Our Father

by Marilyn French

  She brushed her teeth and washed her face, barely seeing it in the mirror over the sink, seeing instead a parched plain, the sun beating down on the tin roof of a low white stucco building surrounded by trees and ferns. A canvas canopy extended its shelter all along one side, where people sat in the shade, cups of clean water in their hands, their bodies cooled by the surrounding plants, waiting patiently for a kind, attentive nurse who would know exactly how to help them.

  She got into bed and switched off the lamp, but her eyes were wide open. She saw people lying on cots, their faces radiant with the quiet happiness that suffuses the very ill when their pain abates. She heard crying babies quiet down as water and food calmed their agony, saw skin ulcers on thin brown legs cleaned and bandaged, saw faces of people who could not be healed untwist into calm as their pain at least was relieved. Her own face was radiant.

  But a frown slowly lined her forehead as another image supplanted this one, an image of men in combat boots and uniforms made of camouflage material carrying automatic guns, invading the harmonious scene. They raised their guns, they spattered shot. The waiting patients fell over, blood spurted like a bouquet of flowers on their pale clothes. The men stormed inside the clinic, dragged out the nuns and Alex in her light blue jumpsuit, threw them on the ground. …

  No.

  Don’t think about that. It’s unlikely. We’ll do everything we can to pacify them, we’ll stay miles away from anything political, we won’t provoke them. …

  Of course Lizzie’s right, that is the way things are. It’s possible it can happen. But not necessarily. There are lots of church clinics where such a thing has never happened. But she’s not right about human nature. No. She’s blindsided, one-eyed. Look at how she herself, the exemplar of toughness and discipline and she can be harsh, we’ve all seen it, yet she wept for me, begged me not to go.

  Alex’s eyes filled.

  How sweet, how loving that was, her plea. Lizzie loves me. I love her too. And I don’t want to die. But I have to go.

  Jesus H. Christ, who would have imagined such fury, such heartbreak in Elizabeth, all that stuff steeping down in her insides while she walks around like a fucking general inspecting the troops. What a way to see life! No wonder she carries herself the way she does. I wonder what her insides feel like. You’d think she’d give up those ideas for the sake of her stomach if nothing else.

  Ronnie turned on her side, closed her eyes, but her mind was racing.

  So unnecessary. She takes the political philosophers of the last couple of centuries, the males of today because it’s always guys who preach this stuff as if they had a handle on absolute truth. When anyone with half a brain can see that this notion that humans or anyway men are innately and utterly aggressive is just a justification for all the power shifts of the last couple of centuries. Anyone who raises little boys knows how sweet and loving they can be, look at Téo, there’s nothing necessary about their aggressiveness, they’re taught it, taught it means manliness. Like poor Raoul, he was a sweet kid till he joined that gang. And even afterwards, when he was with Rosa or me or his sisters. I remember him combing Lidia’s hair, and making tea for Rosa once when she was sick, carrying it to her so tenderly, caressing her forehead, pleading, “You feel better soon, Mama?”

  Doesn’t she see that? I suppose she hasn’t had many models, doesn’t seem to know many men very well, I wonder why, Jesus, I’m a dyke and I know tons of sweet men, look at Professor Madrick or Professor Goldie, of course there’s also that asshole Reilly, and there are plenty of men like him but they’re not all like that.

  Of course it’s true that men have committed the great sweeping crimes against humanity, Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, the tsars, Napoleon, Alexander, Genghis Khan, all those millionaires who built American industry, J. Edgar Hoover, whatshisface Palmer, the guys who run the companies that pollute everything. … It’s true that lots of men are greedy aggressive cruel predatory that all they want is power, money. …

  She turned on her other side.

  But the human race would never have survived if we were all like that. Survival of the fittest, huh! They’re not the fittest, they think they are, they grab the best of everything, the most of everything, they leave people to starve. But they die, they destroy their kids, turn them into suicides like Wittgenstein’s father, turn them into neurotics. Their sperm doesn’t conquer the world. The rest of the human race would go down the tubes if it were left to them. But we don’t. Lots of us die young, babies in Ethiopia now, the cane cutters’ babies Alex was talking about in the northeast of Brazil, millions and millions do die because of the policies of the very rich. But millions live, and they live because they help each other, they share, they cooperate, they love.

  Love.

  She sat straight up, stared glumly at the wall, got out of bed and fished for a cigarette on her desk.

  You haunting me, Momma? she wondered, exhaling smoke as she climbed back into the bed. She leaned back against the hard headboard of the bed, pulled a pillow behind her, sat there smoking.

  Even in the death camps, people cooperated, shared. The women especially. Kept them alive.

  Can’t tell that to Lizzie, she’d never hear it. Sentimental slop, she’d say. Idealization. Rosa taking Bianca’s three kids from two floors up when Bianca was in jail. Nine months they lived with us, and we barely had room ourselves, nine months she fed those kids when feeding her own was a struggle. She took me in, for that matter.

  Jesus, what would have happened to me without her?

  You didn’t think about that, did you, the other night, deciding not to go there again. You can never not go there again, you hear me? No matter what. Rosa saved your life.

  Think you’re alone, well, you are alone, you and your body and whatever happens to you, no one else can ever know completely, still, there’s an eye that sees, a hand reached out, food given, comfort, sympathy. I’ve been lavished with that all my life, Momma, Rosa, all my friends. Now them. Even Lizzie, despite her beliefs.

  Can’t live her way. Can’t. You must frizzle up inside and turn into a robot, or else you die, really die.

  You must love to live, Ronnie.

  She stubbed out the cigarette, lay down again, and closed her eyes. A wave of tiredness caught her and she turned sighing, surrendering to it.

  Yes, Momma.

  27

  MARIE-LAURE WAS THE first to leave. She announced at breakfast that she’d called a friend, who was coming to pick her up and return her to Boston. Mary—who had breakfast downstairs that morning—protested she could stay longer, could leave with them—Aldo would drop her in Boston on the way to the airport that afternoon. But Marie-Laure insisted she couldn’t wait until the afternoon, that her friends were going to a movie that afternoon and she wanted to join them.

  “We haven’t even had time for a heart-to-heart!”

  Marie-Laure gimlet-eyed her. “A what?”

  “A talk. A long quiet talk together.”

  Marie-Laure grimaced.

  “What time are they coming?”

  “Umm. Around eleven?”

  “Umm. That means maybe not until twelve. Anyway, they can wait. Put on your coat and boots. We’re going for a walk.” Mary rose and left the room.

  “There’s snow on the ground!” Marie-Laure whined after her. But Mary was halfway up the stairs and did not respond.

  The girl sighed, dragged herself out of her chair and followed her mother.

  Fifteen minutes later, warmly dressed and in fur-lined boots, Mary stood tapping her foot by the front door. “Hurry up, Marie-Laure,” she yelled up the stairs, a thing she had never done before, in this house or any other. The girl eventually appeared and sauntered down the stairs.

  “We’ll walk towards town,” Mary said, taking her arm.

  Marie-Laure allowed herself to be led, but she was silent as they walked down the long driveway toward the road, silent as they turned onto it and headed toward town. Mary was silent too until
finally her daughter burst out, “I don’t understand what you’re doing. Why this sudden interest? You’ve never been interested in talking to me before.”

  “Have I not?” Mary’s face was surprised. “I haven’t spent time with you shopping for clothes for prep school and college, helping you pack? I’ve never taken you to dinner, lunch, movies? I’ve never asked you about your grades, about your classes?”

  “Rarely!” Marie-Laure exploded. “I mean, really, I could count the times. You’re always off with some man.” She gave the last word a bitter charge.

  Mary did not respond, and they walked awhile in silence again, until Marie-Laure burst out again. “I mean, my whole childhood, you were off somewhere with some man. In Capri or Vail or Virginia or Paris or London or god knows where, while we stayed home alone with a nanny, Bertie and I. Martin was away at school, you were off with some man, my father never even bothered to lay eyes on me, so you’ll understand, Mother”—she gave that word a bitter charge too—“that I am not accustomed to parental attention.”

  “I took you with me! To Capri, to Vail! To Virginia!”

  “You took us a few times. Paul didn’t like children, remember? And Don … well when he was around, we could have dropped dead and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

  Mary mulled that over for a while, then said thoughtfully, “That’s the way I was raised too. I was sent away to private school when I was seven. My mother was dead and I rarely saw my father, only on holidays sometimes, and then …” She stopped. She waited a bit, then started again. “That’s not to excuse it, just to say I didn’t know any better. I thought that was the way you raised kids. Most of my friends did the same thing. But I’m sorry now, and I want to change things.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late.” Mary hugged Marie-Laure’s arm closer as they trudged through the snowy grass verge of the road, faces pink from exertion, breathing deeply. “I’m forty-five, and …”

  “You’re forty-eight, Mother.”

  Mary stopped dead. She looked at her daughter with alarm. “I can’t be!” She counted silently. She slumped a bit. “God, I’m almost fifty!”

  They set off again, Mary walking a bit slower now, as if age had caught up with her in a sudden sweep.

  “Well, anyway,” she recovered herself, “I’m not young and yet being here with my sisters while Father was sick has totally changed me, changed my relation with them, created one, really—I had no relation with Alex and Ronnie before. It’s been wonderful, it makes me happy. If that can happen at forty- … eight, it can happen at twenty.”

  Marie-Laure was silent now.

  “I want us to be close.”

  No response.

  “Wouldn’t you like to have a real mother? Someone you could call when you’re unhappy or upset, or when you’ve just aced an exam or when you’re having boyfriend problems? Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t you like that?”

  The girl’s face did not change expression, and she did not reply. Mary stopped again, turned to face Marie-Laure directly.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  The girl would not meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Mary reached out and took Marie-Laure’s face between her hands. She turned it toward her.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess,” she muttered, turning away again. But Mary had seen a glint of tears in her eyes, and was satisfied.

  She took Marie-Laure’s arm again, held it close, set off walking. “Of course it would. And I would too. It would make me happy.”

  The girl was silent, but her bodily tone had changed, was less tense.

  “So tell me what’s going on in your life.”

  Marie-Laure shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  “Your grades weren’t great this semester, were they?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you like school?”

  She shrugged again. “It’s okay.”

  “You don’t eat, Marie-Laure. You’re too thin.”

  It was Marie-Laure’s turn to stop. She pulled away from Mary. “Is this what you mean by closeness? Picking at me, finding fault?”

  “I’m worried about you. I think you’re anorectic.”

  “I eat what I want.”

  “You eat nothing.”

  “I eat enough.”

  Mary gazed at her, then took her arm and began to walk again.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She half shrugged. “Sort of. I mean, there’s this guy I see. But he lives in Washington and he goes to Yale, so we only get together on weekends, some weekends, not every one.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ho. We call him Ho. His real name is Howard Hodding McKenzie III. His father is secretary of the interior. He knew Grandpa. His father, I mean, not Ho.” Her voice was flat.

  “And what’s the problem with Ho?”

  “How do you know there is one?” Fierce, suddenly.

  “Just a mother’s intuition,” Mary smiled.

  Marie-Laure’s glance was almost admiring. Surprised. “Oh. He just … I never know when he’s going to call. He calls when he wants. Weekends go by and I don’t hear from him. He doesn’t care that I’m sitting there, waiting, doesn’t ever think to call just to say hello. I stay in the dorm, I don’t go out with my friends, just waiting, but he only calls when he doesn’t have anything else to do. That’s how it feels. It makes me feel miserable, like some kind of worm.”

  “Of course, poor baby,” Mary said warmly. “Where is he spending Christmas, Washington?”

  “No!” she cried. “Aspen, skiing with his parents! And he asked two of his male friends to go along but he didn’t ask me!”

  “Oh,” Mary said sadly. Then, “Why don’t you go out with someone else?”

  “Because I love him!” Marie-Laure wailed.

  “Oh, oh,” Mary moaned with her, and removed her arm and put it around her daughter. Tears were streaming down Marie-Laure’s face, and she wiped them away with her mittened hands.

  They walked in silence. Then Mary said, “I tell you what. Come back to New York with me, or come down tomorrow. We’ll go see some plays, visit some museums, I’ll take you to some parties. How about it?”

  “Maybe,” she said unenthusiastically. “Boston’s a real bore.”

  “Everyplace is a bore when you want to be with someone who isn’t there. Don’t you find that?”

  Marie-Laure glanced at her mother again. “I guess.”

  “So when that happens, we girls just have to cheer ourselves up.”

  Marie-Laure almost smiled. “Has that happened to you?”

  “Oh god yes. I was still married to Paul when I met Don, and couldn’t see him very often. And every day I didn’t see him, every minute away from him was an agony. That was really the only time I was in love, even though I was married four times. I was infatuated with your father at first, but that didn’t last long. I thought it was love, but after I met Don I knew it hadn’t been. That’s the trouble, you know. Until you really fall in love, you can get confused. Other things seem like love. You know, a man seems appropriate, he’s the same class as you, he’s rich, he adores you … you convince yourself you’re in love. But it isn’t love. …” Her voice wandered off wonderingly.

  Marie-Laure pressed her mother’s arm against her.

  They walked on in an agreeable silence now, hearts pumping, breathing deeply, the steam from their breath warming their faces. They had walked far; they were nearly at the town.

  “Marie-Laure? Can I ask you something?” Mary’s voice was almost timid.

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you feel about Grandpa?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. Did you feel any affection for him, did you like him, did you dislike him, did he frighten you?”

  “I didn’t feel anything,” she answered in a flat voice.

  “Nothing at all?” Mary asked incredulously.

  “N
othing at all!” Marie-Laure shouted. “Why are you asking me this! He was just a disgusting old man, why should I feel anything for him!”

  “What was disgusting about him, why do you say that?” Mary cried.

  “Will you stop picking and just leave me alone! Just leave me alone!” She pulled away from her mother and walked swiftly ahead, almost running. Mary’s short legs could not keep up, she began to run, calling Marie-Laure’s name. But the girl kept up her swift pace, she pulled yards ahead of Mary, farther and farther away. Mary, breathless, stopped running, slowed her pace, but continued. Marie-Laure’s figure grew smaller and smaller. But when Mary reached the main road, the girl was standing there, bent like a hoop, waiting.

  Mary gazed at her. Marie-Laure’s eyes were dropped as if she were staring at the pavement. “Let’s have a cup of coffee,” Mary said, pulling her across the street and south, toward Lincoln’s only coffee shop.

  They sat there in silence, sipping coffee. Mary kept glancing at Marie-Laure, who would not return her gaze.

  Oh god oh god oh god.

  Finally, Mary said, “I’m exhausted. I’m going to call Aldo to come and pick us up, okay?”

  Marie-Laure looked up at her. She nodded. Mary gazed into her daughter’s face. “Please come to New York,” she begged.

  “Okay,” the girl said faintly.

  After breakfast, Alex went upstairs to pack, then nestled in the couch in the playroom reading the biography of Edith Stein. Ronnie, passing her, felt her heart fill with pleasure. Elizabeth, who had said almost nothing during breakfast, locked herself in her father’s study.

  Ronnie went to her room and sat in front of her computer, intending to work. But she did not even turn on the machine, just sat there, gazing out the window, trying to figure out what she was feeling. No one acted angry with Elizabeth. Mary and Alex seemed if anything newly solicitous of her, Alex as if Elizabeth had suddenly shown signs of illness and needed comfort, Mary as if she had a new distance from her elder sister, a new perspective from which, for the first time, she pitied her. But Ronnie was angry. Elizabeth’s attack had left her feeling cold, alone, torn away from a center. By striking out at them, she thought, Elizabeth had ripped the delicate fabric of intimacy they had woven from inside themselves, hurled them out of it into cold space, threads clinging to them like torn tissue. For everything she said was a repudiation of the kind of world they had created over the last two months, a denial of its value, even its reality. Why would she want to do that, Ronnie wondered, when their closeness and affection had so clearly made her happy, warmed and eased her stiff heart? Why had she felt it necessary to renounce what she clearly wanted?