John is at the roll-top desk, going over some papers. He might have heard me pull into the drive, or he might not have. He doesn’t turn as I pause in the bedroom doorway, but he glances up when I approach to kiss him lightly on the temple. His tie is loosened; he’s still in his suit. The heavy crystal tumbler is nearly full.
I turn on the desk light. “How can you see what you’re doing?” I say.
I rest my hand on his shoulder and he reaches up to pat it. “Hello, sweetheart,” he says. He pats my hand again, terminating, and I withdraw it. “Absolutely drowning in this stuff…” He rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses frames, then directs a muzzy smile my way.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in a tree,” I say. “In a cave, with no receipts, no bills, no records—just no paper at all…” I close my eyes for a moment. Good. Eclipsed—the day has sealed up behind me. “Oh, darling—did you happen to feed Pod?”
John blinks. “No one told me.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t expect to be so late. Maybe Oliver thought to.”
Gingerly, I stroke back John’s thin, pale hair. He waits rigidly. “Any news?” I ask.
“News,” he says. “Nothing to speak of, really.” He turns back to the desk.
“John?” I say.
“Hello, darling,” he says.
“Lamb chops,” Oliver observes pleasantly.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say. “I’m sure there’s a plain pizza in the freezer, and there’s some of that spinach thing left. If I had thought you’d be home tonight, I would have made something else.”
“Don’t I always come home, Mom?”
“‘Always’?” I smile at him. “I assumed you’d be at Katie’s again tonight.”
“But don’t I always actually come home? Don’t I always come home eventually, Mom, to you?”
He seems to want me to laugh, or to pretend to, and I do. I can’t ever disguise the pleasure I take in looking at him. How did John and I ever make this particular child, I always wonder. He looks absolutely nothing like either of us, with his black eyes and wild, black hair—though he does bear some resemblance to the huge oil portrait of John’s grandfather that his parents have in their hallway. John’s father once joked to me, are you sure you’re the mother? I remember the look on John’s face then—his look of reckoning, the pure coldness, as if he were calculating his disdain for his father in orderly columns. John’s father noted that look, too—with a sort of gratification, I thought—then turned to me and winked.
“You’re seriously not going to have any of these?” John says.
Oliver looks at the platter.
This only started recently, after Oliver went off to school. “You don’t have to, darling,” I say.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” John says.
“Hats off, Dad.” Oliver nods earnestly at his father. “Philosophically watertight.”
Recently, John has developed an absent little laugh to carry him past these moments with Oliver, and it does seem to me healthier, better for both of them, if John at least appears to rise above provocation.
“But don’t think I’m not grateful, Mom, Dad, for the fact that we can have this beautiful dinner, in our beautiful, architecturally unimpeachable open-plan…area. And actually, Dad, I want to say how grateful I am to you in general. Don’t think, just because I express myself awkwardly and my vocabulary’s kind of fucked up—”
John inclines his head, with the faint, sardonic smile of expectations met.
“—Sorry, Dad. That I’m not grateful every single day for how we’re able to preside as a family over the things of this world, and that owing to the fantastic education you’ve secured for me, I’ll eventually be able—I mean of course with plenty of initiative and hard work or maybe with a phone call to someone from you—to follow in your footsteps and assume my rightful place on the planet, receiving beautiful Mother Earth’s bounty—her crops, her oil, her precious metals and diamonds, and to cast my long, dark shadow over—”
“Darling,” I say. “All right. And when you’re at home, you’re expected to feed Pod. We’ve talked about this.”
Oliver clasps my wrist. “Wow, Mom, don’t you find it poignant, come to think of it? I really think there’s a poignancy here in this divergence of paths. Your successful son, home for a flying visit from his glamorous institution of higher education, and Pod, the companion of your son’s youth, who stayed on and turned into a dog?”
“That’s why you might try to remember to feed him,” I say.
Oliver flashes me a smile, then ruffles grateful Pod’s fur. “Poor old Pod,” he says, “hasn’t anyone fed you since I went away?”
“Not when you’re handling food, please, Oliver,” John says.
“Sorry, Dad,” Oliver says, holding up his hands like an apprehended robber. “Sorry, Mom, sorry, Pod.”
And there’s the radiant smile again. It’s no wonder that the girls are crazy about Oliver. His phone rings day and night. There are always a few racy, high-tech types running after him, as well as the attractive, well-groomed girls, so prevalent around here, who absolutely shine with poise and self-confidence—perfect girls, who are sure of their value. And yet the girls he prefers always seem to be in a bit of disarray. Sensitive, I once commented to John. “Grubby,” he said.
“Don’t you want the pizza?” I say. “I checked the label scrupulously—I promise.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m just not really hungry, though.”
“I wish you would eat something,” I can’t help saying.
“Oh—but listen, you guys!” Oliver says. “Isn’t it sad about Uncle Bob?”
“Who?” John says. He gets up to pour himself another bourbon.
“Uncle Bob? Bob? Uncle Bob, your old friend Bob Alpers?”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a glass of wine, darling?” I ask.
“No,” John says.
“Was Alpers testifying today?” I ask John. “I didn’t realize. Did you happen to catch any of it?”
John shrugs. “A bit. All very tedious. When did this or that memo come to his attention, was it before or after such and such a meeting, and so on.”
“Poor Bob,” I say. “Who can remember that sort of thing?”
“Who indeed,” John says.
“We used to see so much of Uncle Bob and Aunt Caroline,” Oliver says.
“That’s life,” John says. “Things change.”
“That’s a wise way to look at things, Dad.” Oliver nods seriously. “It’s, really, I mean…wise.”
“I’m astonished that you remember Bob Alpers,” I say. “It’s been a long time since he and your father worked together. It’s been years.”
“We never did work together,” John says. “Strictly speaking.”
Oliver turns to me. “That was back when Uncle Bob was in the whatsis, Mom, right? The private sector? And Dad used to consult?”
John’s gaze fixes on the table as if he were just daring it to rise.
“But I guess you still do that, don’t you, Dad—don’t you still consult?”
“As you know. I consult. People who know something about something ‘consult,’ if you will. People hire people who know things about things. What are we saying here?”
“I’m just saying, poor Uncle Bob—”
“Where did this ‘uncle’ business come from?” John says.
“Let me give you some salad at least, darling. You’ll eat some salad, won’t you?” I put a healthy amount on Oliver’s plate for him.
“I mean, picture the future, the near, desolate future,” Oliver says. He shakes his head and trails off, then reaches over, sticks a finger absently right into a trickle of blood on the platter, and resumes. “There’s Uncle Bob, wandering around in the night and fog, friendless and alone…”
John’s expression freezes resolutely over as Oliver walks his fingers across the platter, leaving a bloody track.
“A pariah among all his form
er friends,” Oliver continues, getting up to wash his hands. “Doors slam in his face, the faithless sycophants flee…How is poor Uncle Bob supposed to live? He can’t get a job, he can’t get a job bussing tables! And all just because of these…phony allegations.” John and I reflexively look over at one another, but our glances bounce apart. “I mean, wow, Dad, you must know what it’s like out there! You must be keeping up with the unemployment stats! It’s fierce. Of course I’ll be fine, owing to my outrageous abundance of natural merit or possibly to the general, um, esteem, Dad, in which you’re held, but gee whiz, I mean, some of my ridiculous friends are worried to the point of throwing really up about what they’re all going to do when they graduate, and yet their problems pale in comparison to Uncle Bob’s.”
“Was there some dramatic episode I missed today?” I say.
“Nothing,” John says. “Nothing at all. Just nonsense.”
“I just don’t see that Bob could have been expected to foresee the problems,” I say.
“Well, that’s the reasonable view,” John says. “But some of the regulations are pretty arcane, and if people are out to get you, they can make fairly routine practices look very bad.”
“Oh, dear,” I say. “What Caroline must be going through!”
“There’s no way this will stick,” John says. “It’s just grandstanding.”
“Gosh, Dad, that’s great. Because I was somehow under the impression, from the—I mean, due to the—That is, because of the—”
“Out with it, Oliver,” John says. “We’re all just people, here.”
“—the evidence, I guess is what I mean, Dad, that Bob knew what that land was being used for. But I guess it was all, just, what did you call that, Dad? ‘Standard practice,’ right?”
John looks at him. “What I said was—”
“Oops, right, you said ‘routine practices,’ didn’t you. Sorry, that’s different! And anyhow, you’re right. How on earth could poor Bob have guessed that those silly peasants would make such a fuss, when KGS put the land to such better use than they ever had? Beans? I mean, please. Or that KGS would be so sensitive about their lousy, peasant sportsmanship and maybe overreact a bit? You know what? We should console Uncle Bob in his travails, open up our family to receive him in the warmth of our love, let him know that we feel his pain. Would Uncle Bob ever hurt a fly? He would not! Things just have a way of happening, don’t they! And I think we should invite Uncle Bob over, for one last piece of serious meat, before he gets hauled off to the slammer.”
John continues simply to look at Oliver, whose eyes gleam with excitement. When I reach over and touch John’s hand, he speaks. “I applaud your compassion, Oliver. But no need to squander it. I very much doubt it’s going to come to that.”
“Really?” Oliver says. “You do? Oh, I see what you mean. That’s great, Dad. You mean that if it seems like Uncle Bob might start naming names, he’ll be able to retire in style, huh.”
“Ooookay,” John says. “All right,” and a white space cleaves through my brain as if I’d actually slapped Oliver, but in fact Oliver is turning to me with concern, and he touches my face. “What’s the matter, Mom? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, darling,” I say. He reaches for my hand and holds it.
“You went all pale,” he says. “I applaud your interest in world affairs,” John says.
“But as the situation is far from simple, and as neither you nor I were there at the time, perhaps we should question, just this once—this once!—whether we actually have the right to sit in judgment. This will blow over in no time, Oliver, I’m happy to be able to promise you, and no one will be the worse for it. And should the moment arrive in which reason reasserts its check on your emotions, you will see that this spectacle is nothing more than a witch hunt.”
“Well, that’s good,” Oliver says. “I mean, it’s bad. Or it’s good, it’s bad, it’s—”
“Do you think we might cross off and move on?” John says.
“Sure thing, Dad,” Oliver says, dropping my hand.
John and Oliver appear to ripple briefly, and then a cottony silence drops over us. Even if I tried, I doubt I would be able to remember what we’d just been saying.
Oliver prongs some salad, and John and I watch as he lifts it slowly toward his mouth. It actually touches his lips, when he puts it down abruptly, as if he’s just remembered something important. “So!” He beams at us. “What did you gentle people do today?”
John pauses, then gathers himself. “The office, naturally. Then I caught a bit of the hearings, as I have to surmise that you and Kate did.”
“We did, Dad, that’s very astute.” Oliver nods seriously again, then turns to me with that high-watt smile. “Your turn, Mom.”
“I went into town,” I say. I stand up suddenly and walk over to the fridge, balancing myself on my fingertips against the reflective steel surface, in which I appear as a smudge. “I had an urge to go to the museum.” I open the fridge as if I were looking for something, let the cool settle against me for a moment, close the door, and return to the table.
“You look so pretty, Mom!” Oliver says childishly. “Isn’t Mom pretty, Dad?”
“Your mother was the prettiest girl at all the schools around,” John says wearily. For a moment, we all just sit there again, as if someone had turned off the current, disengaging us.
“And what about you, Oliver?” John asks. “What news?”
“None,” Oliver says, spearing some salad again.
“None?” John says. “Nothing at all happened today.”
Oliver rests the fork on his plate and squints into the distance. “Gosh, Dad.” He turns to John, wide-eyed. “I think that’s right—nothing at all! Oh, unless you count my killing spree in Katie’s physics class.”
“Seriously not funny,” John says.
“Whoops, sorry,” Oliver says, standing up and stretching. “Anyhow, don’t worry, Dad—I cleaned your gun and put it nicely back in the attic.”
“Enough,” John says.
“You bet, Dad.” Oliver bends down to kiss first John and then me. “I’m going upstairs now, to download some pornography. See you fine folks later.”
The moon is a cold, sizzling white tonight, caustically bright. Out the window everything looks like an X-ray; the soft world of the day is nowhere to be seen.
“When did you last talk to him about seeing Molnar?”
John is sitting at the desk again. I glance at him then turn back to the window.
“He won’t,” I say.
“What are you looking at?” John says.
I close the blinds. “He won’t see Dr. Molnar. He won’t agree to see anyone. He doesn’t want to take anything. He seems to be afraid it will do something to his mind.” I sit down on the bed. Then I get up and sit down at the dressing table.
“Do something to his mind?” John says. “Isn’t that desirable? I treat him with kid gloves. I’m concerned. But this is getting out of hand, don’t you think? The raving, the grandiosity, the needling—wallow, wallow, atone, atone, avenge, avenge. And this morbid obsession with the hearings! Thank you, I do not understand what this is all about—what are we all supposed to be so tainted with? We may none of us be perfect, but one tries; one does, in my humble opinion, one’s best. And explain to me, please, what the kid is doing here—what’s his excuse? He should be at school.”
“Darling, it’s normal for a college student to want to come home from time to time.”
“He’s hardly ‘home’ in any case. For the last three days he’s been with Kate every second she’s not at school or asleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did go to her physics class today. Why the Ericksons put up with it, I can’t imagine. Have you seen that girl lately? She looks positively, what…furtive. Furtive and drained, as though she were…feeding some beast on the sly. What does he do to them? These wounded birds of his! It’s as if he’s running a hospital, providing charity transfusions to ailing vampires. T
hat Schaeffer girl last year—my god! And before her that awful creature who liked to take razor blades to herself.”
“Darling,” I say. “Darling? This is a hard world for young people.”
“If any human being leads an easy life, it’s that boy. Attention, education, privilege—what does he lack? He lacks nothing. The whole planet was designed for his well-being.”
“Well, it’s stressful to be away at school. To be studying all the time and encountering so many new ideas. And all young people like to dramatize themselves.”
“I didn’t,” John says. “And you didn’t.”
That’s true, I realize. John took pains, in fact, to behave unexceptionably, and I was so shy I would hardly have wanted to call attention to myself with so much as a hair ribbon. I certainly didn’t want drama! I wanted a life very much like the one I’d grown up with, a life like my parents’—a cozy old house on a sloping lawn, magnolias and lilacs, the sun like a benign monarch, the fragrance of a mown lawn, the pear tree a gentle torch against the blue fall sky, sleds and the children’s bicycles out front, no more than that, a music box life, the chiming days.
“Young people go through things. I don’t think we should allow ourselves to become alarmed. He hasn’t lost his sense of humor, after all, and—”
“His—excuse me?”
“—and his grades certainly don’t reflect a problem. I know you’re thinking of what’s best for him, I know you’ve benefited, but he’s very afraid of medication. I don’t think he should be forced to—”
“No one’s forcing anyone to do anything here,” John says. “Jesus.”
“John, we don’t really have a gun in the house, do we?”
“Oh for god’s sake,” John says. “We don’t even really have an attic.”
“Just try to be patient with him,” I say. “He loves you, darling—he respects you.”
“I rue the day I ever agreed to work outside of the country,” John says.
“Oh, John, don’t say that darling! Even when it was difficult, it was a fascinating life for us all. And Oliver was very happy.”
“I curse the day,” John says.
The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg Page 86
