A Perfect Life (9 page)

Then we started talking. It was the kind of conversation where both people jump in at once. He would talk about his father, and immediately I would echo with the same story about my mother. I wish now we had never had that talk. I wish we hadn't kissed. I wish we had been content with the affection and understanding between a brother and a sister. But, as Maureen had said, even real siblings sometimes can't control their love.

I was hoping Willie might start kissing me again, but someone pounded at the door. He cursed and went downstairs. I wondered if it might be some girlfriend he hadn't mentioned. But when I looked down, I saw a hairy little
man so poorly clothed—the tie-dyed shirt he wore was little more than holes—I wondered if he had been hiding in these woods since the early sixties, like those Japanese soldiers who lived for decades in caves rather than emerge and learn their emperor had surrendered.

From where I stood, above the door, all I could see of Willie were his hands. “Hey,” the guy said, “what gives? You pissed at me again?” He told Willie he intended to repay the bread he'd borrowed, but he needed another loan. There was some chick he had met in town—Willie knew the one. She worked at Frank's Spa? She wore those crazy rubber gloves with the fingertips cut off so she could handle the frozen food and still punch numbers on the register? She was coming to see his pad, but he hadn't scored any dope, and he had promised to turn her on.

Willie told him that he had a visitor.

“That's cool,” the man said. “I can take a hint. I'll come back tomorrow morning. Have a groovy time.”

Willie closed the door and trudged back upstairs. Even I could feel his sorrow. Of all the hopeful hippie kids who had built cabins in these woods, only these two remained.

By then, any chance I might have had of getting a kiss had vanished. Willie asked what time he should wake me the next morning. I said I didn't need to be back in Cambridge until the middle of the day, for group meeting, and I would just as soon miss that—I had been scheduled to give a talk for months, but I never had any new data, and I kept having to persuade Vic to let me skip my turn. I asked Willie if he would mind stopping at the Drurys' trailer.
The family didn't have a phone, but I guessed Flora would be there.

“You want to draw this woman's blood?” He seemed to suspect me of breaking some law. “I thought you weren't a doctor.”

“I'm not,” I said. But I had gone to medical school for a year before I dropped out and switched to research. And it wasn't as if you needed a license to stick a needle in someone's arm. At least, I didn't think you did. Then I realized it had been nearly a decade since I attended medical school, and the idea of sticking Flora's arm again and again while her husband and kids looked on began to distress me so much that I asked Willie if he would let me practice.

He needed a few moments to take this in. I wanted to draw his blood?

Instantly, I understood how crazy this sounded. I started to take back the request.

He cut me off. “I guess you can,” he said. “Why not? I've got plenty to spare.”

“You sure?”

He shrugged. “No. But you might as well do it anyway.”

I laid out a clean syringe. A needle. A few vials. Some gauze. Willie pushed up his sleeve. I tied his arm with the rubber tube. His veins bulged—they were so thick, I could have stabbed him anywhere and been sure to strike blood. I laid his arm across my lap—it was heavy and warm—and swabbed a spot with alcohol. The needle pierced his skin. Our eyes met. He seemed frightened. I drew back the plunger and the syringe filled with blood. Reluctantly, I
withdrew the needle from his arm, then jabbed it through the rubber cap of a test tube. The vacuum in the tube sucked blood from the syringe—I loved to see this happen, an invisible force performing work. Then I wrapped my hand around the vial and rocked it so the blood wouldn't clot. I had told him the truth—I had drawn the blood for practice. But holding it in my hand, I vaguely thought I might want it for something else. I started to put the tube in the Styrofoam container I had brought for Flora's blood.

Willie snatched it back. “Hey,” he said. “Give that here.” He wrenched my fingers open—not enough to hurt, just enough to free the vial. Then he walked to the window, pulled the stopper, and spilled the blood. He turned back to me then, and I didn't know if he was going to scold me or take me in his arms. “All right,” he said, “sleep well.” He handed me a flashlight and climbed the stairs to his room.

I lay back against the window seat and tried not to listen to the swish of his belt snaking through its loops, his trousers crumpling to the floor. I heard his quilt rustle, heard the mattress sigh and give way. To keep myself from climbing those spiral stairs I needed to remind myself that there was a three-in-four chance that within the next decade one of us, if not both of us, would be paralyzed in a wheelchair. I couldn't watch yet another person I loved die of that disease. All I could think about were the statistics. If I carried the gene for Valentine's, then any child I might conceive with a man who wasn't at risk ran a 50 percent chance of inheriting the disease. That was bad enough. But if Willie and I both carried the gene, any children we had would run a 75 percent chance of contracting Valentine's.
Maybe, if the child received two copies of the gene—that is, if it was a homozygote—it would develop the disease even earlier, in its twenties, or in its teens, with more severe symptoms. No one had studied a human homozygote. I saw an infant as small as a newborn mouse, saw that child twitch and moan.

I took the flashlight and went down the stairs and out through the kitchen. The mud beneath my feet felt yielding and cool. I stepped into the outhouse and leaned against the wall, inhaling the scent of cedar chips and excrement and trying to pretend that I wasn't falling in love with the worst possible man I might fall in love with.

The next morning, Willie seemed out of sorts. I couldn't figure out if I had overstayed my welcome, or if he wished I were staying longer. He served me pancakes and eggs, fried potatoes, and homemade bread and jam, as if he didn't trust me to eat after I left his care. If he had asked me to stay another day, I would have stayed. But he seemed to be having second thoughts about my being there.

I carried my belongings down to the Jeep. We took the back roads to Pittsfield. It was just after nine on a warm late-spring morning. If someone had asked me to choose the weather for the rest of my life, that was the day I would have picked. The trouble was, so few people got to choose anything important—the weather they enjoyed, the work they liked to do, the person they wished they might love and live with. Wanting to have a child didn't mean you got to have one.

The Drurys' trailer was set on a deserted road a mile beyond a former Dairy Queen turned “Indian Trading Post” and porn shop. Flora's husband's pickup wasn't there. I hoped Willie would wait in the Jeep, but he accompanied
me up the steps. My knock echoed. The trailer looked so small, I expected Willie to lift it up and shake it.

One of Flora's daughters opened the door. She was eight or nine, wearing Santa Claus slippers, dirty white jeans, and a sweatshirt with John Travolta on the front. She had her mother's dull red hair, which she wore in a braid so tangled she must have braided it herself.
I'll do it for you,
I thought, aching to braid her hair the way I used to love braiding Laurel's.

“Booger, get down.” An overweight chocolate Labrador with a bandanna around his neck was jumping on the girl. When she scolded him, he licked her face.

“Is your mother home?” I asked, wondering which daughter this was—Genevieve? Michelle? Or the youngest, whose name started with an
A
? There were dozens of questions I prayed the girl wouldn't ask, especially since Rita wasn't there to answer them. It wasn't that I felt out of place in the Drurys' trailer. If anything, I had more natural ties with the Drurys than I did with most people. But my sympathy choked me. That's why I usually let Rita do the talking.
This will just prick a bit. Here, hold this cotton. Now, don't get your hopes up. Just finding this gene won't be no cure.

“She's in there,” the girl said sullenly. She led me to the kitchen, then sat beside her mother and watched the small TV balanced beside the sink. Did this daughter stay home to watch her mother every day, or did all four children take turns? The year I spent nursing my own mother I found it nearly impossible not to resent my classmates in graduate school for leading normal lives. I tried not to resent my sister for saying,
I can't do it, Jane. I can't.
But Flora's daugh
ter seemed glad for this chance to stay home and watch
Gilligan's Island
. I knew the theme song by heart, although the sound of it now, the thought of being stranded on that island with those people (had they ever been saved?) unsettled me so badly I wanted to leave. Before she got sick, my mother rarely had the patience to watch TV. But as her focus narrowed, she demanded that we keep it on all the time. She watched
As the World Turns
,
The Price Is Right
, and
Mister Rogers
. If someone switched off the set, she would thrash and shout obscenities. She spent the last days of her life watching game shows.

“Mrs. Drury?” I tried to sound cheerful. “I'm afraid I need to take more blood. If you would rather I didn't, try to let me know.”

Flora sat with her hands clenched in the same position as the last time. She wore the same yellow shift. The only difference was that her gaze was fixed on an A&P calendar taped to the wall. It was a promotional gimmick, each day a coupon to be torn off and redeemed for paper towels, ground pork, or macaroni.

“All right then.” I spread my packets across the table. The skipper smacked Gilligan. Flora's daughter kept her eyes on the screen.

“Hey, champ, it's okay.” Willie patted Booger's head. Booger growled and bared his teeth.

I had forgotten he was there. “This is my colleague,” I told Flora. “His name is William Land.” I waited for Willie to expose this deception, but he kept crooning to the dog. He pretended not to watch, although I felt so self-conscious I could barely peel the wrapping from the needle.

I pried Flora's fingers loose and lay her arm across the table, where it quivered like a fish. This was nothing like taking Willie's blood—Flora's veins were thread thin. I leaned against the table to steady my hands. I tightened the rubber tourniquet, but Flora's veins didn't pop up. I held my breath and stabbed. Nothing. No blood. I pulled out the needle and stabbed another thread. On the fourth try, I struck blood, but the syringe filled so slowly I had to milk Flora's arm. My blouse clung to my back with sweat. The vial was full. I stoppered it.

Flora shot from her chair. “No more!” she screamed. Booger leaped from Willie's grip and barked so ferociously the walls rattled. He bounded to his mistress. As Flora spun in a circle, Booger rose to his hind legs, laid his paws on Flora's chest, and spun along with her. “Can't take!” Flora shouted. “Can't take! No more!” The girl's eyes flickered from her mother to me before returning to the TV. I could tell she would rather be anywhere—with her siblings at school, on that island with Gilligan—anywhere but in this kitchen, while her mother and her dog danced their duet.

Willie had wedged his fingers beneath the dog's bandanna and was pulling Booger back. The dog shuffled on its hind legs, straining toward Flora. I tried to speak quietly, so Flora's daughter wouldn't hear, but Booger's growling made this hard. I asked Willie if he wouldn't mind staying home with Flora while I took her daughter somewhere.

He yanked the bandanna with both hands. Booger slumped to his haunches. “Do you need the keys to the Jeep?” he asked.

I was only taking her for a short walk, I said. Maybe there was something I could buy her.

“Don't you think she's a bit young?” Willie asked.

I laughed and said I meant the trading post, not the porn shop.

Flora stood with her arms across her chest. Willie let go of Booger. He walked up behind Flora and wrapped himself around her like a coat. I had never seen anyone do that. Her body thawed enough so that Willie was able to fold her at the hips and ease her into her chair. Booger curled at Flora's feet.

“You girls have a nice time,” Willie said. He picked up a deck of cards and shuffled it. “If you see anything interesting, be sure to bring me one.”

I knelt and asked Flora's daughter if she could help me solve this problem I was having.

Staring at her mother, she shook her head no.

“Are you sure? Why don't you just let me tell you what the problem is and you can decide? You see, this very rich lady gave us money to buy toys for children whose parents have the same disease as your mom.” I wasn't sure why I was lying. To save the girl's pride? What child would mind if someone bought her toys? “The problem is, I don't know what to buy. For these other children. What kind of toys they might like.”

The girl sneered in a way that nearly made me weep. “Aren't any other kids in the world got a mother like mine.”

“Not exactly like your mother. But the disease she's got, the sickness that makes her sit that way and shake, or jump around and say bad words? Sure, other parents have it.” I
swallowed. “My mother had it. I stayed home and took care of her, the way you're doing.”

“I don't like when people make fun of me.”

“I am not making fun of you. I know how hard it can be, staying home with your mom. And this lady I was telling you about—”

“The rich one?”

“She knows how hard it can be. She told me to go out and buy toys for the kids. As a reward. Of course, if you don't want to help—”

“Do I get one?” the girl said suddenly. “Because if it's for kids who take care of their mothers . . .”

I pretended to consider this. “Why, sure. I guess you'd qualify.”

The girl looked around the trailer. “I'll go. If she won't get mad.” She pointed to her mother, as if there might have been another “she” in the room.

Willie paused, one hand above the pack of cards, waiting to hear what I would say. “Why don't you ask her?” I suggested.

The girl opened her mouth, as astonished as if I had suggested that she ask Booger for advice. She scuffed across the linoleum in her Santa Claus slippers and put her mouth to her mother's ear. Then she stepped back and studied her mother's face. “She says it's okay.” Then she raced out and came running back with a pair of see-through plastic sandals. “Let's go,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “But I thought this could be sort of a special occasion. Why don't you let me braid your hair?”

The girl lowered her eyes. Cautiously, I asked if she had a comb.

“Of course I do!” She ran back to get it. Willie dealt himself a hand of solitaire. Flora's daughter knelt on a kitchen stool while I unraveled her twisted hair, pressed the side of one palm against her scalp, and tugged. I waited for her to scream, as Laurel used to do when I combed her hair, but Flora's daughter sat still. She let me make a braid and snap a rubber band at the end. She jumped from the stool, pulled open a drawer, and handed me a curly red ribbon someone must have saved from a gift. Once the bow was tied, she ran to the toaster and examined her reflection. “My mom used to do it nicer,” she said.

“I'll bet she did.”

She narrowed her eyes at Willie. “You sure this is all right?”

I said we wouldn't be gone long. She ran and kissed her mother, then pulled me out by the hand before anyone could stop us. The sun made her sneeze. In the middle of the yard, she looked up at me and said: “My dad said he'd whip me.”

“If you left your mother alone?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Well, she isn't alone. Dr. Land is in there with her, isn't he?”

She smiled so suddenly I blinked. Her plastic sandals scuffed the road. A woodchuck lifted its head, regarded us suspiciously, then waddled back through the ferns. The girl kicked a rock. Another few steps and she couldn't help
but skip. “Do you know what they got there? At the store? There's this whole Indian village. It has Indian men, and Indian women, and Indian girls and boys. And dogs. These cute little Indian dogs? And these little cooking fires? And there's a canoe and two teepees.” She put her hand to her mouth—these were too much to hope for. “It's wicked neat, even without the teepees and the canoe. It's six dollars. That isn't so much, is it? If this lady is really rich?”

We covered the distance to the store. The sign had been repainted to read
INDIAN QUEEN
, and, below this,
TRADING POST SOUVENIRS TOYS MAPLE SYRUP
. A lopsided addition around the back said
ADULTS
.

The girl glanced up and down the road. “We sneak in sometimes. My brother Ricky looks at that bad stuff. But the rest of us, we only look at the toys.” She seemed stricken by regret. “You won't rat on us, will you?”

I raised my hand and swore I wouldn't, wondering if her father really did whip them. He seemed to love his children. He wasn't cruel. But how else could you keep your son from hanging around a porn shop? How could you prevent your daughters from deserting their mother? Maybe the entire family would have an easier time after Flora died. Maybe Mac would remarry. The kids' new mother might be kind.

When I opened the door, the building gave off the decadent smell of incense and marijuana. The proprietor, a heavyset man with a Fidel Castro beret and beard, was serving a customer in the adult section. This young man, who wore fatigues, wanted to buy a stack of movies, some magazines, and something wrapped in brown paper. The owner said he wouldn't accept the boy's check because it
bore a different name from his license. The boy tried to explain how this was his real name and the license was the one he had been given in the air force, with the alias he had been assigned for secret work.

“What do I look like to you, a chump?” The owner pointed to a sign above the register that read
NO CHECKS AND THIS MEANS YOU
. Grumbling, the boy took forever to decide which two movies he could buy with the crumpled few dollars in his pants. After he had slinked off, the owner crossed the divide to the trading post and said in a softer voice, “What can I do for you two ladies?”

I gestured to the toy Flora's daughter had pointed out. The pieces were dusty, but the teepees seemed to be fashioned from real skins, and the canoe was sewn from bark. Each Indian wore a fringed dress or a loincloth made from real leather, with real feathers in his hair. The set, without the teepees or canoe, came to $6.99. I could sense Flora's daughter was afraid that I would be angry about the extra ninety-nine cents. “We'll take the whole set,” I said.

The girl gasped, and it occurred to me that her father might resent the gift as charity. Well, too bad if he did. I bought a pair of beaded moccasins for Maureen, with a brave on the left shoe and an Indian maiden on the right, then watched the owner pack the pieces into a box labeled
X-RATED BALLOONS.
He seemed agitated, as if he wanted to tell me something. Or maybe he was just excited about making such a big sale. I tapped the label on the box. Startled, he replaced it with a carton stenciled
PEZ.

The girl coughed. “You won't get mad at me if I tell you something?”

“Why would I get mad at you?”

“It's just, see, my sisters, and my brother . . .” The girl swung her braid to the front and chewed the tip.

“You want me to buy something for them, too? Because they help to take care of your mother?”

The girl nodded. I asked if she would happen to know what sorts of toys her siblings might want. She pointed to a bow-and-arrow set beneath the register. Then she pointed to a drum. “Is that okay? If it's too much money, we can all just play with the village.”