Celestial Navigation (2 page)

“Now, Laura. It’s not as if—”

“We shouldn’t have left her alone so much. Should we? We should have gone to visit her more, and paid her more attention.”

“Jeremy
was the one she cared about,” I said, “and he was here all along. We don’t have anything to blame ourselves for.”

“Jeremy will be just devastated,” Laura said. She patted her
eyes with her little flowered handkerchief, which was already sopping wet. “You know how attached they were. Oh, what will he do now? How will he get along?”

“Where
is
he, first of all,” I said, and I left Laura crying by the casket and went off to find the manager. His office was by the front door. He was seated at his desk, drinking coffee from a paper cup that he hid as soon as he saw me. “Yes!” he said. “May I be of assistance?”

“I am Miss Pauling, and I wonder if you can tell me where my brother is.”

He looked over at the usher, who was leaning against the wall. “Brother?” said the usher.

“That would be Mr. Pauling,” the manager said. “Yes, well, we saw him of course when we came to the house to—but he seemed, he didn’t seem—but he did help us pick out the clothing. We like to have a family member do that, I told him, though at first he was reluctant. Family members know what would be most—”

“But where is he
now,”
I said.

“Oh, why, that I don’t know.”

“Hasn’t he been by here?”

The manager looked at the usher again, and the usher shook his head.

“Just some ladies,” he told me. “From her church, I think they said.”

“Hasn’t he come here at
all?”

“Not as I know of.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake,” I said. I turned and left, with the usher suddenly uprooted from his wall and scurrying along behind me. “Oh, leave me be, go see to someone else,” I told him. “We are surely not the
only
dead in this house.” Then I went back to the room where Mother was, where Laura was just searching her handkerchief in hopes of a dry
corner. I handed her a clean one from my purse. “Jeremy has not been here,” I told her.

“Oh no, I didn’t think he would be.”

“Did you ever hear of a son not keeping watch by his mother’s remains?”

“Oh, well, you know how—I just expected him to be at home,” Laura said. “I hope he isn’t in some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble would
Jeremy
be in?” I asked her, and naturally she couldn’t think of an answer. There are no surprises in Jeremy. He will never go on a drinking spree, or commit any crimes, or be found living under an alias in some far-distant city. “Most likely he is holed up in his studio,” I told her. “We should have rung the doorbell longer. Well, never mind.” For to tell the truth I was just as glad. It would have been more hindrance than help to have him moping around here. He was even closer to Mother than Laura was. They knew each other so well they barely needed to speak; they spent every evening of their lives together, huddled in that dim little parlor watching TV and drinking cocoa. I have never understood how people can live that way.

We stayed the afternoon in the loveseat out in the corridor and greeted visitors, such as they were. Mother’s circle of friends seemed to have closed in considerably. Those who came were mighty brief about it. A moment of silence by the casket, a word to us, a signature in the guestbook, and then they left again. Just doing their duty. Well, I have always said it doesn’t cost a thing to perform a duty
pleasantly
, once you are at it, but these people seemed to be thinking of other matters and I could tell their hearts weren’t in it. In between visits Laura and I sat without saying anything, side by side. Our arms were touching; we had no choice. The loveseat was very small. I hate to be touched. Laura was all the time twisting her purse straps or fiddling with its clasp, so that
her elbow rubbed against my sleeve with a felty sound that made me jumpy. “Sit
still
, will you?” I said.

“Oh, Amanda, I feel so lost in this place.”

“Get ahold of yourself,” I told her. Her chin was denting. I reached out and squeezed her hand and said, “Never mind, we’ll go to the house soon and have a cup of tea. You’re tired is all.”

“It’s true, I am,” she said. She has never had as much energy as I.

Two ladies from Mother’s church dropped by. I knew their faces but had to cover up that I’d forgotten their names. Then Mother’s minister, and then Mrs. Jarrett, who has been a boarder at the house for years. A woman of quality, very gracious and genteel. She always wears a hat. She held out a gloved hand and said, “I shall think of your mother often, Miss Pauling, and remember her in my prayers. She was a very sweet person.” Now, why couldn’t all boarders be like that? Right on her heels came Miss Vinton, a faded stringy type who rents the south rear bedroom. The smallest room in the house; Mother charged less for it. “I’m sorry about your mother,” Miss Vinton said, but if she was so sorry you’d think she would have dressed to show it. She wore what she always does, a lavender cardigan over a gray tube of a dress, baggy mackintosh, boatlike Mary Janes on her great long feet. She shook hands like a man, bony hands with straight-edged nails and nicotine stains. Rides a bicycle everywhere she goes.
You
know the kind. “Well, it was very thoughtful of you to come, Miss Vinton,” I said, but meanwhile I threw a good sharp glance at her clothing to show I had taken it in. If she noticed, she didn’t care. Just gave me a horse-toothed smile. I suppose she thinks we have something in common, both being spinsters in our forties, but thank heaven that is where the resemblance ends. I have always taken care to keep my dignity intact.

At six in the evening we went home. The streets were black and wet, with no taxi in sight. We walked all ten blocks. Laura was crying again. She kept blowing her nose and murmuring little things I couldn’t hear, what with the traffic swishing by and my rainscarf crackling, but I don’t imagine that I missed anything. Instead of answering I just marched along, keeping tight hold of my purse and watching for puddles. Even so, my stockings got spattered. The rowhouses had been darkened by the rain and looked meaner and grimmer than ever.

Then to top it off, Mother’s place still seemed deserted. The only lit window was on the second floor. There was the same echo when we rang the doorbell. Laura said, “Oh, what if we’re locked out? Where will we stay?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her. “This house is teeming with boarders, if nothing else, and you can see that someone’s been and taken our suitcases in.” For the vestibule was bare again. Nothing remained but the flowerpot.

I put my finger on the doorbell and held it there. Eventually a light came on in the hallway, and then we saw a shadow behind the lace curtain. Mr. Somerset, hitching up his suspenders as he shuffled toward us. I knew him by his bent-kneed walk and his rounded shoulders. He was as familiar to me as some elderly uncle, though no uncle I ever asked for. “Now this,” I told Mother once, “is what I mean about your boarders, Mother: Mr. Somerset is a depressing old man and I don’t know why you’ve put up with him so long.” “Yes, but all he has is his pension, poor man,” she said. She didn’t mean that. She meant, How will I tell him to go? How will I get used to someone new? Can’t we just let things stay as they are?

“Miss Pauling,” Mr. Somerset said. “And Mrs. Bates. You’ve come about your mother, I reckon.”

“Why, yes, we have,” I said, “and we’ve been all afternoon at the funeral parlor without seeing a sign of Jeremy. Now, where might he be, Mr. Somerset?”

“He’s setting on the stairs,” he said.

“On the stairs?”

“On the stairs where your mother passed. He’s been there all day.”

“We came before now, Mr. Somerset. At noon. We rang the doorbell.”

“I must’ve been out.”

“My
brother
was here, you say.”

“He don’t answer doorbells,” said Mr. Somerset, “and he don’t move from where he’s at. Sets in the dark.”

“For mercy’s sake,” I said. “Jeremy?”

But it was Laura who went to find him, running up the stairs with her galoshes still on. I heard her flick a light switch, start on up toward the third floor calling, “Jeremy, honey!”

“He’s not himself at all today,” Mr. Somerset told me.

People say that about Jeremy quite often, but what they mean is that he is not like other people. He is
always
himself. That’s what’s wrong with him. I called, “Jeremy, come down here please. Laura and I have been looking for you.”

“He won’t,” said Mr. Somerset. “He’s setting on the step where—”

“She passed on the
stairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, of all places!”

“Way I heard it, he sat by her side till Mrs. Jarrett come home.
Hours
maybe. Nobody knows. It was Mrs. Jarrett dialed your number on the telephone. Otherwise he might never have done so. And then she sent him to bed, for after the fuss with the funeral parlor and the doctor and so on he just come right back to that step up yonder, planning on passing the night there, I believe. Mrs. Jarrett said, ‘Mr.
Pauling, I think you should lie down on a regular bed now,’ and he did. But I noticed this morning he was setting on the stairs again, sat there all day. I told Miss Vinton that. She said let him be. I said how long were we supposed to let him be? ‘This is not
natural
, Miss Vinton,’ I told her, but she wouldn’t—”

“Well, he’s come to the end of
that,” I
said, and I took off my Rain Dears and hung my coat and hat in the closet and went upstairs. I crossed the second floor hallway, which smelled of damp towels. I climbed on to the third floor, where Jeremy works and sleeps all alone, seldom letting other people in. There he was, hunched over on the uppermost step, with Laura crouching beside him. She was out of breath; she never takes exercise. “Jeremy, honey, you don’t know how worried I was,” she was telling him. “Why, we rang and rang! I thought for certain you would be here.”

“I was sitting on the stairs,” Jeremy said.

“So I hear,” I said, climbing till my face was even with his. “The
least
I expected was to see you at the funeral parlor.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, you’ll have to come downstairs now,” I told him.

“I don’t believe I feel like it just now, Amanda.”

“Did I ask if you felt like it?”

He spread his fingers and looked at the bitten nails, not answering. Speak sharply to Jeremy and you will bowl him over; he can’t stand up to things. You’ll get further being gentle with him, but I always remember that too late. He puts me in a fury. I don’t see how he could let himself go the way he has. No, letting yourself go means you had to be something to start with, and Jeremy never was anything. He was born like this. He is, and always has been, pale and doughy and overweight, pear-shaped, wide-hipped. He toes out when he walks. His hair is curly and silvery-gold, thin
on top. His eyes are nearly colorless. (People have asked me if he is an albino.) There is no telling where he manages to find his clothes: baggy slacks that start just below his armpits; mole-colored cardigan strained across his stomach and buttoning only in the middle, exposing a yellowed fishnet undershirt top and bottom, and tiny round-toed saddle oxfords. Saddle oxfords? For a man? “Pull yourself together, Jeremy,” I said, and he blinked up at me with his lashless, puffy eyes.

“She’s only concerned for you,” Laura told him.

“I’m concerned for all of us,” I said. “How would it be if everyone just sat in one place when they didn’t feel like moving?”

“In a while I will move,” Jeremy said.

“At the funeral parlor they said they hadn’t seen a sign of you.”

“No.”

“Said you hadn’t even stopped in to check on how they laid her out.”

“I couldn’t manage it,” Jeremy said.

“We
managed, didn’t we?”

“She looked very peaceful,” Laura said. She had leaned forward to grasp both his shoulders. He gave the impression that if she let go he would crumple very slowly to one side with his eyes still wide and staring. “You might think she was just asleep,” she told him.

“She fell asleep over solitaire a lot,” Jeremy said.

“She looks as pretty as her wedding picture.”

Now, where did she get that? Mother looked nothing like her wedding picture. It would have been mighty strange if she had. But all Jeremy said was, “The one in the album?”

“That’s the one.”

“Her face was kind of full in that picture,” Jeremy said.

“Her face is full
now.”

“I suppose they have some way of doing that.”

“Her color is good, too.”

“Does she have a bit of color?”

“They’ve put on rouge, I imagine. Nothing
garish
, though. Just enough to—and they’ve waved her hair.”

“Mama
never waved it.”

“Yes, but it looks just lovely, Jeremy. And that dress, it sets off her complexion. Did
you
choose the dress? You did just fine. I think I might have picked the flowered beige, the one she always wore at Easter, but this is nice too, and the color sets off her—”

“The funeral man suggested that,” Jeremy said.

“I suppose he knows about these things.”

“I had to go looking for clothes in her closet.”

“Really. And then the way they’ve done her—”

‘ “Had to push down all the rack of things in her closet.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They told me I had to,” Jeremy said. “I said, couldn’t
they
do it? They said no. They were scared they would get into trouble somehow, be accused of choosing wrong or maybe even stealing, I guess, if anything turned up missing. But I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t accuse them.”

“No, of course not,” Laura said.

“I had to slide down all the rack of dresses in her closet.”

“Yes, well.”

“I had to find some, find her undergarments in the bureau. Open up her bureau.”

“Well, Jeremy.”

“Go through her bureau drawers taking things out.”

“Jeremy, honey. There, now. There, there.”

For Jeremy just then leaned over against Laura, set his head alongside that pillow of a bosom. And there sat Laura patting his back and clicking her teeth. She always did pamper that boy. Well, she was only seven when he was born—the
age when you look at a baby brother as some kind of super-special doll. It never occurred to her that she was being displaced in Mother’s affection. It occurred to
me
, of course. I was the oldest. I had been displaced years ago. I saw how Mother had room for only one person at a time, and that one the youngest and smallest and weakest. I saw how, while she was expecting Jeremy, she curled more and more inside herself until she was only a kind of circular hollow taking in nourishment and asking for afghans. In all other situations Mother was a
receiver
, requesting and expecting even from her own daughters without ever giving anything out, but she spoiled Jeremy from the moment he was born and I believe that that is the root of all his troubles. A mama’s boy. She preferred him over everyone. She gave him the best of her food and the whole of her attention, kept him home from school for weeks at a time if he so much as complained of a stomach ache, which he was forever doing; read to him for hours while he sat wrapped in a comforter—oh, I can see it still! Jeremy on the windowseat, pasty and puffy-faced, Mother reading him Victorian ladies’ novels in her fading whispery voice although she
never
felt quite up to reading to us girls. By this time our father had left us, but I don’t believe she truly noticed. She was too wrapped up in Jeremy. She thought the sun rose and set in him. She thought he was a genius. (I myself have sometimes wondered if he isn’t a little bit retarded. Some sort of selective, unclassified retardation that no medical book has yet put its finger on.) He failed math, he failed public speaking (of course), he went through eighth grade
twice
but he happened to be artistic so Mother thought he was a genius. “Some people just don’t have mathematical minds,” she said, and she showed us his report card—A+ in art, A in English, A+ in deportment. (What else? He had no friends, there was no one he could have whispered with in class.) This was when we were in
college, working our way through teachers college waiting tables and living at home and wearing hand-me-downs, and he was still in high school. When he graduated—by proxy, claiming a stomach ache, not up to facing a solitary march across the stage to receive his diploma—where did he go? The finest art school in Baltimore, with Mother selling off half her ground rents to pay the tuition. And he was miserable for every minute of it. Couldn’t stand the pressure. Scared of the other students. Stomach was bothering him. He lost one whole semester over something that might or might not have been mononucleosis. (In those days we called it glandular fever.) And even in good health, he rarely went to class. He would come home halfway through the morning and crawl into bed. What can you say to someone like that? What
Mother
said was, “Those people are just asking too much of you, Jeremy.” Then she made him all his favorite foods for lunch. (His favorite dessert is custard. Boiled custard.) Well, they did like his work, it seems. They gave him top grades and let him graduate. But even after that, he had no way to make a living. Can you imagine Jeremy teaching a class? Finally Mother gathered up strength to place a permanent ad in the newspaper:
Trained artist willing to give private lessons in his studio
. His studio was the entire third floor, which she had turned over to him without a thought. It had a skylight. Every now and then some poor failure of a pupil might ring the doorbell—girls mostly, anemic stringy-haired girls that scared him half to death. But they never lasted long. It seemed all they had to do was get a whiff of his studio to know that he was a bigger failure than they would ever be. Eventually they left and he would be back where he started: working alone, living off Mother. Relying on her insurance payments and her boarders and the last of her ground rents. To be fair I will admit that he
has
sold some of his work for money, but not much. An acquaintance
from art school showed the good sense to switch from painting to dealing. Opened some sort of gallery. Fortunately for Jeremy. I often tell him he is lucky to have Brian to give him a hand but Jeremy just stares at me. He takes everything for granted, he tosses what he has made in Brian’s general direction and goes on his way without even checking to see if it has landed safely. Well, I suppose we should be grateful he doesn’t view his art too seriously. But still, the amount of money he uses up! Not to mention the time wasted. Do you think Mother would have let Laura or me get away with that? Never for a minute. We were always expected to make our own way in this world. For twenty-five years now I have been entirely self-supporting, and so has Laura ever since she was widowed. Does that seem fair? Well, Jeremy isn’t as strong as we are, Laura always says.
That’s
for sure. Give him a little time, Laura says. She has never seen him as he really is. She just went right along with Mother, coddled and babied him. Sat on the step now with both arms cradling him, saying, “Now, now, Jeremy,” while he wrinkled the front of her good knit dress.