-I think so. Everyone was so anxious, they barely knew anyone else was in the room. Some of them ate all the time. A lot of Chinese food. Everyone talked a lot, some were very loud. Some were quiet, and they looked totally blank. People constantly used the phone booths outside. They repeated everything they'd said in the waiting room. It drove me crazy. Hospitals look horrible. This waiting area was disgusting, and all the chairs had grease stains. Finally, the doctor came out and said I could go into the ICU and see her. I remember thinking when I walked theremajor operations are life-changing. Some people never recover from the operation. People age overnight. I was thinking all this, when I got to the ICU. You had to push a steel square to open these big doors, and they swung open, at you. And then I was facing the bed where my father died, the same bed. I was really thrown by that. But I found an ICU nurse and asked if I could see my mother. She asked her name and I told her, and she said, without hesitation, Bed Ten. I walked past the other beds to get to Bed Ten, it was almost the last bed. So I looked at all the people lying there, with gray faces and tubes everywhere. I kept telling myself that my mother might not he recognizable anymore. I prepared myself not to recognize her. I got to Bed Ten and went to my mother. I looked at her face. Her face was very different. Her nose was much wider. Her face was wide, it was very swollen, so I thought, OK. But her skin tone was entirely different, she was a different color-then I figured that came from the anesthesia. She's sensitive to meds. Anyway I really didn't recognize her. I stood there for a while, taking this in. But she looked so unlike herself, it was crazy. So, I went back to the nurses' station. I said to the same nurse, "I'm sorry, but that woman doesn't look like my mother." Then the nurse glanced at her clipboard and said, "Sorry, your mother's in Bed Twelve."
The Count laughed, Contesa did, also, a little after him, as if against her will. I'd recounted the story easily, all set in my memory, so I knew I'd never forget it, until I did, when I no longer needed it or couldn't retain it.
-There's your darkness, Contesa said.
-A gallows humorist, the Count said.
I lay my head on Contesa's lap, the Count fed the fire some more, and it leaped up energetically, exhausting me further with its dizzying patterns, so I shut my eyes.
The Turkish poet was in the room, I was having sex, with him, "Why do you wear a bar?" he asked. "Don't you mean bra?" I asked. "No," he said. I was nineteen, his name was Adam, his long hair hung in waves, and in the room, there was a perfect chair, it was beautiful, but was it mine? I wanted one, and what would it mean about my life if I didn't have one. I could design it, so I searched for materials in a desert, but where was I looking, there's nothing to use. "Why do you need a perfect chair?" someone asked, maybe Contesa. "That's a tall order," someone said, not me, I'm tall, but not tall enough, and I climbed a high chair. Many cats played underneath, all of them black with white paws, but I had to care for an abandoned dog, when my father appeared and said, "Don't look ..."
-Helen. Helen. Wake up.
I heard my name.
After I had rested my head on Contesa's lap, I instantly dropped off, briefly but completely, and I wanted to keep on sleeping, but the Count said I had to wake up, we had to go, it was getting dark, soon it'd be dinnertime in the residence, and I remembered I'd made an appointment for drinks with Spike and the Turkish poet. The Count and Contesa had flashlights, there was nothing to worry about, nothing at all, and I brushed myself off and traipsed after them sleepily.
-We're nearly there, just a few more minutes, Helen, Contesa said.
-Where are we?
-Near the main house, the Count said.
-What do you mean?
-We walked in a very wide circle, then smaller ones, behind, around the community. Actually, more like an ellipse.
I have no sense of direction, and, when the main house came into sight, the Count was beside me, he was returning, after all, if he was, but when we were leaving each other, to prepare for dinner-I thought I might check the mail first-I wished I'd told a story about the family cat instead of the one I did, I wasn't sure what I had told them, really, but I wished it'd been something else. I'd rarely thought of wishes before, now I was thinking about them often, Moira's dictum lodged in me, not so much about a wish to speak to the dead, but about the wish itself, and I realized that, if you have wishes against all reason, immune to reality, if you have wishes no matter what, then the wish trumps everything, always, and so in a sense, nothing else matters as much. There it was, the triumph of the wish. This notion satisfied me, though if valid or true, it wouldn't permit satisfaction, because most wishes don't come true and instead ache like unanswered lust. Still, wishes foment relationships, history, design, there are so many wishes, unacknowledged longings for the impossible precede every endeavor, and consequently, there are so many failures, but then there are significant exceptions, history often tells the story of exceptions. I might wish to make my skin immaterial and stop itching.
To mark the day with the Count and Contesa, as well as to humor myself, I called it Triumph of the Wish and imagined that very soon I'd design and build a chair that deserved that title, so that I might sit upon a wish. I might also unfurl the Fabric Monolith, not now, but someday, because it was a wish. I contemplated doing it, spreading out the cloth, or unrolling the material past itself, and, as I entered the main house, I avoided the gaze of certain residents, especially the demanding man, signed in, and walked along an imaginary straight line to the small, woodsy, cedar mailroom, to see what news awaited me.
I can live with, among, and in almost anything anywhere for a while, most arrangements satisfy for a day, a week, six months or more, occasionally not at all or never, not even for an hour, if, for instance, you're being suffocated, starved, or tortured, but mostly free of restraints, I want to start over and try something else, because I'm dissatisfied, restless, form an opinion about the possibilities available, and reach the end of my rope. Not long after Triumph of the Wish, I awoke to the clock radio, listened to the mellifluous, empty radio voices, turned them on and off with increasing agitation, avoided breakfast until I couldn't stand the idea of not eating until lunch, which is usually poor, and also chose, maybe arbitrarily, choice often is, if you have a choice, which is deceptively uncommon, but nevertheless I decided, as I dressed quickly in lightweight one hundred percent cotton black slacks and a gray and black striped, long-sleeved cotton boatneck jersey, to leave the community. Its residential flux no longer compelled me, instead, it grated, the view outside of my window as I worked or contemplated palled, a silly story, which involved Henry, Arthur, the kitchen helper, and myself, exasperated me, but it implicated me, in a sense, in more of the same, an expected occurrence in a small community, indicating also it was probably time to leave. Spike, whose wit and humor I relied upon, whose ramrod straight posture my father would've liked, had turned peevish and severe as a Shaker chair, while the Turkish poet rarely left his room, the disconsolate women fought at dinner, and the tall balding man shifted his desire to a new resident, a prematurely gray-haired and attractive vegan, whose occupation I couldn't figure out. I considered mentioning to the tall balding man, more than once, the new moisture-management fabrics, such as Coolmax and Moistex, that quickly absorb and dry sweat, knitted from polyester fibers, an aid to sufferers of primary palmar hyperhidrosis, but when he clasped my hand in his wet palms, with a sincerity I didn't know he felt, I didn't tell him, because usually it's better not to say anything. Even the demanding man felt familiar and bearable, so in opposition to what I might also become, especially to myself, I knew it was time to go, though it's impossible ever to grasp time's truth, if it has any, which is dubious, or discover with absolute surety the right idea, but the staff encouraged me. Soon I prepared for my return to the place I call home by spending a good week deliberating about and sorting my clutter, a day or two burning what was no longer necessary, which entailed building many fires by the Count's method and making more decisions than I wanted to ma
ke, and often I tossed small cardboard objects, bits of paper, doodles for designs, notes, quotations I collected (Curt Flood, "I am pleased God gave me black skin. I wish he'd made it thicker;" Oscar Levant, "I can stand anything except failure;" Sigmund Freud, "Consideration for the dead, who, after all, no longer need it, is more important to us than truth, and, certainly, for most of us, than consideration for the living;" Hannah Arendt, "Appearing beings living in a world of appearances have an urge to show themselves;" Ralph Waldo Emerson to Oliver Wendell Holmes, "When you strike at a king, you must kill him") into cardboard boxes labeled "Miscellaneous." I instituted a novel system to allow for contingency by which I filed shapeless or promising concepts into colorful folders, whose colors corresponded to my color/number system, at last employing that idea usefully, and washed my clothes in one hundred percent Ivory Snow for sensitive skin, my lamb's wool, angora, and cashmere sweaters in Woolite, and packed them, actually rolled them to avoid wrinkles, in two sturdy, black nylon suitcases with wheels.
I returned all of the books under my bed or by my worktable to the library, where Moira appeared, which was and wasn't a surprise. She wore her Limited jeans, a white wool, loose-knit sweater, no hat, a lightweight orange polyester jacket, it may have been deer-hunting season, and we said hello in a friendly way, but nothing more. Moira watched me place hooks on shelves, write my first name and the hook's title in a log on a line next to the day's date, indicating that I'd returned each and when. I must have been there an hour or so shelving and collecting my thoughts, some of which were about the Dewey Decimal System, when Moira said:
-You're leaving?
-It's time, I think.
-You're not sure?
-It's time.
-Have a good life. Life's fascinating. Just let go every once in a while.
-Thank you, and you, too.
-Violet's play boosted me way up. I'm thinking of becoming an actor. It's never too late.
-That's great, I said. I wish you success.
It's never too late, I considered, good-humoredly, unless it is, I also thought, as I left the library, when, on the path to my residence, I realized that I'd never see the odd inquisitive woman again, that this person whose characteristic impertinence annoyed me would disappear from my life, as I would hers, that we had met, sniffed each others' asses more than once, or labored in an army of ants building anthills, and even though I didn't especially like her, I'd probably remember her for a while, until I never thought of her again, and might even miss her, though I might not know what it was that was missed. The head cook was also leaving, that had been made public weeks ago, and there was a party planned to be held in the main house, to which all of the residents were invited, and most decided to attend, even though her cooking in her last weeks had become more than lackadaisical, and, if I hadn't had to eat it, I might have called whimsical. Some residents stayed in their rooms during dinner, preferring to starve, as they put it, but I never did, I needed dinner, which marked the end of a day during which I had or hadn't accomplished anything, along with the others, and also a bad dinner was preferable to none. I'm not sure about the head cook, but I left the morning after her farewell party, and, as I waited for the taxicab to take me to the train, the Turkish poet showed up unexpectedly, carrying a gallon bottle of water. My luggage was placed, or thrown, into the trunk by the overweight driver, whose clothes smelled of cigarette smoke, and the Turkish poet kissed me goodbye on my forehead. I took my place on a backseat, strapped myself in, hoped my driver wouldn't speed or brake sharply, causing me to become nauseated, and worried if the trunk had been shut properly. When the car started to pull away, the Turkish poet ran up to my door and exclaimed, "This brings good luck. Remember me, you." Then, trotting behind the car, he sprinkled water onto the path, the water cascading from the gallon bottle until it was gone.
I arrived in the place I call home late that night, it appeared to be the start of a hot summer, and, early the next morning, because the air would be cooler than later in the day, and cleaner, the streets quieter, I walked to my mother's house to retrieve my young wild cat from her indifferent care, but when I arrived and opened the door using my key, because her companion was in the shower, she was fast asleep in her own world. Her unconsciousness gave me the chance to study her unabashedly without her asking questions, which I often have to answer many times, unless it's a day when she's lucid, which also happens, fortunately. My mother had aged, the skin on her neck was looser and fleshier, her nose thicker, since, at her age, the ageing process gallops to the finish line, but still no wrinkles creased her cheeks, no fine lines radiated from her shut eyes. My mother's mouth twitched from time to time. Yet sleeping offered her a serenity she lacked even at her advanced age, when age is meant to carry with it at least that compensation, because when awake, she insisted adamantly she was half her age. Her skin, normally glossy and pink, had maintained its usual high color, and I thought, she's not dead yet, maybe she can live forever.
Coincidentally, just after I had these thoughts, my mother tossed, unsettled by my attention or, more likely, rocked in the arms of a dream lover who caressed her, who stirred her the way she wanted to be stirred again, since she missed sex, she'd told me, but she didn't speak aloud to her husband, my father. When she rolled over and faced the wall, I left her bedroom to talk with her companion, who brewed coffee in the kitchen where I asked how she was doing, what her troubles were, if any, how my mother's doctors' visits had gone, what new bills needed payment, what my mother's complaints were, and, most important, how they were getting along, if any immediate issues required my daughterly attention. For months, I'd been spared most of this. All the while, my young wild cat, technically no longer a kitten, stared at his cat carrier, which my mother's companion had removed from a shelf in the hallway closet and set on the floor by the door, so he knew something was up, or he was going home. I grabbed him when he turned away from us and, before he knew it, my cat was in the carrier he hated, so he cried pitifully, and, not saying hello or goodbye to my mother, who still slept, I rushed out of the door to the elevator, to the street, where I hailed a taxi. Soon we arrived at my apartment house, and, quickly, in my apartment, I released him. He jumped out, walked the length of my place, and settled on a yellowishwhite naugahyde Thonet chair, where he remained for the day, keeping his distance from me, even when I dished out his favorite food. My young wild cat didn't know me, though I knew and loved him, but also, in a sense, I didn't know him, because he'd changed in his manner to me, yet that also would change, an experienced cat lover explained, and you must give it time, she cautioned. Several days later, I awakened with my bottom lip split and telephoned the beauty salon to set up an appointment for a facial. It was a Saturday, so the pleasant boss answered my call, and I arranged an appointment for a facial on Tuesday at 11 a.m.
Tuesday comes, and my cat is somewhat more responsive, though he still behaves as if he doesn't know me, which may be an act, indifference, annoyance, or an actuality, he may not know me. I dress in lightweight, loose all-cotton gray clothes, and take a route I know like the back of my hand, but also don't really see, to the beauty salon for my regular treatment, since my skin is perniciously dry, I need treatment, a collagen mask is advisable, but, ominously, the salon owner greets me at the door, and it's no longer the weekend. She tells me, her eyes darting quickly away from mine, that my Polish cosmetician has left, that she is no longer working for her, she has taken another job for more money, and then the salon owner's eyes leave mine again, as she explains that there is a new cosmetician, a Polish woman, also, who is excellent, better than mine was, much better, and who will care for me very well. The salon owner graciously draws open a curtain to one of the two small rooms, and, uneasy, my skin itching, I enter the cramped space, which is, in all other ways, the way it was when I last visited, and then the new cosmetician enters, tells me her name and to undress, please, that she will be right back, and leaves the room. I hang my all cotton, lightweight clothes on
a hook and change into a long-sleeved, plain blue wrapper, a twenty percent polyester, eighty percent cotton blend that feels slightly rough against my skin, but it's durable and serviceable, and then I lie down upon the chaise lounge and cover myself with a soft, nubby pink blanket, and soon the new Polish woman enters again, but I hardly see her, since she turns the light low for my greater relaxation, and, when she walks toward me, her face is hidden in shadow. She takes her place behind me and, tenderly, ties a ribbon around my head at the hairline to keep loose strands off my forehead and temples, impeding her work, and lightly and gently she pats my cheeks twice. Speaking in a calm, accented voice, she says, "Pardon me," as my former Polish facialist would have, comes forward, switches a harsh light on, to examine my skin closely, and bends close, to study it with concern, screwing up her face, which produces creases or wrinkles on her forehead and at the bridge of her nose, and only after this, she touches my face again. With the help of a mild, hypoallergenic cream on a cotton pad, she moves her dancing fingers in an upward fashion, careful not to create new creases on my skin but to smooth and lessen old ones and remove surface impurities, inaugurating the facial. Soon the Polish woman says with professional certainty, "You have very sensitive skin," and I close my eyes, and she goes on.
Acknowledgements
I thank Dr. George Lipkin for his skin genius and giving me an informal education in dermatology; Dakis lannou, for lending me a house to write in, and Katerina Gregos, for facilitating it; Lydia Davis, for helping me get me started on this book; Geoffrey Cruickshank Hagenbuckle, for his understanding of the tarot; and Robert Gober, for the perfect cover image. David Rattray, who hovers always in memory, is the novel's touchstone, and Carol Mahoney, recently gone, is, even if such things can't happen, its guardian angel.
American Genius: A Comedy Page 34
