Blame: A Novel (20 page)

They parked behind a station wagon cluttered with bumper stickers.
QUESTION AUTHORITY. TOM BRADLEY IN ’82, BEDTIME FOR BONZO
. Audrey drew up behind them in her gold Volkswagen Bug.

Cal was out on the patio at the barbecue. In shirtsleeves, he waved the tongs as greeting, then, thinking better of it, came forward and kissed Audrey on the cheek. Before I forget, Audrey, he said, I found a
canyon oak for you on the other side of the barn. I set out the shovel and a can.

He shook hands with Gilles and Brice, and took Patsy’s hand too, then brought it to his lips.

Oh, she said.

So glad you could come. Help yourself to drinks in the kitchen. This mesquite is not cooperating.

Gilles, holding tightly to her arm, steered Patsy into the living room. Everything has a skirt, he hissed, and it was true. Chairs, sofas, tables. Even the stereo speakers were sheathed in linen toile.

And look at this. Gilles pulled her to an end table and, lifting the chintz skirt, revealed a crumpled tissue and one flip-flop, well chewed by a dog.

They were there the last time I was here, he said, and the time before that. Since Aunt Peg died. Poor Auntie, he is so out of control.

Brice plopped down on the striped chintz sofa. Show Patsy the magazine, he said.

Yes, look. Gilles lifted a thick
House & Garden
from a stack and opened it to a bookmark. After a moment Patsy saw this very room, the colors in the photographs darker, more orange. A vase of huge white mums exploded on the very coffee table now supporting Brice’s Top-Siders.

Look, it’s March, whispered Gilles, and pointed to a little girl with long, heavy brown hair and strong dark eyebrows, standing by a speckled puppy.

I thought Peggy was some big, easygoing populist, said Patsy.

Yeah, but she had to do something to draw Auntie home from the club.

Even once he was sober?

Auntie loves people, said Gilles. He likes meetings, clubs, parties. Where two or more are gathered . . .

By then Gilles had steered Patsy into the formal dining room, with its cool gray walls and floor-to-ceiling glass case of Victorian-era dolls.

Don’t look too long. They have real hair, you’ll get nightmares, Gilles said.

Only the TV room signaled recent human use: books splayed open, newspapers strewn about, someone’s sweatshirt bunched in a corner of the sofa.

In the kitchen, Gilles introduced Patsy to Vilma, the housekeeper, who was cleavering a head of iceberg. This salad, with bottled dressings, she allowed Patsy to set on the buffet, next to a plate of baked potatoes and two loaves of oily, store-bought garlic bread.

Come eat, Cal called, setting down a platter of meat. Here, take a plate, Patsy. Rare or rarer? He forked a bleeding porterhouse onto her plate, then went to call the others.

Too shy to start, Patsy examined the buffet with pretended interest and was joined by a short, plump teenage girl who eyed the food with frank disdain. Patsy recognized the dark curly hair and prominent dark eyebrows.

Hello—you must be March. I’m Patsy, she said, and received the same disdain awarded the food.

Would you like to split this steak with me? It’s far too much for—

I don’t eat meat.

Patsy! Joey Hawthorne called shrilly, coming into the kitchen. I didn’t know you were here. A jostling hug ensued.

That hug, the falsetto surprise—Patsy knew she’d been discussed.

The buffet area was crowded. Patsy stood to one side, now waiting to serve herself. On the patio, Cal was seating people. Patsy, you’re here between Audrey and me, he called, slapping the back of a chair.

By the time Patsy filled her plate, March was in the chair Cal slapped, and the only place left was down at the other end, with Cal’s boys and Brice.

They were good-looking boys. The older one, Spencer, had wild black curls and was home from Stanford for the summer—his was the car with the bumper stickers. Stan, the tennis star, was trimmer, in a limp white polo shirt; he had his father’s intense blue eyes. Both boys were petting the heads of two speckled spaniels and slipping them strips of fat cut from their steaks. One wet, quivering nose pushed under Patsy’s elbow to rest on her lap.

Just push him away, said Spencer. The beggar. They both are.

She picked at her food and sneaked most of her steak to the dogs—one, then the other, trying to be fair. The men talked around her. Spencer, it seemed, was in the Stanford band and was going back up north to practice before classes started.

You guys actually practice? said Brice.

Hey! Our halftime formations are very intricate, said Spencer. You think it’s easy to do Richard Nixon’s nose? A traffic bollard?

A traffic bollard? said Patsy.

You know, those things that look like orange trash barrels.

How does anyone know what it is?

That’s what’s so funny about it, said Spencer. And I’m not kidding, Brice, he went on. Regular bands have it much easier. They just march from formation to formation. We assemble out of chaos.

You never march?

We’d rather die than march.

What did you say? March’s clear, aggrieved voice rang down the table. Are you guys talking about me?

In the sudden hush, Spencer spoke quietly. We were just talking about marching, he said. As in marching bands.

March opened her mouth to say something more, but Gilles called out, Marching bands! I love marching bands. The uniforms! Those weird tall thingies the drum majors wear, like muffs on their heads!

March’s lips lifted off her teeth. That’s stupid, Gilles.

Cal said something into March’s ear.

I don’t care, Dad, she said loudly. He makes me puke.

On the way home, Patsy said, That March is a piece of work.

Her? said Gilles. She was bit by a dog when she was three, and she’s been mean ever since.

•

August was nearly over. Gilles let Patsy practice parallel parking in the Bweek. When she was ready, they drove to the Glendale Department of Motor Vehicles. She took the written and the driving test and passed easily. There never was anything wrong with her sober abilities. Her father gave her three thousand dollars to buy a used car. Brice found a ’62 Volvo for her, but she chose an orange Datsun station wagon, boxy, lightweight, and peppy. Gilles named it Kaki, French for “persimmon.”

•

Labor Day weekend, Patsy’s father and Burt came to see her. Bonnie and their kids were supposed to come too, but the night before, Bonnie had
seen Burt kissing the babysitter in the front hall and all hell had broken loose.

It’s not like I’ve even slept with her, said Burt. Of all the things Bonnie could go ballistic over, this is the silliest. Then again, isn’t it a cosmic rule that when you finally get caught, it’s for the one thing you didn’t do?

Not in my experience, said Patsy.

Her father wasn’t in good shape either. After six weeks in Australia he was disillusioned with Eugenia. She took forever getting ready in the morning, he said. Even in the outback, we’d be lucky to be out of our room by noon. Then she’d step out into that wind, and
like that!
a morning’s work for naught.

That’s funny, said Patsy.

Your mother was up and at ’em first thing.

•

My family’s falling apart, Patsy told Silver. My father’s a mess and Burt’s ridiculous. My two stalwart standbys, she said. Both of ’em deconstructing.

And you?

Me? I’m fine.

So maybe it’s your time to be their—what did you call it?

Stalwart standby. Yeah.

Now that you’re thriving, on the up-and-up, maybe they feel that they can relax their guard and address some of their own problems.

I’m thriving? said Patsy. Really?

Aren’t you?

Oh god, no. I mean, what about Ian?

What about him?

I’m so obsessed with him. That’s not very up-and-up.

But Patsy, we—all of us—have our mortal struggles.

A mortal struggle? Really? Such generosity coming from a woman with a tight, molded coif and thick gold wedding band floored Patsy. Wasn’t her attachment to Ian better described as a weakness or folly?

To find love is the great human undertaking, Silver said, and it’s always complicated by our compulsions and unconscious patterns, to say nothing of issues of trust and control.

Yes, but I know Ian won’t come through, said Patsy. And I still can’t give him up.

Suppose for a moment that you do give him up, said Silver. What would letting go of Ian look like to you?

God, Patsy said. That’s easy. Leaving the damn house for a change. Moving into the world. Fresh air. An end to waiting, waiting, waiting.

•

Classes at Hallen started up after Labor Day. Coming from her first lecture to her new office, Patsy felt
back
in a way she hadn’t before. Her colleagues seemed friendlier, more themselves than they’d been at Sarah’s wedding. They spoke to her in the halls and stopped by her office to complain about the new building—windows that didn’t open, air-conditioning that wouldn’t turn off. Only Melanie, the department secretary, was chilly—but she’d once filed a complaint about Patsy’s xeroxing demands, only to be rebuked herself by the dean.

Patsy had considered Hallen beneath her abilities, a trade school with liberal arts pretensions, but now she was grateful to be taken back, grateful even for the heavy course load, with two large lecture courses and one upper division seminar to teach.

At the end of her first week she lugged a briefcase full of textbooks into her apartment and found Brice, who had let himself in, sitting on her sofa.

I didn’t want to miss you, he said. I took Gilles to Huntington Hospital this morning. Audrey’s there, and he’s asking for you.

Let’s go. Patsy set her briefcase inside the door.

They climbed into Brice’s old truck, with its dusty, hot metal smell. He’s okay, isn’t he?

We’ll see, said Brice. He got all wheezy, and then he couldn’t breathe. Scared the hell out of me.

When they pulled under the hospital’s porte cochere, Brice said, Room two nineteen. I’m going to get flowers.

Gilles sat in bed, an oxygen tube taped under his nose. The rosiness had leached from his face, and his beautiful lips had chapped and cracked.

Look here, sister-boy, Patsy said. What’s this all about?

There you are, said Gilles. Now I’m fine. Where’s Brice?

He went to the florist’s.

Good. He’s terrible in hospitals. Glowers and paces. I made him go get you, to get him out of here. And Mother’s as bad. I sent her to buy pajamas. Sit here. And pardon my pinafore. He plucked at a hospital gown with its pattern of little green medallions.

Patsy sat on the bed. So tell me, she said.

I had an asthma attack. Poor Brice didn’t know what to do. My inhaler was empty, so he drove me down here.

You should’ve called me. I have inhalers. So why are they keeping you?

My lungs need to clear.

In all her own childhood asthma emergency-room visits, Patsy had been sent right home. But then her mother wasn’t on any hospital board either.

Pajamas and a deck of cards arrived with Audrey. The three played hearts, the women sitting on the bed on either side of Gilles until Brice arrived with masses of unusual greenish blue hydrangeas. Cal followed, bringing
The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
and chocolates. Gilles passed around the chocolates and said, I want Brice to myself for a while. Auntie, you drive Patsy home. Mother, don’t forget to eat.

Patsy walked out with the brother and sister. In the wood-paneled elevator, Audrey murmured to Cal, Sorry to drag you back here.

It was good, he said. We had old home week at the nurses’ station.

They separated in the parking lot, Audrey going alone to her Bug. In the cool mercury-vapor lamplight Patsy glanced at Cal’s fine, handsome face. He was so calm and urbane, it was easy to forget that his wife just died.

In the front seat of his Lincoln, she turned to him. You know, Cal, I’ve never asked about your wife, and I’m sorry. You must miss her a lot.

I do, he said. But she was ill for a very long time—over seven years.

So there’s some relief. Or is that a terrible thing to say?

No, not at all, you’re right. There’s relief. For her especially, I hope.

Audrey’s told me how smart and what fun she was.

I’m sorry you missed her, said Cal. You two would’ve hit it off.

And you—Patsy felt woefully inadequate talking like this; she was only truly conversant, it seemed, about her own unhappiness—are you okay?

I keep going forward, he said. Right foot, left foot. One day at a time. Having the kids helps. I have to show up for them, keep it together.

How are they doing?

The boys soldier on. They don’t talk much, but they sometimes mention their mom. The other day they were laughing about the things Peg hated—which basically came down to Ronald Reagan, Ronald Reagan, Ronald Reagan. But March isn’t there yet. She’s much more volatile.

That’s the age.

You’re telling me, said Cal.

He insisted on walking Patsy to the front door of the Lyster. As they approached, the door opened and out came Jeffrey Goldstone. Well, well, well, said Cal. I know this reprobate.

To Patsy’s horror, the two men hugged, slapped each other’s backs. Here on business? Cal asked.

I was, Knock-Knock said and, with a wave, gave Patsy the floor.

He’s my P.O., she muttered.

Great, great! said Cal. You lucked out—both of you.

In an act of gallantry that stunned Patsy, Cal came upstairs with them.

After Goldstone’s cursory peek into bedroom and fridge, he and Cal stood and chatted—gossiped, really—in the living room. Both were on the board of a halfway house, and it seemed that they were going to discuss each resident. Patsy recognized names from the morning meeting. Vaughn. Derek of the ghastly neckwear. Otto, a de-licensed anesthesiologist.

You’re sponsoring Derek Mabury? Well, as they say, some are sicker than others.

Oh, he’s doing great, said Cal. Took a chip for six months clean Thursday.

Goldstein, in his big sneakers, rocked back and forth, deferring to Cal. Well, who’d a thought . . .