Tender Loving Care

by Andrew Neiderman

  “They’re not mad thoughts. You’re the one who is mad.”

  “You were driving the car,” she said. “You were going too fast.”

  “No.”

  “The police said you were. You couldn’t negotiate that turn. But you should have known about the turn. You had driven that road so many times before.”

  “No, it’s not true.” I cringed in my chair.

  “Lillian should have been wearing a seatbelt. If the child were sitting in the front, she should have been wearing the seatbelt. You didn’t insist that she wear it, but you wore one. You saved yourself by wearing it.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “What’s a lie? You weren’t wearing a seatbelt? Miriam said you were. She knows you were. You think she forgot these details, but I’ve gotten her to remember them. She told Lillian to put it on, didn’t she? But Lillian started to cry and you said it would be all right if she didn’t. Isn’t that true? Is Miriam lying? Talk about it. Talk about it like Miriam did.”

  “No, no. Get away from me. Get out of my house. Leave us alone.” I was crying now. I could feel the tears moving down my face.

  “Miriam says Lillian would be all right now if she were wearing that seatbelt. Some policeman told her that. Why were you in such a rush?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You told Miriam I killed the dog. You told her I was crazy.”

  “You are.”

  “Don’t tell her that again.” Her face was aflame with rage. My back was pressing so hard against the seat, I thought I would merge with it. Her shoulders and back rose. She looked like a hawk about to launch itself on a helpless rabbit or chicken.

  Then, as quickly as she had become infuriated, she retreated. Her body deflated. Her eyes became normal, and her mouth softened into a wry smile. She took a step back, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, and I couldn’t move a muscle.

  “Just a seatbelt,” she said, “and the child’s head wouldn’t have smashed into the windshield.”

  I covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t control the sobbing. When I lifted them away, the nurse was gone, but I couldn’t stand being alone. I wiped my face with the sleeves of my shirt and went to the hallway.

  “Miriam,” I called. It was more of a cry. “Miriam.” I wanted her with me. I needed her softness, her quiet voice, her gentle smile. I would sit by her feet and press my face against her legs. Maybe she would stroke my hair and sing to me. “Miriam.”

  “Be quiet.” The nurse was at the top of the stairs.

  “I want Miriam.”

  “She’s with Lillian. We’re finally getting her to sleep. Go away for a while. Go get another dog or buy some toys. Do something to make up for your horrible acts.”

  “Please,” I said walking to the stairway. I was embracing myself. “I need Miriam.” The nurse looked down at me disdainfully. I couldn’t look up at her. I could only hold myself and sob.

  “Get yourself together,” the nurse said. She moved forward to position herself at the top of the stairs like some immovable, fanatical guard. I was afraid to put my foot on the first step. “Take another drink. Take a nap or a ride, and later I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t want your help,” I said backing away.

  “You will,” she said. “Sooner or later, you will come to me. I can help you, but only if you are cooperative.” She was smiling again, that phony warm smile. I continued to back away. “Sooner or later,” she repeated.

  I went back into the living room and got my bottle. Then I went outside. I was actually fleeing my own house. I didn’t get into the car. Instead, plodding through the tall grass, I walked down to the old cow barn. Lillian used to like to play in it. My father would take her there and tell her all about the cows and what was done to make the place a farm. After he died, I went there with her and watched her pretend she was a farmer. She was a great mimic and captured some of my father’s sayings right down to the intonation of his voice and the accent. Even now as I approached the barn, I could hear her tiny voice and laughter. I could see her dancing about, feeding and watering imaginary animals.

  I stopped at the door and sat where I would always sit atop a section of old telephone pole. For a moment I just stared out at the fields watching the breeze stroke the tall weeds. There was almost a definite rhythm to the way they leaned and straightened, leaned and straightened. Then I took a long swallow of my whiskey and gazed back at the house.

  I sat there until twilight, listening to the insects in the grass, watching an occasional car go by on our road. I saw old man Gilbert returning home in his truck, and I thought again about the crazy thing he said to me. I drank slowly but continuously until the bottle was nearly empty. Once in a while I thought I heard something in the barn.

  “It’s just Lillian,” I said to myself, and I laughed the way I did when she was alive and I was here with her. Eventually, though, my laughter turned to tears. My sides ached, and my head felt heavier and heavier. Finally, I fell asleep with my back against the door of the barn, my legs draped over the pole.

  When I awoke, it was very dark. The house was lit up and loomed before me like a setting for a dream. The light from the windows cast pools of pale yellow illumination about. They hovered in the darkness, glimmering like the surrealistic strokes of an artist driven mad by reality. Very groggy, I stood up, bracing myself against the barn.

  The wind had grown stronger, and the night sky was overcast. Loose sections of the barn tapped out a percussion with frightening regularity. The farm was coming alive around me, waking from a great sleep, angry that it had been so neglected. A raccoon screamed not a thousand yards away. I stepped away from the barn quickly. I envisioned it softening and melting around and over me, consuming me and digesting me within. I was being attacked by nightmares.

  I fought to get my senses back, but they remained sluggish. The world was out of focus. Sounds became elongated and then cut short. I realized I still held the whiskey bottle in my right hand so I heaved it off to the right into the tall grass. I didn’t hear it fall.

  Growing more frightened every moment, I began my haphazard, clumsy walk back to the house. It grew larger and wider as I drew nearer. The trees around me were animated. Their branches turned into tentacles, stretching threateningly in my direction. I ran in one direction and then another, avoiding even the reach of their shadows.

  Before I reached the house, I had to stop to rest and catch my breath. When I did so, I looked up at the front of the house. Lillian’s room was all lit up, and someone was in the window looking out at me. I wiped my eyes and looked again. Whoever it was was gone.

  I fought for clear thoughts. It hadn’t been Miriam and it hadn’t been Mrs. Randolph. It was too small a figure.

  Who was it? Was I awake?

  I moved forward like one drawn by destiny, struggling in vain against the forward motion of my legs. Some voice within me was screaming “No, stop,” but I was unable to restrain myself. I had an appointment with terror and all my childhood fears. They had been born on this farm, and they lingered here in the shadows just waiting for this night. I could no longer run from them. I walked on.

  12

  * * *

  THE MUSIC WAS PLAYING. IT WAS THE WAY I REMEMBERED it to be years ago when my father was alive and the four of us would sit in the living room. I would be reading a book; Miriam would be knitting and watching my father play checkers with little Lillian. He would always almost beat her and then let her win. The records we listened to were his records, my mother’s records. They were brittle and breakable 78’s, rare recordings of old German folksongs. Whenever “Wooden Heart” would come on, my father would stop whatever he was doing and say, “This was your mother’s favorite. She hummed it all the time.”

  Miriam would smile as though she remembered my mother too. Invariably, my father’s reverie would stimulate Lillian’s imaginative questions.

  “Is nanny humming in heaven? Will she ever come back to see us? Can we go to
see her?”

  “When people die,” my father said, “they never come back. It’s like going through a door that opens only one way.”

  “Is nanny afraid then? Is she crying?”

  My father looked to me. He didn’t like making death into a fantasy. He was cold and realistic about it. I knew he wanted to say nanny was gone and lost forever; she was nothing anymore. But my facial expression tempered him. He did a grandfather’s duty.

  “No. When people die, they have no fears and they never have to cry. There’s no reason to cry. They feel sorry for people who are alive and have to cry. It’s your move. Be careful or I’ll beat you this time.”

  I could almost hear him saying those things now as I hovered on the porch, embracing the beam with my right arm to steady myself. I was falling through time. Had all of it happened, or had I gotten drunk down by the barn and dreamt nightmares? When I walked into the house, would I find my father and Lillian at the checkerboard and Miriam on the couch? If only that could be, I thought. If only I could have one more chance.

  I went to the front door and straightened up as I opened it. The house was warm and well lit. I was eager to shut the door behind me and enter. There was a feeling of relief. The darkness and distorted night was gone. I was home again. My heart lightened. The morbid pall that had been draped over me was gone for the moment. Encouraged, I walked quickly to the living room. But I stopped abruptly in the doorway.

  Who told her about the records and the checkerboard? Why would Miriam do such a thing? The checkerboard wasn’t just set up; it was being played. Checkers were kinged and jumped. The chairs were pulled up to the table as though two people were seated there studying their possible moves. The lamp beside the table was turned on.

  I looked to the other side of the room. Miriam was seated on the couch, her legs crossed, her elbows tucked in as she knitted. Mrs. Randolph was in my chair, her feet up on the hassock. She was reading the book I had been reading. Neither of them looked up at me or in any way acknowledged my presence.

  Wiping my face, I stood in the doorway and tried to comprehend it all. The record that was playing finished and the new record dropped. It was “Wooden Heart.” Miriam looked up from her knitting and smiled as though my father were there and had just said something about my mother. Her gaze was so intense that I actually looked to his chair.

  “What are you doing? What’s going on here?” I asked. Neither of them spoke or looked my way. It was as though neither of them had heard me. Was I there? Was I part of this world? “Miriam!”

  She looked down at her knitting again, the smile frozen on her face. Mrs. Randolph returned to the book. I stepped further into the room. I know I didn’t look too well. My shirt was open, my pants were smeared with dirt and grass, and my hair was wild. When I caught sight of myself in the reflection of a window, I didn’t recognize my image. For a moment I thought I was looking at a total stranger. I wiped my eyes and then went for the phonograph.

  When I shut it off, they both looked up at me. The record ground to a halt, the voice distorting until it stopped. Miriam lowered her knitting to her lap. Mrs. Randolph’s eyebrows rose, and she closed the book.

  “I want some answers,” I said. I was still unsteady and felt myself sway, so I pressed my palm against the wall.

  “You’re a mess,” Mrs. Randolph said.

  “Really, Michael, you should see yourself.”

  “I saw myself, I saw myself. What are you doing?” I looked about the room. “What’s going on in here?”

  “What does it look like we’re doing?” Mrs. Randolph said. “We’re trying to relax now that the child has calmed down some.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said.

  “Michael!” Miriam didn’t look frightened; she looked angry.

  “Why are you blaming everything on me?” I held out my hands pleadingly. Mrs. Randolph sat up straight, taking her feet off the hassock. Her face tightened, the eyes growing small, the cheeks becoming smooth. Her lips were thin and blue with anger.

  “My advice to you is to go wash up and then, after you put on some clean clothes, go into your daughter’s room and apologize to her. Tell her one of your stories, or promise her something.”

  “She’s right, Michael. You’ve got to do something.”

  “But I’m not guilty,” I whined. “I didn’t do it.”

  Mrs. Randolph looked at Miriam. Something passed between them. Then she picked up the book again and placed her feet back on the hassock. Miriam returned to her knitting. I stood there wavering.

  “We were enjoying the records, Michael,” Miriam said without lifting her eyes from the knitting.

  “Don’t you hear me? Don’t you hear what I’m saying?” There was no response. “Miriam!”

  She looked up at me slowly. There was such anger in her eyes, such hate. I had to stumble back and take hold of the table upon which the phonograph was set.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, pronouncing each word slowly and emphatically, “until you do what Mrs. Randolph tells you to do. You go up and apologize to our daughter.”

  “She’s twisting things around, Miriam. I didn’t do it.” Miriam looked at me a moment, shook her head, and then went back to her knitting again. Mrs. Randolph didn’t raise her eyes from the pages of my book. I ran my fingers through my hair and looked around the room.

  What I had just thought was warm and well lit looked too bright and too hot now. Everything seemed threatening and frightening. I wanted to attack the place: smash that checkerboard and send the black and red discs flying about, turn off the lamp, and smash the chairs against the wall. I wanted to break my father’s records. Most of all, I wanted to snatch my book from Mrs. Randolph’s hands and slap her across her arrogant and vicious face. But I did nothing of the sort.

  Instead, I stumbled back across the room and to the doorway. I steadied myself against the doorjamb and straightened up again. The light above the stairway was on. The scene had been set for my dramatic mock apology. If I didn’t go up there and do it, I thought, Mrs. Randolph would drive Miriam even further away from me. I wasn’t in any condition to think about alternatives. I couldn’t fight her at that moment.

  “All right, Miriam,” I said, “I didn’t do it, but I’ll go up to talk to Lillian and make her feel better.”

  “Very good,” Mrs. Randolph said.

  “I was talking to Miriam.”

  “I think you’re doing the right thing, Michael,” Miriam said. “When you come back down, I’ll make you something warm to eat.”

  I shuffled to the stairway and hesitated at the bottom step. Suddenly my stairway looked formidable, like a steep hillside. It stretched before my eyes. I thought it would take me forever to get to the top. My sweaty palm slipped on the bannister. I envisioned myself falling backward and rolling head over heels to the floor.

  I wiped my eyes and shook my head in a desperate effort to get hold of myself. I could go up there and pretend I was going into Lillian’s room, I thought; but if I knew that nurse, she would be watching and waiting for me to do something just like that. In fact, she was probably hoping I would do something like that. She could use it to convince Miriam I was no good.

  There was only one thing to do: go upstairs and into Lillian’s room and sit there for ten minutes. Then I would come down and say, “Lillian is fine. She wasn’t that upset. She knows I wouldn’t have hurt her dog.”

  In fact, I thought, I could do what the nurse was doing. Why not? Why not fight fire with fire? I would stand before both of them and say, “Lillian can’t understand why Mrs. Randolph is carrying on so much. She says Mrs. Randolph is getting her upset. She wanted me to ask Mrs. Randolph to stop talking about the dog.”

  That would shut her up and stop her in her tracks. Miriam would believe it. If Lillian could say things to Mrs. Randolph, why couldn’t she say things to me? I was encouraged and filled with renewed hope. The stairway looked less formidable. I turned, looked back at the living r
oom, smiled, and walked up quickly.

  The door was shut. I was surprised about that. Maybe that was going to be Mrs. Randolph’s way of testing whether or not I really went into Lillian’s room. They could both be at the foot of the stairs now, listening. All right, I thought, I’ll play the game her way and beat her at it. I opened the door and, turning toward the stairway, said loudly, “Hi, Lillian. It’s Daddy. What’s this about your being upset?” I waited a moment and then walked into the room.

  There was no light on, so the room was pitch dark. With the heavy overcast sky, there was no moonlight. The window was practically indistinguishable from the wall. At first I was comfortable with the darkness. Then I thought if I didn’t turn on the lights, Mrs. Randolph might say I wasn’t having any conversation with Lillian. I didn’t want to give her any opportunity to challenge my statements later on. So I went to the light switch.

  In the first few moments, I didn’t recognize what it was. It was more like an illusion that had crystallized right before my eyes. The shock of it tore away at the last vestiges of my sanity. I began to choke on my own scream. A great trembling began in my shoulders and arms. It traveled down my body and into my legs.

  For the rest of my life, I will often pause to think about that moment. I will recall the electricity in the air, the way my body froze, the sensation of heat that washed over me and scorched my face and neck. My jaw locked and I struggled with all my might to get my mouth open so I could release the scream.

  When I could finally control the movement in my arms, I waved them in front of me wildly. The large doll was placed in a sitting position at the edge of the bed, its arms extended toward me. In my mind’s eye, the doll moved. Its hands opened and closed. Its lips quivered. I even thought it called, “Daddy.” All of that sounds ridiculous, I know, but even now I am sure that the nurse found a way to make it happen.

  When Lillian was five years old, we bought her a doll that was four feet tall. It was called Baby Walk-Along. Lillian could hold its hand and urge it forward. The doll’s legs would swing out into little steps, and Lillian could walk slowly through the house with her imaginary companion. She gave it a name and then changed it every week or so.