The Wisdom of Perversity

by Rafael Yglesias

  While they alternated paying rents on each other’s hotels, Jeff left his door ajar, listening for an opportunity to recover the tape recorder. After a half hour, given Harriet’s talent for noiseless jaunts on slippers, Jeff removed his Keds before executing a visual check on her, careful to place his stocking feet along the edges near the wall where the oak floorboards didn’t creak.

  He returned, reporting that Harriet had stayed put. Half an hour later he tried again. He was gone much longer, and when Jeff reappeared the nervous excitement of surveillance had been replaced by a lowered head and sluggish feet.

  “What is it?”

  “Shut the door,” Jeff ordered.

  Brian obeyed. “What’s happened?”

  “She was on the telephone.” Jeff stared through Brian. “Mom was crying,” he added.

  Brian relaxed. “So what?” Harriet’s crying on the phone didn’t happen every day, but it did at least once a week.

  “She was talking to your mom and crying.”

  That was a true surprise. “Crying to my mom? What about?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Jeff mumbled.

  “Did you hear what she saying?”

  “I think she was saying something . . .” He shook his head.

  “What!” Brian poked Jeff’s shoulder.

  “Something about . . . Somebody’s sick.”

  “Who?”

  Jeff didn’t answer.

  “Who!”

  “I don’t know! Somebody’s got a fatal disease. Cancer.” Jeff backed up to his twin bed and sat. He looked down, then up sharply. “Is your mom sick?”

  Brian was about to say no, then realized he wasn’t sure. True, there was no sign of his mother’s being physically ill. But a fatal disease, as he knew from watching Dr. Kildare, did not require symptoms. Often terminal patients surfed or sung opera right up until the end, and their last minutes only involved breathing very, very slowly. Dying wasn’t like having the flu, where you threw up, sweated a lot, and looked as if all your blood had been removed. The greatest effect of a terminal illness, Brian believed, was on a person’s mood. Both his mother’s and father’s moods shifted often and dramatically. They could both be dying.

  Recently they hadn’t been around much. His father taught theater during the day in Manhattan and spent most evenings there too, seeing plays with friends in them and doing readings to keep his acting career alive, as he put it. Meanwhile his mother had often gone into Manhattan on weekends to visit her older sister. A few times she had had Brian stay over at Jeff’s for dinner while she “helped out” at Aunt Helen’s. She told Brian his aunt wasn’t feeling well and needed help with her four little children. Brian was an only child, often left alone, and had gotten used to being sent upstairs to Jeff’s this past year, although confusingly his mother didn’t approve of her own neglect, telling Brian she was “a bad mother for not paying attention to my beautiful boy.”

  He thought about his mother saying his aunt was not feeling well and he especially thought of how often he would find Mommy sitting alone in her bedroom with red-rimmed eyes. “Maybe it’s my mom’s sister,” he offered. “I think she’s sick.”

  Jeff shook his head. “Sounded like your mom was sick.”

  “My mom’s not sick.”

  “She’s been away a lot,” Jeff pointed out.

  “Helping my aunt. My aunt is sick.”

  “Maybe that’s a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie!”

  “How do know? Have you seen your aunt?” Jeff tugged on Brian’s elbow urgently. “It’s on the tape. We can find out.”

  “What?” Brian stalled.

  “What my mom said to your mom. It’s on the tape.”

  “Are you sure?” Brian felt like crying. “Are you sure my mom is sick?”

  “No. I told you. I couldn’t really hear. I was out in the hall and my mom was crying. Who’s sick is on the tape. All I know is somebody’s sick.”

  “Maybe it’s your mom,” Brian said. “Maybe she’s sick.”

  “Of course she’s sick. She’s always sick,” Jeff pointed out. “But she was talking about somebody who’s dying.” This depressing fact lay in between them like dog doo. A silence ensued, probably the longest silence of their chattering friendship.

  The front door bell rang. Its muffled scream broke their paralysis. “That’s my cousins,” Jeff announced with disgust.

  “I’d better go home,” Brian said.

  “No way! You’re staying until we get the tape recorder back.”

  Harriet hoarsely shouted, “Jeff! Get the door!”

  “Come with me to the door,” Jeff said.

  “Why?” Brian asked.

  “Come on!” Jeff stamped his foot.

  “Okay.” Brian followed his friend dutifully into the hallway as the doorbell screamed again and Harriet yelled again, “Jeff! Answer the door.”

  “I am! I’m getting it,” he shouted as they passed her room. Brian noted Harriet was by now entirely prone on her bed, cherished red and black afghan covering her ruined legs, head propped on an embankment of four pillows. Brian sometimes wondered if Saul was allowed to take one for himself when he went to bed, but then Brian sometimes wondered if Saul ever slept. The unoccupied parts of the queen-size bed were covered in newspapers—that morning’s New York Times, yesterday’s New York Post and New York Herald Tribune. She was awkwardly gathering them into a puffed-up mass, presumably straightening up. The rest of the room was beyond repair: a mug of chamomile tea and balled-up tissues on the night table, a skirt and blouse draped over the green armchair near the window.

  She looked up as Brian peered in. His curiosity about what she might know of his mother’s health overcame his usual fear of meeting her gaze. What he saw surprised him. There were the usual semicircles of blackened fatigue and heavy-lidded suspicion, but typical irritation had been replaced by anger. As he walked by, she looked at him as if she wanted him dead. Spooked, he hustled after Jeff.

  He caught up as Jeff opened the door to Hy and his two children. He was immediately impressed by eleven-year-old Julie, mostly because she had long raven hair down nearly to her waist, as long as her five-year-old brother Noah’s entire body. “What’s the story?” Hy said as a greeting to his nephew. “Everybody still in bed? Oh, that’s right. Your mother’s always in bed.” He chuckled. He was a handsomer version of his brother, Saul: same saggy face, but Hy’s snout waggled with self-congratulation, head held high and back, like a rearing horse; the thick, wavy brown hair that Saul couldn’t control—his lay in three unrelated clumps—on Hy was a leonine mass. And he was the successful brother, proud of his four-bedroom house in Riverdale and busy dental practice on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, a man who drove a Lincoln, had a subscription to the philharmonic, and had gone on three vacations to Europe. “Who are you?” Hy demanded of Brian as he stepped in.

  “This is my friend,” Jeff answered. “Come in,” he added to Julie and Noah. Noah had stubbornly insisted on his Yankee cap and jeans; a touch of formality had been added by his mother, a white shirt and navy blue sweater. Julie, in love with ballet, had been talked out of wearing a black leotard and was dressed instead in what her mother hoped was an outfit beyond Harriet’s reproach: a gray skirt, a white blouse, a little red sweater unbuttoned at the top and bright red Mary Janes to match her sweater. To Brian, she looked like Christmas. Julie’s eyes were almost as black as her hair and they were shaped like almonds. Despite her impressive appearance, Brian felt immediately at ease with her, unusual for him with girls these days, especially older pretty girls—he often suspected they were laughing at him and it was maddening that he didn’t know why.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Hy asked.

  “I’m Brian Moran,” Brian said.

  “A nice Jewish boy,” Hy joked.

  “Hello, Brian. Very nice to meet you,” Julie said with a sincere emphasis that made her seem very nice.

  “He is Jewish, Uncle Hy,” Jeff honked.
“His mother is Jewish, so he is too.”

  “Hyram?” Harriet called in her hoarse, demanding voice. “That you? Come and say hello.”

  Hy turned toward the long narrow hall that led to Harriet. He quailed as if it were a march to the electric chair.

  “Hy?” Her volume dropped to a plaintive cry. “You here? I’m dying to see you.”

  “Hello, Harriet. I’m just here to drop off the kids,” he shouted. To Jeff he added in a low voice, “Tell your mother I’ll be back with your pop around five.”

  “Hy? I can’t hear you. Is Becky with you?”

  “No,” he called down the corridor. “Didn’t Saul tell you? Becky couldn’t come. Her uncle Joe is sick.” He took a step backward to the front door and escape, repeating to Jeff, “Tell your mother I’m going to the store to visit with your father and we’ll be back—”

  Harriet interrupted, “Hy, did you say Becky’s sick? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. It’s her uncle Joe.” As he answered, Hy involuntarily reversed course, taking three steps down the fatal hall. “He’s sick. He’s a widower. She’s brought him chicken soup and is going to spend the day with him. She told me to tell you she’ll call later and have a good long talk with you. Didn’t Saul tell you? I spoke to him about it this morning.” There was an ominous silence from the invalid’s room—long enough for Hy to feel he had no choice but to inquire, “Harriet, did you hear me?”

  “Becky is cooking? Making soup?” came Harriet’s faint reply.

  “Not cooking,” Hy said, exasperated. He took two more strides toward his sister-in-law’s room, then stopped abruptly as he realized he was three feet from entering her lair. As if he were about to catch a train, he talked fast. “Her uncle is sick. She’s bringing him chicken soup.” Hy wound down abruptly. He sighed. “Doesn’t matter. I told Saul. Becky’s sorry. She’ll call later to say hello and you’re gonna see her at Passover. I’m going now to the store to keep Saul company. We’ll pick up take-out Chinese for the big birthday dinner.” He recited the plan with fond regret, as if he’d already surrendered hope that so well ordered a series of events could occur.

  “Oh, I’m so disappointed.” Harriet spoke just loudly enough to be heard in a feeble timbre, as if she were fainting away. “I wanted to have a long talk with Becky . . .”

  Hy threw up his arms, exasperated. Brian was comforted that a confident adult had as much trouble handling Harriet as he did. Hy pleaded, “Harriet, she’ll phone you later, okay? Then you can talk to her to your heart’s content.” He went limp, head down, arms hanging.

  There was another dismal silence. When Harriet broke it, her voice was insistent. “Where is everybody, Hy? Where are Julie and Noah? Bring them in. I want to give them a kiss. And don’t you be in such a rush. Believe me, when you get to the store Saul’ll be too busy to talk. He’s always too busy when I’m there.”

  Hy surrendered. Accepting his fate, he straightened bravely and waved for his children to follow as he led a doomed march to Harriet’s bedroom. All three crowded at the door, reluctant to enter.

  “Hello, Harriet,” Hy said cheerfully, as if he had just arrived. “Here are the kids. I’d better get going. Saul wanted me to get to the store before lunch.” Meanwhile, Jeff pressed up close behind, leaning on his uncle’s butt. Feeling the contact, Hy reflexively stepped into the bedroom. Noticing what he’d done, Hy looked around wildly for escape.

  Having bagged her game, Harriet ignored him. She extended a hand to Julie. “Jules, honey, you look so pretty. Come here, sweetie. Let me give you a hug. You too, Noah. Come. Give your aunt a kiss. I’m not contagious. It’s just my neck and sciatica. They’re killing me.”

  Julie walked up to the bed without hesitation. Brian was impressed. Surely she felt the same revulsion they all did (Noah looked green at the prospect of kissing Harriet) and yet she sailed over to the bed, bent gracefully at the waist as she had been taught in ballet class, and pressed her lips on Harriet’s wobbly cheek without reserve.

  Jeff tapped Brian’s shoulder, nodding in the direction of his room. They were just outside his mother’s doorsill. Their going would be shielded from view. Brian obeyed.

  Beating a retreat, they stepped sideways in unison and dashed madly into Jeff’s room. There they grinned, holding back laughter as best they could. Brian choked and snorted. Jeff put his hands on his knees and bent over, hissing giggles.

  Their joy was short-lived. Harriet shrieked: “Jeff! Brian! Get in here. Right now!” They scrambled back, careful to remain on the hallway side of the doorsill, and presented abashed faces.

  “How dare you run away like that? You’re being very rude to your cousins.” In the silence that followed Harriet’s scolding, Julie lowered her eyes, Noah grinned mischievously, and Hy ran his eyes along the ceiling as if inspecting it for leaks. After several intensely painful seconds, she continued, “I have to speak to your uncle privately. Take Julie and Noah into your room and show them what we gave you for your birthday.”

  Hearing his fate, Hy paled. Noah, gladdened anyway by the punishment of children other than himself, was electrified by hearing news of a present. He shouted in a manic rush, “What did you get? Where is it? Lemme see!”

  Brian reacted to this turn of events as if someone had pulverized one of his kidneys. He put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. How the hell were they going to show off the tape recorder to Julie and Noah while it was under Harriet’s bed?

  “O . . . kay,” Jeff said in a laconic whine. “Come to my room and I’ll show you.”

  “Yay!” Noah pushed past them. Brian stared at Jeff, appalled. Jeff stared back grimly.

  “Go on, honey,” Harriet urged Julie. “Go and see my Jeffrey’s birthday present. I have to talk to your father.”

  “I can’t stay for long” was the last thing Brian heard Hy say as he followed Julie and Noah to Jeff’s bedroom.

  There Noah scampered in a circle, a dog chasing its tail, chanting, “Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?”

  Jeff slammed his door shut. “Shut up!”

  Noah dropped into a crouch to power a shout: “WHERE IS IT!”

  “Noah, if you’re quiet, you’ll get to see it.” Julie cautioned her brother so sweetly Brian was not surprised to see the five-year-old calm down and wait patiently.

  Meanwhile Jeff looked at Brian expectantly. He expects me to get us out of this? He gave it a try, bribing Noah: “How about we go to the candy store and buy you an egg cream? You like egg cream sodas, right?”

  Noah agreed with big up-and-down motions of his head.

  “Okay,” Jeff clapped. “Let’s go.”

  “FIRST I WANNA SEE YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENT.”

  Jeff put a finger on Noah’s lips, pleading, “Be quiet! Please!”

  Noah downshifted to a loud whisper. “I want to see your present!”

  “We can’t show it to you,” Brian said, hoping to enlist his secrecy by treating him as an equal instead of the dangerous idiot he obviously was. “It’s a tape recorder. You know what a tape recorder does, right? It records what people say.” Noah nodded solemnly. Brian turned to plead to Julie, “We hid it under Jeff’s mom’s bed. It’s there right now. She doesn’t know. It’s recording everything she’s saying to your dad.”

  Julie pantomimed her profound shock by covering her mouth with a hand. Noah noted her reaction and grinned. “That’s naughty,” he announced.

  “It’s very naughty,” Brian confirmed, understanding this was a plus for Noah. “And if we keep it a secret, we get to hear everything they say.”

  “Everything they don’t want us to hear,” Jeff added.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God.” Julie spaced the words.

  Noah grinned harder. “That’s really naughty.”

  Jeff whispered, “It’s very naughty. So we have to keep it very very secret.”

  Noah stretched his grin as wide as he could and rapidly moved his eyes from side to side, presumably an indication of the surre
ptitiousness called for, a display that convinced Brian they shouldn’t ask too much of Noah as a covert agent.

  But the little boy wasn’t the worry now. Brian studied Julie, pretty as a Mouseketeer in her gray skirt and bright red sweater, while her shining black eyes were clouded by an internal audit on the moral question raised by the hidden tape recorder. They were righteous eyes, Brian decided. She was a good girl. Not like him—he had learned that much: he was not a good little boy. He watched her virtuous eyes calculating and feared that out of her goodness she would feel compelled to betray them.

  Sex Crimes

  February 2008

  VERONICA STILLMAN’S FAMOUS face, exquisite aquiline features at once delicate and sharply etched, looked up from her plate of asparagus. At her request, they were denuded of Hollandaise sauce. Brian watched her decapitate two, then spear their severed heads. “You eat the tips last,” Brian’s Irish peasant-stock father had instructed him forty years ago when he took ten-year-old Brian out for a grown-up dinner at a faux elegant French restaurant in Greenwich Village, just the two of them, newly divorced Dad and confused son. “They’re the best part, so you leave them for the end.” Veronica was Hollywood Royalty. She had been educated, all movie fans knew, at the finest boarding schools in Europe, exiled from home by the multiple divorces and marriages of her movie-star mother and hard-drinking director-father. So Brian watched in surprise while she ate the delicate heads first. He longed to excuse himself and immediately call Danny Moran, now in failing health, to deliver this scandalous news: an expensive international upbringing had somehow resulted in Veronica’s being woefully ignorant of proper asparagus consumption.