.”
Think about Mama. Think about the waiting list.
Worn out from thinking, she relented.
Evelyn awoke in a ward with three strangers.
“She’s conscious,” said one of them.
Evelyn’s eyes focused on a heavy woman with grey hair.
What was she doing here? Hospitals were for people like this—older, out of shape. Two days ago she’d walked the length of Golden Gate Park and back.
“The nurse said to ring when the girl woke up.” Another patient in her fifties—skinny and missing two top teeth.
How long had she slept? Attempting to sit up, she found the lower half of her torso was immobilised. As she lifted the blanket and explored a massive bandage, a tall nurse bustled in.
“Oh, no, no, no, Sleeping Beauty. I just changed that dressing an hour ago. You can inspect Dr. Solomon’s handicraft when he visits this afternoon.”
“It’s all over?” Evelyn said dully, troubled by a thickness in her tongue.
“Honey you were almost over,” the nurse whispered, “they said they’d never seen such a gangrened appendix on a living person. You’d have died in three hours.”
“Dr. Solomon said four,” Evelyn reported precisely, if more slowly, than she would have liked.
“Three. Four. Either way, I wouldn’t quibble. It’s a miracle.”
“A miracle,” mused Evelyn foggily. Lucky girl. She fell back to sleep.
During the late afternoon, she found a worried Janet in the bedside chair. Evelyn winked, then struggled to re-open her right eyelid.
Janet giggled with relief. “The morphine. Slows even you down.”
“Morphine?” Evelyn glowered. “I didn’t ask for drugs. How do I stop them?” She studied the drip in her arm.
“You need it for pain, Miss Willpower.”
Mama said Papa died from willfulness: a faulty heart wasn’t enough of a culprit for his widow’s wild grief.
“What pain?”
“That’s the point, Evie. They couldn’t close the wound because they were afraid of another infection. They pinned you together with stainless steel wire.”
“You’re joking!” Evelyn didn’t even try to laugh at this gruesome tale. Why would her body do this to her? She’d always treated it well—the way her father treated his car. She took her body in for regular check-ups, ate well, didn’t drink too much, exercised a little. The payback was that she never got sick. In a relatively new model like hers, what could go wrong?
Janet watched her closely, “No, I’m not kidding. They said you’ll be here ten days so they can keep an eye on things.”
“I have to be in New York next week.” New York or Minneapolis.
“Well, you’ll just have to call Professor Column Inch and say you’ll be late for class.”
She saw the stream of students flowing along without her.
“Evelyn, be reasonable. You almost died.”
She noticed the late afternoon sunshine pouring through the window. “A window bed. Did you arrange this? The light is lovely.”
Janet shrugged. “You have more important things to thank me for. I convinced your mother not to visit.”
“Oh, god.”
“And I promised to phone her every day until you were up to the task.”
“What a champ.”
“She sent these red roses.” Janet leaned forward, taking Evelyn’s hand.
Evelyn grew aware of the greenhouse beside her bed. How macabre: these redolent, wilting flowers.
“And the irises are from Dan. He said he’d call you tonight. I thought you’d want me to give him the number.”
“Yes, yes,” Evelyn blinked, losing her battle with Morpheus.
“My parents sent carnations—against our advice—such puny flowers. And Herb found the pepper plant. It just started to bud. He said you’d probably like something that didn’t expire before you left the hospital.”
“Good medical instincts. Thanks.”
Janet peered at her.
“What? What’s wrong?” Evelyn demanded. “I know you’re holding something back. Did they amputate my left foot?” She grinned raising the blanket slightly. “Nope, both feet are still there.”
“Well,” Janet hesitated. “Herb actually does have some intuition. And he thinks he knows what caused the peritonitis.”
“Ice cream sundaes?”
“This is serious.” Janet took her hand. “He thinks you somatised your anxiety about grad school.”
“Somatised?” She was too sensible to let her fears destroy her body.
“You know,” Janet continued, “all the anxiety about leaving Dan or staying with Dan. You’ve often said Dan was the only thing that kept you from being hysterical with your mother. He’s been an anchor. It’d be hard to leave Minneapolis. But equally hard to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime offer from Columbia. You were under a lot of pressure and the stress was too much for your system.”
“So Herb has skipped the course work and landed a residency in psychiatry.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I need to rest. The morphine makes me lightheaded.” And the pain? She wouldn’t admit the pain. No sense worrying her dear friend further.
Janet pursed her red lips, wiped her eyes.
“Don’t fret.” Evelyn scolded. “I’ll be fine. Hey, and thanks for calling Mama and Dan. Tell Herb I love the spunky pepper plant.”
Days passed swiftly in sleep and slowly in wakefulness. She enjoyed two of her ward mates: Diane, a postal worker recovering from gall bladder surgery and Clara, a secretary with some rare skin ailment. Eleanor, the older woman suffering from a broken hip and dementia, played her TV loudly, but no one argued with the poor lady. The little peppers grew redder and redder.
Maybe the decision came to her in a dream. One morning Evelyn awoke and knew she was headed back to Minnesota. She’d never find another man like Dan. As for her writing, she could develop that anywhere. It’s something Dan always said, “Journalism is a great, flexible profession. You can practice it wherever we go.”
As she walked off the plane in her blue sleeveless mini dress, she wondered if he’d notice how slim she was: 112 pounds. Size six. She hadn’t looked this good since high school.
Not much of an ending, really. More like a suspenseful middle. Where would you take the story?
Dan runs for Governor and Evelyn becomes First Lady of Minnesota?
Evelyn gets an editing job on the Minneapolis Tribune and Dan grows rich as a tax lawyer?
Dan and Evelyn hop off the fast track and join a hemp commune in Montana?
Janet leaves Herb and returns home to direct the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra?
Dan discover
s he’s gay, gives Evelyn a generous settlement, which allows her to take Mama to Sicily, where they live in a Mediterranean villa?
Look over here.
San Francisco Airport in the new century. Espresso kiosks. Cell phones. Fruit smoothie stands. Multi-lingual loudspeaker messages.
Evelyn, still slim, although not an emaciated 112 pounds, in black slacks and a black t-shirt, has knotted her long brown hair into a shiny bun. She’s rolling baggage, carrying a computer case, looking around. She spots Janet.
The tall, handsome woman runs toward her friend and hugs her. “We did it, our yearly reunion,” she laughs. “I’m so glad you got an assignment in San Francisco!”
Evelyn is pleased to see how vibrant Janet looks, after decades of full-time teaching, raising four daughters, coping with chronic allergies and Herb’s high-powered career as an epidemiologist. But she’s fit and fine and the blond highlights in her hair soften mid-fifties skin.
What about Dan? You probably guessed.
After knowing she could never live without him, Evelyn married Dan that fall. Within a year, she realised he was too quiet and although his head was full of ideas, he wasn’t much interested in her ideas.
She blamed herself; she should have known that when he didn’t apply to the New York schools, he understood something about their future he couldn’t voice.
She forgave herself. She forgave him. He forgave her. Of course there was a lot of shouting at first. They both behaved civilly about the divorce, everyone except Signora Esposito, who was eagerly awaiting grandchildren.
At seventy-eight, she’s still waiting. Evelyn zips around the globe as an environment journalist. She’s had a series of remarkable international relationships, but no permanent partner. Ten years ago she bought her mother a comfortable condo and a wide screen TV on which she often appears reporting from Sumatra and Dakar and Santiago.
“How much time do we have?” Janet asks.
“I’ve got the whole day,” grins Evelyn, “if you do. I want to take you to lunch, first. Then, I thought, oh, a walk in Golden Gate Park?”
The Night Singers Page 11
