Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (11 page)

She talked to her older sister, Lynn, about it.

“Bryan went through a period like that, only with him it was the car. I swear he took that thing apart bolt by bolt until there was nothing left. It lasted about a year.”

“And then what happened?” Mitzi asked.

“Nothing dramatic. He just gave up. We had to buy a new car.”

“I know that, I remember very well. I mean, did you get his attention back? Did he, uh, come back into the marriage?”

“Honey, Bryan has never been fully here. I just stopped expecting much.”

This was not what Mitzi wanted to hear, and she was sorry she had confided her fears to her sister. Lynn drank too much and had a bleak outlook on life. It often seemed to Mitzi that Lynn wanted to drag her down with her. And Mitzi was determined to not follow
in her sister's footsteps. George had been, after all, a fine, loving husband for the past four years.

They had friends, they took vacations, he brought her presents and generally considered her happiness above all other concerns. It's just that, as he said to her recently, he's concerned with protecting their investment.

Mitzi had tried all the most obvious tricks recommended by the women's magazines. She had welcomed him home one day dressed in some new sheer lingerie, but she felt ridiculous and quickly changed into her housedress before he could even comment.

“George,” she said, “Before you go out there, can't we have a little talk? You haven't had much time for me lately. I know you're concerned with the foundation, but don't you think about anything else? Can't we still have a little fun?”

George looked at her for a long time before speaking. It was as if he were listening to a language he didn't fully understand.

“If I don't get it done before winter,” he paused and stroked her hair away from her eyes. “You know, Mitzi, I sometimes wonder if I deserve you. I don't, really. I've had such dark thoughts lately. Sometimes I think I'm some kind of monster, that I should live alone in a forest and live off nuts and berries, and never speak again or see another living being.”

“Oh George, I've never heard you talk like this. Is it something I've done?”

He had a tear in his eye but wiped it away quickly.

“You are too good for me. No matter what you say, it's true. I
should live in a cave with bats and transparent fish. I'm a blot on the sun.”

Mitzi declared her undying love for him. She tried her best to convince him that he was the sweetest and gentlest man she had ever known, but then he pushed her away from him—a gesture entirely foreign to him until that moment—and went back outside and stared into the hole until past nightfall.

“He's too young for male menopause, “her mother told her. “You sure it isn't another woman, or maybe something happened at the office that he's not telling you.”

“I don't think so, mother. I used to think he told me everything, that George would never lie to me.”

“You should check his drawers, go through his wallet. You'd be surprised what I found out about your father when I searched his wallet. Receipts can tell you a lot. Check his address book too for names not familiar to you. Even good men lead double-lives. Your father had a dozen letters in his office desk from a woman named Olga of whom he never spoke. He had known her for thirty years, apparently. But he was always good to me, I never had a complaint in all our years together. He was generous to a fault. But he had this Olga-thing. It was as if that thing existed on another plane, you know what I mean? As if . . .”

“But mother, that's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried that George might, you know, hurt himself or something. He might just disappear.”

“Well, I don't know about that, honey. That's another thing altogether, though you know my friend Marjorie's husband did
just that, he disappeared without a trace. She never got so much as a postcard. Everything perfectly normal right up to that day. He even bought her a hat and took her to the movies the day before it happened. I always liked Webb, too. Kind of had a special place for him in my heart, if you know what I mean.”

Every time Mitzi mentioned her problem to somebody she came away less reassured than before, so that, increasingly, she had reason to feel threatened by George's distance and the things he would say to her when they did talk.

“Why do you just stand there and stare into that hole, George? It's as if you are watching something in there. Is there something in there, George? Have you got some kind of TV in there, George, because if you do, I wish you'd bring it inside and let me watch it too, because I'll be damned if I'm going to stand out there with you. The neighbors must think you're digging my grave, really. Everybody can see you standing out there night after night. George, it's been months now, and I can't, for the life of me, figure out what's bothering you.”

“It's rotten. It's that simple, Mitzi, the entire foundation of our house is rotten.”

“I don't care about the house. I care about you, George. You never talk to me anymore.”

George couldn't look her in the face now. He would look anywhere to avoid her eyes.

“Why don't you call an expert? We can borrow if we have to. How expensive can it be? Mother would be happy to give us a loan. It's not worth all this grieving that's come between us.”

“Do you know what's wrong with you, Mitzi?”

She froze-up at the sound of his voice. He sounded different, like someone she didn't know, someone who was going to hurt her.

“You're too good. You believe everyone is good. You think it's all going to work out. Well, let me tell you something: this house is going to crumble and fall straight through to hell. And you know what you're going to find there?”

“Stop it, George. Stop right there. I'm not going to take this anymore. I've about had it.” And he did stop it. He went back outside and stared deep into the hole.

When Mitzi woke the next morning she discovered that George had not come to bed at all last night. The car was gone and there was no note left on the bulletin board. She was frightened, but tried not to panic. Normally she would have called her mother or Lynn, but instinct told her they would only make matters worse. Instead, she thumbed through the telephone book until she found an ad for a foundation contractor.

“It's an emergency,” she explained. “I would be really grateful if you could come today. I'd be willing to pay extra.”

The man on the other end of the phone agreed to come. He liked her voice, her sense of helplessness appealed to him.

“In all honesty, Mrs. Cook, there's nothing wrong with your foundation. It's solid and dry. I could take your money and spend a week out here poking around, but the results would be the same. You've got no problems here. I ought to know, I laid this foundation twenty years ago. It'll be here when we're long gone. So, enjoy your house. No charge, okay. Your husband is a lucky man.”

She almost wanted to say, that's what you think.
My husband is the raven of dawn, the father of lies
. . . But of course she didn't. She thanked the nice man and offered him a piece of coffee cake. She was pretending he was her man. It was a very dangerous game, but suddenly she liked danger. It reminded her of George, wherever he was now.

E
ven in our town there is a limit to how much idle talk one can tolerate. My family's been here since the beginning of time, and I think I know a little bit about what happens to people. They fall in love with the right mate or the wrong one, or they don't fall in love at all. They are blessed with a good mind or they are not. Good health or bad health. They believe in God or they don't. And so on. But what I can't stand are those people who stand around on the sidelines chewing on everyone else's fortunes. It's hard enough to get on with one's life without the tittle-tattle of a quidnunc spotlighting your weakness.

Cora Duckworth is the person I have in mind. She comes in my backdoor without knocking at least five days a week. I'm ironing or doing the dishes or vacuuming. I don't want to stop what I'm doing, but eventually she wins out and I put on a pot of coffee.

“I think Elaine is going to have a breakdown if Booker doesn't stop flirting with Becky at the City Cafe. He goes there every day and Becky fills his cup without charging him until Mr. Berry finally tells her he's going to take it out of her pay. Really. Melissa, everyone knows what's going on there, and Elaine just can't take it much longer. Have you seen how she looks? It's a sin.”

“I've known Booker all my life, and I can tell you, Cora, he's
as harmless as they come. Heck, he's been madly in love with Elaine since he was in the sixth grade. Elaine has nothing to worry about and she knows it. Booker's just got too much time on his hands since he gave up coaching Little League on advice of Doc Edwards.”

I was, of course, ruining Cora's day. She wanted things to fall apart, she wanted to take some kind of credit for early detection.

“It can't last, mark my word. Elaine can't take it. She's got her reputation to think of. How embarrassing it must be.”

“Cora, you are wasting your time. Booker and Elaine love one another. He's a good man.”

“He's a man, I'll grant you that. And they're all alike when it comes to you-know-what.”

“Well, I hate to say it, Cora, but it seems to me you're projecting your own problems. I don't know if your Howard plays around, or ever has played around on you, but it sounds to me like you are a little insecure there, and so you go around thinking everybody else's husband does the same. I can assure you my Fritz never has looked at another woman. Sometimes I wish he would.”

“Well, I never . . . Really, Melissa, I don't know what's come over you. Has Aunt Tilly visited you? I am just concerned for a mutual friend, and you have had the bad manners to attack me in the most vicious way.”

She stood up as if to go, but I knew her better than that. She would mill around, sizing up the state of my furniture, until I came around and apologized. And of course she would be back the next day, and I would feel bad for what I said about her
Howard. Howard did play around, I knew that, but still I was wrong for throwing it in her face. She was pretty shaky herself and she needed a friend. She didn't really have any, except myself and Elaine. Elaine was a rock for both of us, or an island toward which we swam, with our picnic basket of chicken bones.

When Elaine called later that day, I told her to be careful the next time Cora called, that she was in delicate shape and needed our friendship more than ever.

B
efore placing me on your shelf, please take me by the feet and give me a few hard shakes to help restore that ‘just made' look. Thank you.” I have been carrying these instructions around in my pocket for weeks, pulling them out at odd moments. I found them on the street and I don't know what they're for—perhaps a teddy bear's suicide note.

“Marrrrk,” my wife yells at me, “Come here and tell me what the hell is coming out of the sink. It looks like some kind of puree of lizard.”

This was to be our time, the rediscovery of one another as tender, loving beings, with a vague insinuation by our friends, who had been through the wars for twenty years, that we might even wake-up feeling nineteen years old, as when we first met, puppies in heat, blind heat. “I'll just drive down to the hardware store and see if they have some of the bacteria that eats things like this. Miracle stuff, thrives on backed-up puke.”

Shirley from next door is scratching at the kitchen window, her words ricochet off the double thermal panes and scare several flickers into the overcast sky. Shirley is a perpetually depressed social worker who must smoke marijuana all day every day in order to put a dim sheen on her depression. But she seems to know something about this green stuff, or perhaps it is her own emergency whose import we fail to decipher.

“I'll just run down to Kentfield's and will be back with the stuff in a couple of minutes.”

Florence looks at me, looks back at Shirley, who by now has collapsed out-of-view. The birds are back, completely oblivious to the nature of human suffering.

I've turned on the radio in the car. “. . . terrorism is the second largest industry . . .” Well, of course, nowadays. What with the wall-units and the lawn slaves, what can you expect. The parasites found in sushi. In my day, romance was quite an adventure. Tourism, I see, he meant tourism.

A man's place is in the hardware store. No place like feeling like a Dad as in the hardware store. I take my time. Examine the merchandise, all of which I want, none of which I know how to use. When I describe my problem, today's specific problem, the son of the son of the owner looks at me as if I were a vile fetishist about whom he had had precise warnings. “Forget it,” I say, pretending absentmindedness. “What I really need today are some bass plugs. You've got fishing lures, haven't you?” And I am overcome with that sense of randomness that I had left the house to avoid, hoping beyond hope to find some firm ground here at Kentfield's, the old family hardware store. “Is your father working today?” I ask genially, as though the kid had made a real fool of himself.