Loose Ends

by Raskin, Barbara;

  “We all helped each other to get our heads together. It was only over the last two years that I had the guts to go into free-lance writing full time and hang in there. I’ve just begun to come to terms with a lot of things and I thought as long as I went through so many changes over you, I felt … well … I wanted to tell you about it.”

  So it goes, Coco thought. She didn’t want to hurt Ann or reject her, but she could hardly follow her words any longer. Somehow Coco’s spirit had moved beyond any need for intimate reevaluations and reappraisals. Haltingly Coco was moving toward something private, toward some state of internal integrity that was demanding her attention like bands of contractions ringing her body and turning off her mind. She tried to appear interested and involved in Ann’s presentation, but her mind was now totally independent, moving involuntarily toward some other end.

  The silence that ensued while Coco hunted for something to say was too long and obvious to be overcome.

  Ann felt herself cut off, dismissed at some premature point in her confession. “How … are your children?” she asked, trying to hide her hurt.

  “They’re fine,” Coco answered, modulating her voice so as to sound pleased, but not proud-thankful rather than self-congratulatory. She began a frantic foray for an equivalent inquiry, a question that acknowledged an aspect of Ann’s life that was painful for Coco, but there were no glorious illusions left.

  “Well …” Ann paused long enough to give Coco time to restart the conversation, but the silence kept spinning like an empty stereo turntable. Slowly Ann began making motions of departure, setting down her glass, closing her cigarette box, shifting slightly in the chair, “It’s getting late,” she said. “It’s after midnight. I guess I just wanted to see you and say some of these things. But I guess I better get going.”

  Coco couldn’t muster any reasonable objections. “It was nice to see you again,” she said. “I’m glad that we spoke.” She stood up, forever foreclosing any future encounter. “You’ve really been writing some great stuff. I always watch for your articles.”

  Very quickly Ann gathered her possessions and started toward the door.

  “Do you think I can catch a cab on Connecticut?”

  “Oh, yes, you won’t have any trouble getting one up there,” Coco said. “It was nice being able to talk like that.” She smiled. “Thanks for coming over.”

  They shook hands. Impulsively Coco leaned forward and touched her lips against Ann’s face. Then she watched her go down the front stairs, before she shut the door.

  twenty-seven

  Coco returned to the kitchen, took the ashtray off the table and wet it down under the faucet so no live butts would burn up her house and her children in the early-morning hours. Then she ran upstairs to her bedroom, turning off the lights along the way. She belly-flopped down onto the mattress, closed her eyes, and lay very still. But even while she tried to fake deep yoga breaths, she was listening for the arrival of her anxiety—preceded and announced by heartbeats drumming their message from the darkest interior of her soul to the farthest-flung tip of each appendage. There was so much to be fearful about—Ann Carradine, Gavin, Suede, life, old age, failure, fear itself. But the Mau-Mau tom-toms remained silent. In a semiprofessional Finkelsteinian fashion Coco wondered if she had been creating her own terror by expecting it.

  Indeed, Coco felt half-empty now without the companionable, familiar hysteria rattling around inside of her. Her heart rested, suspiciously quiet, in its nest. Maybe I’ve made a spontaneous recovery, she thought optimistically, like a spontaneous abortion. Maybe the embryo of my incipient insanity has been ejected by Mother Nature from my body. Coco turned her head gently, wary of moving so quickly as to jar loose any part of her newly assembled jigsaw puzzle of quietude.

  It’s so quiet inside me, she thought. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw the street light shining through her madras curtains. Once in the Chicago Sun-Times she had read a Letter to the Editor from an impoverished old woman who wanted to thank Mayor Daley for giving her block a street light, because now she could sit by the window and read at night, which she couldn’t afford to do if she had to use her own electricity.

  Briefly Coco wondered if she had unplugged the electric coffeepot. She couldn’t remember doing it, but the danger of an overworked appliance seemed diminished awaiting her in the morning. Since she was feeling so brave that even electricity didn’t seem frightening at the moment. She thought it might be a nice practice, a kind little act of charity for her next day’s self if she brewed a fresh pot of coffee every night before going to bed and left it on so it would be hot when she came downstairs the next morning.

  Dear Dr. Finkelstein … she wrote in the air above her head using little circles instead of dots over the i’s, which she always used on thank-you notes and party invitations. Do you think that leaving the coffeepot on all night is (a) dangerous? or (b) the kind of funny little institution only old-maids would establish? In other words, am I experiencing maturity or resignation? Blah-blah-blah. Sincerely yours, Ms. Givings.

  Dear Ms. Taken: There is nothing wrong with taking care of yourself. Sincerely yours, Dr. Finkelstein.

  Dear Dr. Finkelstein … This time Coco used her regular irregular slanted-to-the-right, uphill script. I am glad to hear that it is all right for me to be nice to myself, since at the present time, temporarily at least, there is no one else doing nice for me. As you may know, Gavin did not telephone yesterday. I am still in the dark as to his whereabouts. However, I believe I have achieved a certain amount of understanding as to the nature of (a) separation and (b) need. These are things that you have mentioned to me previously. I sincerely believe that my new-found immunity is producing ingenuity, so that I can deal with my needs. Sincerely yours, Ms. Understanding.

  Dear Ms. Cellaneous: Good work. Carry on. Affectionately, Dr. F.

  Coco closed her eyes. Apparently she had been awarded a welfare grant from some social-service agency. As the recipent of an unrequested stipend for survival, there was no reason to disqualify herself. She could enjoy her psychological-welfare benefits without identifying the celestial service worker who had approved her eligibility and changed her from a victim into a survivor. Although Coco still felt like a single, lonely gold-hoop earring, she was no longer the lost one. Now she was Coco Burman the Survivor—separate and alone, but at least with a known address—even if it was only the junk pile near the cosmetics on her dressing table. Even that was something. It was definitely better than being nowhere.

  Flooded with another swell of well-being, Coco opened her eyes again and rolled over onto her back. The nausea of narcissism and the shame of onanism was gone. Even the hard crampy sensation of constipation was beginning to disperse. Pretty soon, Coco thought luxuriously, maybe in the morning, I can have a BM right after the kids do. Maybe she would just line up with the rest of them and go in to do her duty. Then she would feel light and trim like the milk-of-magnesia ads on television promised. And that—along with her new status as a welfare recipent—should sustain her. Even if she didn’t have Gavin.

  Gavin, she whispered.

  Gavin, she called.

  Suddenly Coco felt tremulous with love. She wanted to give and take love. Love was tumbling through her. Perhaps if she had a live in baby-sitter she might have jumped up right then, driven over to the Shoreham, found Charlie O’Connor’s room by following, bloodhound fashion, the smell of her own hysteria, and finally lent him a helping hand. That was how much love she felt. Not exactly undifferentiated—just enormous. Coco smiled.

  She had let go. Incredibly, she had let go of her own hysteria.

  The only way to quit smoking is to quit smoking.

  The only way to quit eating is to quit eating.

  The only way to quit fearing is to quit fearing.

  But what was it she had done right all of a sudden? She still had no idea where Gavin was. She was really worse off than when she thought he was with Sylvia. The idea that he had maybe split al
one, without any woman, made his act even more serious. Perhaps she would never see him again. Perhaps he would never let her love him again. That would be too bad. She would like to be able to love Gavin now. She didn’t NEED to love him, she just wanted to.

  Then Coco flung herself up off the bed and padded down the stairs, through the guest room, and out to her porch. The sky was busy sweeping clouds around the darkness, and Coco felt a brush of cool night air encircle her body. She looked around at the cozy clutter of her possessions ringing the porch. Oh, yes, she had used the porch to crump out. She had fucked up out on that porch. And a porch was not to be fucked with. A porch was to sit on—in the evening, with all the family together in old wicker chairs, watching a road or a river go by.

  Coco bent over unplugged a cord, and lifted the Smith-Corona portable into her arms. Pressing it close to her breasts, she carried it downstairs to the kitchen. With one arm she swept the sketchbook across the table, sending vitamin-pill bottles, salt and pepper shakers, and unopened mail skating toward the precipice. Then she placed the typewriter down squarely at the head of the table. She made one more run up to the porch for her box of typing paper, leaving behind all the beauty aids and office supplies, and then returned to the kitchen. She sat down in front of the typewriter and wrote:

  “The reason no American woman has ever written a Great American Novel is …?

  She pressed the carriage return three times and then wrote:

  I would like to write a novel about an American woman who, after a lifetime of psychological dependency upon men—fathers, brothers, husbands, lovers, sons—self-consciously, but self-confidently, moves out front alone, on her own. I do not know yet the proper parable for this story, because I do not know yet what form such an experience takes. I do not know yet what scene will ensue, because it hasn’t happened yet. But I would like to transcribe the metamorphosis of a female into a woman—of a woman into a human being—honestly, without cuteness, snideness, or self-disparagement, and show how a woman learns to live without a man, just like a pioneer learns how to live in the wilderness—in order to survive. I want to show how a woman learns survival and then goes beyond it toward excellence and then beyond excellence toward celebration.

  Coco rolled the page off the typewriter, slipped another clean sheet into the machine, hit the lowercase L, and smiled at the number 1 which appeared on the top of the page.

  About the Author

  Barbara Raskin (1936–1999) was a Washington, DC–based journalist and author best known for her novel Hot Flashes. Capturing the feelings of the generation of women born during the Great Depression as they faced middle age, the novel spent five months on the New York Times bestseller list. Raskin wrote four other novels, Current Affairs, Loose Ends, Out of Order, and The National Anthem, as well as articles for numerous publications, including the Washington Post and the New York Times. She received a fiction award from the National Endowment for the Arts. Raskin is survived by Erika, Keith, Jamie, Sarah, Noah, Heather, Emily, Jason, Zachary, Maggie, Asa, Gray, Hannah, Tommy, Tabitha, Mariah, Boman, Daisy, Bobbie, Jedd, Sarah, Eden and Brandon—all of whom wish she didn’t have to leave the party so early.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1973 by Barbara Raskin

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3838-6

  This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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