East Into Upper East (26 page)

The next day I spent a long time scrubbing out the pan in which the jam had burned. But the smell must have lingered around the house, because the first thing that Boy said when he came home was “What's that smell?” Unfortunately, Terry was there to overhear, and he said at once, “Well may you ask,” in his very English accent, so I knew he was only waiting to get Boy alone to tell him all sorts of things. But it wasn't as easy as all that for him to get Boy alone. Hamid was not in when I brought Boy back from the airport, but shortly afterward I saw him making his way from the beach up to the house. Boy saw him first, and he didn't waste a second. He ran down the porch steps and straight as an arrow down to the beach toward Hamid. They met halfway. Terry wanted to join them, but I held him back. He was furious with me. He said, “Aren't you going to tell him?” and then, “If you don't, I certainly will.” But, as I said, he didn't get the chance so easily, because Boy would not let Hamid out of his sight.

Mother had seen the meeting on the beach from her window. “It's disgusting,” she told me. “He ran like a—like a—”

“Like a lover,” I said.

“Disgusting,” she said again.

And she really was disgusted. Mother has always liked to think of herself as a woman of the world, knowing all there is to know. I used to see her and her friends huddled close together with flushed cheeks and the tips of their tongues showing, as if tasting something nice, while the maid, pretending to be busy with the tea trolley she had rolled in, would cock her head in their direction and her cheeks would flush, too, at what she heard. When I was small, Mother would say, “Go away, Susie, go and watch your program,” and when I was grown up, she said, “Oh, Susie wouldn't know anything about it. She's just stayed a great big baby.”

Mother doesn't drink an awful lot, usually—only when she is upset, to make herself feel better, and then, because she isn't used
to it, she gets high very quickly. That was what happened on the day of Boy's return. In the evening, when we were lying on the floor listening to records, she came and stood in the doorway and said to Boy, “You haven't told us about your crazy sister.”

Although she said this in a very loud voice, the record almost drowned her, so she stalked over and turned it down, and then she repeated what she had said.

Boy went white and bit his thin lips even thinner. He said, “I'm not going to discuss my family affairs.”

“I thought we were all family here,” said Mother, looking around at us all, but especially at Hamid and Terry.

I was afraid of what else she might say in her state, so I went toward her, hoping to take her away to her bedroom. But she pushed me aside.

“Susie is healthy,” she informed Boy. “A healthy, normal human being like her mother and her father and everyone in our family.”

“Why don't you ask her about last night?” Terry said to Boy in a cool, smiling way. “That should be interesting.”

Hamid, who had continued to lie on the floor with his eyes shut, sat up and blinked like one awakened from deep sleep. “Who turned the music off?” he said.

“Or you can ask him,” Terry said.

Hamid got up from the floor and went over to the record-player and turned it up again. Now he and Mother were the only ones standing; the rest of us were on the floor looking up at them. Hamid made sensuous movements to the music. “I wish I could dance,” he said.

Mother, completely forgetting about Boy and her anger with him, said, “You can't? I'll teach you.” She even had to show him how to hold her.

“What happened last night?” Boy asked Terry.

“I was making jam and it got burned,” I said.

“Oh really, Susie,” Boy said impatiently. “Are you a fool or something?”

Mother was laughing loudly at Hamid, who was playing dumb and doing everything wrong—on purpose, I think, to amuse her and, if possible, the rest of us, too. “It's like teaching a bear to dance,” she said. Then he pretended to be a bear and lurched around the room. Mother went after him, laughing her head off,
trying to make him come back and hold her again, but he got away from her. However, the room wasn't big enough for him to escape her for long, and she soon had him cornered by the bookcase. Then he made quite a clever move. Still pretending to be a bear, he shook her off and lurched across to me and said, “You teach me.”

Well, I'm not much of a dancer—not like Mother, who is fantastic—but I saw that this was the best solution, so I got up and let him lead me. He danced quite well, it turned out. I can't say I enjoyed it and I guess he didn't much, either, but the other three were staying quiet, watching us, so we just went on dancing.

Later, Mother let me take her away and help her undress and get into bed. While I was doing this, she kept moaning, as if she were in pain or as if someone had just died, but otherwise she was quiet and seemed only to want to be put to bed like a child. And like a child, lying there in her nightie, she let tears flow down her nose in a natural, unashamed way, and childishly she said, “He married you for your money. For Daddy's money.”

This was a familiar accusation, which I no longer bothered to answer. And it is true that Boy is poor—so is Linda and so are the two sisters. Their father lost everything with terrible speculations, before drinking and drowning. It is also true that Boy has very refined tastes and needs money. But he likes me, too—and yes, he needs me, just as much as he needs the money.

He came into the room now, and saw Mother in bed. “Is she all right?” he asked.

“What do you care?” said Mother, letting the tears flow.

“Of course I care,” Boy said.

He sat near Mother's bed and told us about Evie. He spoke quite freely, in a quiet, restrained voice, about her terrible and unhuman behavior. He made it clear that he wanted to hide nothing from Mother and me and that he considered it our right to know.

Mother was horrified. I think that once she had heard him out, she would sooner not have been told. Boy explained that at first they had tried to get Evie to go to the hospital voluntarily, but she had resisted so violently that it wasn't possible. So then they had to call the people from the hospital to take Evie away. I saw Boy tense up inside himself as he said this—she had had to be taken away like that once before, and he had been there that time, too, and he had told me that he never wanted to see it again.

Now Mother really had something to cry about. So many things! Boy and I sat on either side of her bed and she pressed both our hands and said, “Children, children.” All that crying completely washed away her make-up, and she suddenly looked her age.

“Poor Linda,” she said. “Oh, poor soul. What shall I do for her? Does she need money? Can I send her a check?”

“I'll let you know,” Boy said. He would, too. His mother always needs money. She is really hard up, and he couldn't afford to let such an opportunity go by.

“I wish I lived closer to her, so I could help. Or if she lived near me. Do you think she'd want to? I have this goddamn stupid apartment. My God, who
needs
all those rooms?” Now Mother was really getting carried away. The idea of those two, Mother and Linda, living together . . . Boy and I caught each other's eye and had to look away quickly. But Mother seemed to like her line of thought. “We wouldn't have to see each other every day. We wouldn't even have to cook or eat together, except maybe like Sunday brunch or something. And you two could come, too—it'd be fun. Just Sundays. And if you had—if there were some kids . . . Lots of people adopt kids. It doesn't make any difference, they say; you love them just the same. How would you like me as a grandma—what do you think? Grandma Bea?” She giggled.

Hamid could be heard calling outside the door. Mother let go of our hands. “Don't let him come in!” she said frantically. But he was in already. Mother quickly turned out the light by her bedside. Boy had stood up.

Hamid said, “What, all finished? Everyone gone bye-byes? Then I will go bye-byes, too. Good night.”

Boy said, “We could go for a walk. On the beach? There's almost a full moon.”

He was excited and entirely different from the way he had been only a moment before. Mother, too, was entirely different. She called out from the semi-darkness of her bed, “Yes, let's go for a walk in the moonlight!” She tried to make her voice youthful, but it cracked on too high a note.

“Why are you in bed?” Hamid asked her. “Are you ill? And in the dark . . .” He leaned over to switch on her lamp, but she caught his hand and said, “It hurts my eyes.”

“Come on!” Boy said urgently to Hamid.

“Wait for me!” Mother cried. “I'm getting my clothes on!”

As soon as they had gone, Mother jumped out of bed. She began to dress feverishly. Nothing I said could stop her, and her only answer to me, as usual, was “You don't understand.” She quickly pulled on some white jeans and a candy-striped sailor blouse.

I went out and sat on the porch. I could see Boy and Hamid walking by the edge of the ocean, and then I watched Mother running in her high-heeled pumps to join them. Terry was still inside, playing records, but after a while he came to sit with me. “Why don't you go with them?” I asked him.

“Why don't you?” he said, and then he answered for both of us: “We're not wanted.”

He spoke bitterly, and no wonder. Last summer, it had been different. Then it had been he and Boy walking on the seashore in the moonlight. But it hadn't been any different for me, because I had still sat here on the porch, watching them. Only then it had been Mother who was sitting with me, and Mother had been angry, indignant. She said, “What the hell are you doing, staying with him?” She wanted me to go away with her. She offered to help me pack, and we would both leave and I would stay with her in my own old room in the apartment.

And now Terry was saying, “I don't know how you stand it, Susie.”

And I said, as I always say to Mother, “Oh, it's okay. I don't mind.”

But I'm getting tired of people deciding for me what I can stand and what I can't. How do they know? Maybe I like things the way they are. No one ever tells me that it's wrong for me to love Mother for the way she is and not for how she is supposed to be. Then why not Boy—why can't I care for him the way he is?

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

Pauline was a New York real estate agent—middle-aged and comfortably settled. It had taken her many years to reach her present plateau of contentment, also to build up her own business, after having worked for other people. Now she had a tiny office which was almost a store-front—it had been an unsuccessful dry cleaner's before she had rented it and was in a row of other commercial establishments, including a deli, a nail spa, a newsagent, and a jewelry boutique about to go out of business. But Pauline had converted her interior into what was almost a cozy little parlor, with flowers, prints, and little armchairs done up in striped silk. The windows had curtains from inside, but from outside they were plastered with notices offering apartments in terms so attractive that passers-by often stopped to read them, even those who didn't need new accommodation.

However, there were enough people who did to give Pauline a comfortable income and a devoted clientele of her own. She took a very personal interest in her cases—as she humorously called them—and several of them remained her friends after she had accommodated them. These were mostly single women—though, unlike herself, not by choice but as a result of divorce or abortive affairs, so that they were often in need not only of apartments but of solace and friendship.

And of all the needy cases who came to her, Sylvie was the most desperate. It wasn't that she was poor—some of the others were in really tight straits because of unfavorable divorce settlements forced
on them by their husbands' lawyers. But Sylvie's husband had remained supportive. Of course, there wasn't only Sylvie to consider but also their daughter Amy. Sylvie and Amy came as a pair, a team: this was how they had first presented themselves in Pauline's office, two waifs in tatty but chic little frocks, so desperately in need of help that they sat in dumb despair, winding locks of their long blond hair around their fingers.

It was Pauline's specialty to know just how to cater to the needs and means of a client. But although Sylvie always said, “It's lovely, Pauline,” to whatever she showed her, and Amy echoed, “It's lovely, Pauline,” they never took the place. Something was always somehow wrong; neither of them could say what this was. So they said, “Lovely,” or “Fabulous,” or “Fantastic,” and then looked vague or blank, or miserable at not being able to oblige Pauline by signing a contract.

Yet their situation was hazardous—they really had to have a place, for they were under duress to vacate their present quarters, belonging to a friend who was no longer a friend. “Mona is so hostile,” Sylvie said and then clamped her lips tight, indicating that she did not want to say anything derogatory about anyone. And even when they were forced out—legal threats were involved—Sylvie still did not utter a word of complaint, but she and Amy came to Pauline's office with their bundles and suitcases, and they sat there, silent and forlorn.

Pauline had no alternative but to take them home to her own apartment. She did not want to at all. Pauline liked—she loved—her privacy, a preference it had taken her many years to achieve. In her youth she had been like everyone else and had craved romance, or at least companionship. When these were not forthcoming, or their promise was blighted, she had slowly come to accept her solitude and self-reliance. These became an absolute necessity after her mother died. Although they had not lived in the same city for years—the mother had remained in Kansas City—Pauline had visited her home-town at least three or four times a year, and they had spoken almost daily on the phone. Pauline had a married brother in Washington, and in the first years after their mother died, she was expected to spend Christmas and Thanksgiving with him and his family. But soon it was only Christmas, and then one year Pauline decided that it was easier to stay home; and after that she
spent all her Christmases at home, and usually alone—which she grew actually to like: that was how independent she was.

Sylvie and Amy stayed in her second bedroom. They were very considerate and tried to make themselves useful, which was not easy with someone of Pauline's settled temperament. Pauline didn't like the way they made beds, or washed and put away her dishes, so when she came home in the evenings, she undid everything they had done—rather grimly, for she was tired after her day's work. And she didn't like the way they cooked either—well, it wasn't really cooking, they usually prepared some sort of salad and beans (both of them were vegetarians), so that Pauline had to run down and buy herself a steak. By the time she had cooked and eaten it, she was completely exhausted and in no way inclined to be sociable or even agreeable. She went to bed long before they did—Amy was only ten, but she kept the same hours as her mother; and Pauline could hear them showering together, or laughing at the TV, and though they shushed each other and tried to walk on tiptoe, they kept her awake long after she needed to be asleep.

Still, she endured the situation. As all her friends and acquaintances could testify, she was a good sort who was always glad to help people out in their troubles. Besides, she knew the arrangement was only temporary, and that as soon as she found them a good apartment, she could have hers back again to enjoy in undisturbed comfort. This business of finding them an apartment had become a professional challenge: for whatever she came up with—and she came up with many, many—they continued to find unsuitable for their particular needs. She began to wonder somewhat bitterly how those complicated needs could possibly be satisfied in her spare bedroom: but of course they did have the place to themselves the whole day and could make full use of its many advantages, such as her washer and dryer, which were always full of their panties and T-shirts.

Unfortunately, besides laughing and showering together, they also had fights. Out of deference to her, they tried to keep their voices down, but getting excited, they began to shout bang doors. They fought like children—well, Amy
was
a child, Sylvie reacted as if she was, too. They called each other names like stink-bag and went over old grievances, such as when Amy ruined two pairs of Sylvie's jeans with bleach. These fights often ended with
Amy stuffing some tu-tus and her fluffy giraffe into a back-pack, saying she was leaving, she was going to her Daddy. However, this did not appear to be feasible, for she soon allowed Sylvie to unpack again and then they both went to sleep, earlier than usual because of being exhausted from their fight.

Pauline had met Amy's Daddy once or twice, when she had come home earlier than expected, and she suspected that he spent more time in her apartment than they wanted her to know. It must have been a convenient place for them, better than strolling around the streets and shops and cafés, which were their other alternatives. This was because Sylvie was not welcome in the place where her ex-husband lived—in his mother's very grand Park Avenue duplex, where Amy went to visit, by herself, every third Sunday.

Sylvie's ex-husband, whose name was Theo, was so much like Sylvie herself, and like their daughter, that Pauline wondered they had not stayed together. They certainly seemed to enjoy one another's company, and when Theo was there, the three of them did the same sort of things Sylvie and Amy did on their own. Theo even looked like them—he was slender and pale and fair-haired; and when he accompanied them to view the apartments that Pauline was hopefully showing them, he reacted with the same “It's lovely,” and the same unspoken opinion that it was not for them. He was also a vegetarian—in fact, he and Sylvie had met in India, in a guru's ashram where, let alone eggs, not even root vegetables, such as onions and potatoes, were allowed.

On the Sundays when Amy visited her Park Avenue grandmother, Sylvie was so depressed that Pauline felt obliged to cancel her usual Sunday arrangements and devote herself to Sylvie. But she never succeeded in making her feel better. There was the time when she had taken her for a walk in the Park, hoping to console her among the holiday crowds in spring clothes come out to enjoy the blossoms flying through the air like pink raindrops. Sylvie was in one of her long flowing pastel dresses—a bit faded because of being washed so often—and people looked at her with pleasure: only to look away again at once, shocked to see this embodiment of youthful enchantment in tears. Pauline was embarrassed, as if people were blaming
her for her companion's misery. And in a way she felt guilty that it was she who walked beside this girl and not a youth as fine and fair as Sylvie herself: not, that is, someone like Theo—or indeed, Theo himself.

This was the essence of their tragedy: that they could not be together. Every third Sunday Sylvie said it, or hinted at it, in a different way; but she always ascribed the fault to fate, or destiny, or plain bad luck, never blaming their separation on any person. Yet she could, it seemed to Pauline after several of these Sundays, very easily have named Theo's mother as the agent of their malevolent fate—Pauline herself was inclined to do so, after piecing together Sylvie's various hints on the subject. But as soon as Pauline said anything subversive about his mother, Mrs. Baum, Sylvie begged her to be silent; she put her hand on Pauline's and said in a gentle voice, “No, she's Theo's mother; she's a good person.”

“She hasn't been good to you,” Pauline said in her outspoken way.

Sylvie shook her head and smiled: “She's good to Theo and to Amy.”

She did not mention the fact—very clear to Pauline by now—that she herself was never invited to accompany Amy, or ever visit the Park Avenue place at all. Gradually Pauline came to realize that Sylvie had not even met Mrs. Baum. Yet she always spoke of her with admiration: what a grand lady she was, who gave the most fabulous parties, never for pleasure but always for a good cause or for some cultural purpose, for she sat on many boards—for the opera, and the ballet, and for the educational advancement of disadvantaged youths in the inner city. She was also the chairman of her late husband's company, which was a huge undertaking for a woman alone, so that she needed all the support she could get. And the way things were in the business world, Sylvie said, looking grave as though repeating a thought that was too big for her to handle, you were surrounded by sharks wanting to swallow you and all your assets, and the only people you could trust were your own immediate family.

“That's Theo?” Pauline said.

“She has no one else. No one in the world.”

“What about you?”

But again Sylvie shook her head, smiling: “Oh, you know how I'm just this airhead.”

Pauline said, “I don't know anything of the sort.” This was on another Sunday, when they had gone to a museum and were looking at pictures. Pauline's favorites were sunny landscapes with graceful young people walking in them in eighteenth-century clothes. Sylvie didn't seem to have any particular favorites—but she would suddenly be transfixed by a picture and would stand in front of it as in a trance; and when she finally managed to break away, it was evident that she had had a deep experience.

Obviously, under such circumstances, it was not possible for her to look at many pictures, and they often sat out, either in one of the galleries or under the glass roof of the loggia where fountains played and sometimes splashed them with cool drops.

“No, I'm not very bright,” Sylvie said. “Of course I never had the chance to go to college, though I'd have loved to study something. Painting, or psychology.”

Pauline put out her hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Sylvie's ear. “Oh, you're wet,” she said, feeling her cheek. “Should we sit somewhere else? I'm getting splashed too.”

“No, I like it, don't you? . . . Maybe Sanskrit. Or religion. I've always been very interested in religion. But I never even finished school. It wasn't my fault,” she said, looking sad, as she usually did when talking of the past, or that part of it.

Pauline had picked up some details of this past on a succession of previous Sundays: Sylvie's difficult childhood with a divorced mother, who had nervous breakdowns and finally died in a psychiatric institution—a private one that had absorbed most of her funds, leaving Sylvie only just enough to take a trip to India in pursuit of an interest in Hindu religion.