Other People's Lives

by Johanna Kaplan

  “I’ll have it open for you in one minute, don’t worry,” Rebecca said as she struggled, banging and trying to turn the top of the sticky honey jar.

  “You could run it under hot water,” Matthew said.

  “I know, darling. Isn’t he sweet? I always said you were sweet, Matthew. But with the way that boiler is working in there, by the time the water gets hot your tea’ll be cold. Just don’t get impatient and don’t go looking for sugar.”

  Julie said, “White sugar is very bad for you.”

  “Oh, darling!” Rebecca said, throwing out her arms and immediately ending all her efforts with the honey jar. “I knew we’d agree! You’re a wonderful girl and you have a wonderful mother—you were a baby practically when she wrote that book! So how could you have understood? In fact, you were probably the baby she wrote it for. Not that I want you to get the idea that your mother could ever have been the kind of person who would do a thing like that! Who could limit her interests and concerns to her own uterus. That would have gone against the grain of everything she believed in and worked for for years!”

  “That’s I think too much honey, Matthew, angel,” Maria said. She had, with almost no one noticing it, opened the honey jar, swiftly turning the top with the frayed end of her raincoat.

  “Oh, Maria, thank you, dear. I don’t know why I didn’t think of asking you. You have the most marvelous hands. Just like Dennis. He has the most marvelous feet.”

  Louise waited for Maria to say: Not any more, he doesn’t. But instead she scratched some honey strands from the lining of her raincoat and said, “I teach him always hot water because I am afraid with banging there could be sometimes broken glass. Little pieces. It happened to me sometimes when I am too impatient.”

  Rebecca said, “Julia, darling, now I know you’ll understand what I mean. All the things parents have to think about and take into consideration. That’s why what your mother did was so brave and heroic and absolutely idealistic.”

  Julie spooned the honey into her tea and, examining the jar, said, “I don’t know if it’s natural.”

  “But, darling! Of course it’s natural. What you just don’t understand is the climate of those times. It’s too far away for you. When your mother wrote that book, it was the Age of Conformity. And I’m not just talking about gray flannel suits! What I’m talking about is all those people who got caught up—they couldn’t help themselves—in the whole trend and sway and spirit of the times. Not that I got trapped into it even then. Because it always seemed escapist and reactionary to me. And that’s all that was going on then—flight into the suburbs! Your own lawn. Your own house. Your own psyche. Your own little garden—and for some people, not so little! And that, Julia darling, was what your mother was up against! Forget the city and live in the trees! And these were genuinely progressive people, not just ordinary shtunks!…So your mother got the idea that if she could only show people, explain to them that if what they wanted was greens and the gratification of making something grow, you could do it in your own apartment. In the city. And you didn’t have to run and flee! Because it’s nothing new, everybody knows: since when is flight an answer?”

  Rebecca stopped, took a long, resonating swallow of the tea which was now cold, and, opening her mouth again, exuded an odor which seemed to Louise like fish gone rancid. “Of course they were all very foolish to give up their old rent-controlled apartments, even with the increases. Though that’s something your mother didn’t mention. Not that she could have known it then, especially with her emphasis on plants—as if anyone could make a life out of pots and leaves! Although you should see all the nurseries around here! And the way people are taken in by them!”

  “It’s the same I think with the new flower stores, planting stores in the city. Cheatings only for what you can do yourself.”

  “Of course, darling! Why do you think her mother’s book was reissued? Capitalism! Consumption! And she still didn’t mention a word about all those people who gave up their rent-controlled apartments. And believe me, are they jealous! I know! I’ll never give up what we have, even with the increases—and of course landlords are bloodsuckers! They always were and they always will be. And everyone knows, especially the young people in my building who are wonderful and brave and forthright and outspoken, and it’s pathetic! Because they know absolutely zero. And they keep on expecting the whole world to just fall into their laps the way their parents did!”

  Maria said, “Rebecca, I still don’t understand. What book? What did Julie’s mother do?”

  Julie looked around at Louise and Maria. “You mean you haven’t heard of it? You haven’t even seen the ads? It’s called Green Thoughts and Other City Surprises,” Julie said bitterly. “That’s my mother’s book!” and slumping back, she suddenly looked to Louise as sallow as her olive-drab jacket.

  “Well, Julia, darling! I see at least you memorized the title! It must mean something to you. I don’t know what else you ever memorized in your life! And it’s obvious that you don’t even know where the title came from!” Rebecca was standing up now and focusing on Julie, her face again purple and her eyes enlarged.

  “I think I probably never had such tea, Rebecca,” Maria said. “I wish only my God-damn nose wasn’t stopped and I could smell it. It’s definitely very good. I’m drinking more and more and still no aroma, God damn it!”

  Julie said, “Me, too. I’m drinking too much, I have to pee. Elimination is right for your body.”

  Rebecca said nothing; her expression had not changed. In the silence, which no one knew what to do with—only hailstones clapped against the windows in the useless, drugged safety of Ping-Pong balls in the lounge at Birch Hill-Rebecca continued to stare at Julie as if she could force her into paying attention. “Green thoughts,” she drew out deliberately. “A green thought?” It was not a hint, but a test.

  Julie did not exactly get up, but began to move her body off the chair in a hollow, lithe, collapsible way that seemed both lazy and well executed at the same time. Clearly she believed that her legs themselves would lead her to the bathroom, though Louise could see no sign of where it might be.

  Rebecca said, “No. Of course not. You don’t know. You don’t even have the vaguest idea of what I’m talking about. Why should you? You might have had to learn something! You might have had to read a poem! It’s your own mother’s book—I don’t know whether to be furious or just disheartened. ‘A green thought in a green shade’—it’s from a poem by Andrew Marvell. ‘The Garden.’ Green! Hope! So that people could keep their hopes and their beliefs and not run away! And not turn their backs on society that needs them! Or go looking for phony prestige in big lawns and commuter trains! And that’s what your mother meant, Julia! You can’t turn your back. Because no man is an island! And even though Manhattan is, there’s no reason why you can’t make it pleasant and beautiful and as green as you want it. Not that she was saying it’s Paradise. Because life never is—though that’s all you’re ever looking for! Because even up here, where it is Paradise, there are still drawbacks…”

  “Green thoughts and green shades I think I did hear about,” Maria said. “When I was putting out the garbage, the newspapers. Because Matthew doesn’t like to—I know, baby, angel, but if you leave them, there come only more roaches. And newspapers you must keep always separate. Anyway, I didn’t realize, Julie, that it was your mother. I didn’t know the picture. I didn’t meet ever your mother. I only once spoke to her on the telephone.”

  How had Julie’s mother looked in the newspaper? Like Elisabeth? So that only if you knew her could you realize who it was? Or if you did recognize her instantly despite the purposeful subterfuge, would you still not have the slightest inkling of who she had once been or what her life was like?

  Julie said, “The picture was probably terrific. Now all you have to do is get it together with the voice on the phone. Which is more than she ever did.”

  “There’s nothing I can say to you any more, Julia. Because I
’m sure that Maria would come to an entirely different conclusion! In fact, I’m surprised that you don’t know her, Maria, because she’s always had so many friends and so many interests and you and Dennis were—”

  “Because she’s always taken such a big interest in my life!” Julie burst out.

  “And she’s an absolutely marvelous person, Maria, and you would love her! And in fact I even know the exact article and the exact interview you have in mind! It was in the Post, right? In the ‘At Home’ section? Where they have an interview and a picture and a recipe?”

  Maria shrugged. “I don’t remember, really. I saw it in the garbage only.”

  “Well, I do! I remember it perfectly! Perfectly! Because that’s one of those things about me, and people are always remarking on it! And I know that’s one of the first things that’s supposed to go—your memory. And even Simone de Beauvoir says so—and by the way, Julia, it’s supposed to start at twenty-five, so don’t think you’re going to last like this forever! Although your mother’s memory couldn’t be that bad!” Rebecca’s coloring began rising suspiciously. “Because it was my recipe she gave in that interview! Danish duck in wine sauce! That interview in the Post where you’re supposed to be giving your own very special recipe. To show your own private, characteristic style of entertaining!”

  Julie said, “My mother never cooked anything in her life. Except maybe steak. Or lamb chops. Her whole trip is cleaning. You know—throw it away, get rid of it.”

  “Well, maybe she never cooked anything, but she definitely ate it! And I know where, too—in my house! And with my memory, I can probably even figure out when! Years and years ago, when I used to give those enormous, fantastic fund-raising dinners that everybody came to and everybody talked about! Because people still remember those dinners of mine, they made a tremendous impression. And in some cases, how much of an impression I didn’t realize till I saw my own recipe staring right up at me under someone’s else’s face in the newspaper! Not that it makes any difference to me if she gets the credit—I’m very flattered! I’m only sorry that all those people who are going to cut out that recipe from the paper never had the chance to eat it when I made it. Because you have to really love food—for its own sake—to really do it right. Just like anything else in life. And food—it gives you life! I don’t mean alone—so don’t start up with me, Julia. You’re not the first one to figure out that material things aren’t everything! And I remember when lots of people were really hungry, and don’t think I don’t know that there are plenty of people who still are! Just tell me one thing, darling. How does it taste when your mother makes it?”

  In the gloomy dimness which had been increasing, Louise could not tell when Julie had come back from the bathroom and did not know how much of all this she had actually heard.

  She said, “I told you. My mother never cooks anything. She never eats anything. She’s five four and she weighs a hundred and twelve pounds. Daddy says she’s the closest thing to an anorexic he’s ever seen. All she ever does is play tennis.”

  Because of the darkness, which was now nearly total, Louise had a sudden sensation of blindness. All she could see was an outline of Julie’s familiar slouching form, and hearing her voice—a grudging whine—was certain that the expression on her invisible face was sour, sullen, and superior. It was unfair and not to be trusted: she was toying with the idea of blindness as if it were an idea, and easily playing out to herself this character of Julie—undeserving but lucky—lucky, lucky Julie, as if she were just that, simply a character. She could not see Rebecca, either, who now said, “Tennis? Julia, darling! Does your mother still play tennis? I think that’s absolutely marvelous. People who want to stay alive and vital and open to the future have to find their own way of doing it. And if tennis is your mother’s way, I think it’s a wonderful thing! It’s not my way, but I’m not the kind of person who has to wait around tennis courts, making small talk in ridiculous outfits, and then get crushed at cocktail parties! For me, being young and staying young is always inside me. But that’s just a difference of outlook and attitudes. And someday I know you’ll understand…Tell me something, darling. It just occurred to me because I know some wonderful people who also used to have a house on Martha’s Vineyard—where do your parents play tennis?”

  “I didn’t say my parents. I said my mother. Daddy wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, that’s even more marvelous. You see that? She does it by herself! The one thing I have no patience for is people who stand still. And if that means having to lie about your age on applications, then, by all means, go ahead and lie! It’s what I tell all my friends and I know that I’m shocking them. Because they know how deep-rooted a principle honesty is with me. But if you’re living in a society as primitive as ours is—primitive and callous! So that if you even whisper sixty-five, just the number itself makes you totem and taboo, and everyone’s ready to throw you away! Not that anybody believes how old I am anyway! So that when I was in the city the last time and I went to get my special discount bus pass—”

  “Bus passes!” Maria said. “Oh my God, Matthew! I forgot again to give you milk money! Again for a whole week you’ll have nothing to drink. Bus passes you don’t need, it’s anyway not so far. You must only be careful about enough money with you. For muggings.”

  “It’s too windy, Mommy,” Matthew said. “That’s the part I don’t like. It’s too windy when you have to go around the corner.”

  “Your corner, Maria, darling? Is that what he means? Because if it is, I don’t blame him for one minute. And as much as I always loved to walk.”

  Maria said, “‘Der Wind, der Wind, das himmlische Kind’…I think, Rebecca, on all streets between West End and the Drive, it’s all over the same.”

  “What’s that from, darling? Wait a minute—don’t tell me! I know that I know it—you’re quoting Goethe!”

  “Mommy, it’s too dark in here,” Matthew began to whine. “I can’t see anything. When are we going to Jamie Laufer’s?”

  “Rebecca will maybe put on a light, baby, angel. It is dark. Because really it’s already late.”

  “It would be dark in here anyway,” Julie said. “Just like our living room. No matter how many lights my mother turns on or how many exposures she has! Do you know that people can live in caves and still feel completely suffused with sunlight?”

  “Matthew, sweetheart! Of course I’ll put on a light for you. It’s just that with all the electricity problems here, and all the times I’ve had blow-outs, the whole thing makes me nervous. And furious! All because of that damn electrician!…Let me start with the plugs and we’ll hope!”

  Rebecca crept around on the floor, apparently tugging at wires. Raising her head, she said, “I’ve got it! I’m positive! It’s not Faust, right? It’s the ‘Erlkönig!’”

  The “Erlkönig”: a Schubert song Louise could not stand. A man who sees that there’s suddenly something wrong with his child becomes desperate to save him. From what? What’s wrong? Is he sick? The piano part: a horse, a horseman, galloping, galloping. Tell me, say something. What is it? You’re getting paler and paler. Tell me. Galloping, galloping. Father, Father, help me! Save me! Listen to it! It’s getting closer and closer, I can’t even—What? What are you talking about? What shall I listen for? Galloping, galloping. Galloping, galloping. Father! Father! In the distance there is an eerie wind blowing. Tell me, tell me, your voice is so faint. I can’t hear you. Your eyes are closed, you’re not moving. This is no time to fall asleep! Wind, galloping, silence, sleep—that’s all and the whole thing is over. And now, finally, the father understands: his son is dead. He’s been carried away, kidnaped by the galloping horseman—the Erlkönig, a figure from legend. The father sings about his grief, berates himself for his own stupidity in not recognizing the notorious villain, and that’s how the song ends. The song is a lie; the legend is a lie. The only thing it’s about is suicide and the child doesn’t want to be saved from its seduction. Gallop, gallop, gallop: ho
w is the father supposed to do something about an inaudible, invisible horseman?

  “What?” Maria said.

  “What you just quoted, darling! ‘Der Wind, der Wind, das himmlische Wind.’ You’re so erudite, Maria! I don’t know how I could forget that about you. I didn’t, really, because I am too in my own way. Not that I know German, but I come from a very musical family, and people are always amazed at the things I can recognize even though I never took a lesson in my life!” Rebecca managed to plug in one dim, heavily shaded antique hurricane lamp; the bulb went out immediately. “Do you see what I mean? That’s exactly what I’m struggling against!”

  “I think it could be maybe only the extension cord. Or other wires—not exposed, I hope…What I said now is from Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Hansel and Gretel!” Rebecca said, immediately beginning to hum the theme of Peter and the Wolf. “Does that take me back years! I always used to take my daughters and all their little friends. Every single year! Every Christmas! Even if in my opinion it is on the sugary side. Still, you have to let children build and develop their own taste. When I think of all those pushy parents! What did they get? Midgets who could parrot!”