Our Father (21 page)

Her mind entered the state she called praying—sensation and emotion wrapped in imagination. Scenes, words, characters popped up in it like jetsam carried by a flood, but the stream moved on its own and she never reached any conclusion, never even framed a question in words. She knew only that the periods of quiet solitude she called prayer were necessary to her existence.

I am loved and I love, I know that. If love is redemption, why isn’t that enough?

Elizabeth’s grim face as she pounded the table, Mary sobbing frighteningly, uncontrollably, Ronnie’s dark resentment, eyes haunted with rage, pain they live in so much pain, I too with no cause. Useless suffering.

What religion is about? Suffering earns you brownie points with god, phah, what kind of god is that. That book David made me read when we were first dating, what was his name? Russian. Suffering alone redeems.

Why? How?

No.

All of us walking around smiling, bobbing, working, scurrying, catching buses, inside an acute pain, a nail in the flesh a need a hope a tragic loss a something that cannot can never be made right. What good is that? The only thing we share, the pain of living and of the knowledge of death. Move from childhood is the movement into the knowledge that pain is always with us. True loss of innocence. Never did have anything to do with sex. Only thing pain is good for is to help us to connect: weep for me sister for I am sore at heart you too I weep for you I feel your pain I feel mine you feel mine you feel yours know we are together in that if nothing else whatever the cause. We weep together if alone.

Air brushed her cheek, images flickered, slight bird sounds animal movement in the forest that forgot she was present, had adjusted to her utterly still silent body. Faces flickered, wrenched and gray, bodies missing limbs, dancing, dancing. The lines on people’s faces are scarifications—deep straight scars, curled shallow scars, purple-red zigzags. Each set of hands traces the scars on another face, tenderly, strokes the crippled limbs, the stumps. Music playing, we are alone, together, together alone. We are therefore we suffer. Animals march into the room in pairs like into the ark, sheep elephants gazelles dogs anteaters ants scarified but less than the humans, biting and nuzzling each other, noisy, mooing and baahing, rank familiar comforting smell of living flesh and dung, all shitting on the floor and all hungry, always hungry.

She shuddered awake. I’m going crazy. I must go away.

9

“I
’M READY TO GO,
” Alex called, putting her head out the front door where they stood waiting for her. “Just have to pee! Get in the car, I’ll be right there.” Mary tried to share her contempt for Alex’s crude speech with Elizabeth but Elizabeth was gazing into space. After a few minutes, Alex hopped in the car where the others waited. “Sorry,” she offered breathlessly as the car started up. “I was out in the woods and lost track of time.”

“We need to stop for milk on the way back,” Mary said.

“Can’t Mrs. Browning telephone the market?”

“And ask them to deliver a quart of milk?”

“Can’t Aldo get it later without holding us up?” Elizabeth protested. “I have work to do.”

“I’ll get it, on my bike,” Alex offered.

Mary shrugged. “He’d have to make an extra trip. Use more gas. You’re the one always on about saving money.”

“We’re not
that
broke,” Elizabeth said.

“You said every penny counts when I wanted the beluga.”

“There’s a huge difference in price between beluga and sevruga caviar, Mary.”

“But that’s a difference that matters.”

Elizabeth exploded. “Maybe you enjoy it, but I don’t like stopping at Donelan’s in a limousine. Do you mind?”

Mary arched her eyebrow. “Reverse snobbery?”

Elizabeth pulled out a cigarette and lighted it.

Mary fanned herself with her purse.

Alex wondered why her offer to pick up the milk had simply been ignored.

Ronnie grimaced. Their squabbles no longer fascinated her: it was no longer a surprise to discover signs of trouble in paradise. Clearly, the idea of paradise had been a delusion. Just had to find something to fight over, those two. Tedious, she thought, then discarded this as a Mary-word. And however she sounded, she didn’t want to sound like Mary. She’d rather reek of the streets.

Funny. She’d almost liked Mary the other week. Shy but curious, wanted to see how I live. The other half, the
lower
half really. She lives like practically nobody. One percent? Less? And it seems like she can’t afford to keep doing it. Maybe getting ready for her future? Never happen. Ronnie chewed on the inside of her lip.

But all of them were out of kilter today, surprising after the general harmony yesterday.

Today when Stephen’s eyelid fluttered, all of them saw it. Mary cried out, “Father! Father! You’re awake!” The others stood watching, silent, and all seemed deep in their own thoughts on the ride home. They did not stop for milk, but Aldo drove back to town after dropping them at the house.

“I would’ve gotten it,” Alex said reproachfully to Mary.

“We need it for lunch,” she said brusquely.

They spoke little at lunch. Some geese flew over honking, and they all looked out at the sky. Mary said it was late for geese. Ronnie agreed. Elizabeth remarked that she should call Hollis. The conservatorship hadn’t come through yet and perhaps he should delay it if Father was going to wake up. No one responded. They had finished eating and Elizabeth had rolled her napkin and slid it back in its ring when Alex said, “Do you all realize that Thursday is Thanksgiving?” They looked at her blankly.

“So what,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh dear. That’s why Browning asked for the day off,” Mary said petulantly.

“Well, what are we planning to do?” Alex pushed.

They all shrugged, muttering that they didn’t know.

“Well,” she began brightly, “I was thinking we could cook a Thanksgiving dinner and take it to Father in the hospital!”

This earned her looks of disgust. Everyone left the table.

Later in the afternoon, hearing the loud banging on the piano, Ronnie wondered what was up Mary’s butt, then hearing the door to the study slam shut, extended the question to Elizabeth. Are they upset that he’s getting better? But why are they angry with each other? She wondered if anyone would show up at cocktail hour.

But they all wandered in, Mary with a tight angry mouth, Elizabeth looking distracted, as if she were not inside her body. She made an announcement: she was having a gin and tonic; Ronnie and Alex joined her. Mary stuck with her vermouth cassis.

“So what do you all think?” Alex began tensely.

“About what?” Mary asked sullenly.

“Thanksgiving!” Alex cried. “What we were talking about at lunch!”

“I for one—I don’t care what the rest of you do—have no intention of eating in a hospital on Thanksgiving—or any other day,” Mary announced. “Absolutely not!”

“We can’t take our Thanksgiving dinner into the intensive care ward, the hospital wouldn’t allow it,” Elizabeth cried in scorn. “Father can’t eat! They’re feeding him intravenously, can’t you two see that? It’s a stupid idea! Really, I can’t understand how both of you can be so stupid!”

Alex paled. “No, no, I knew that. Really. What it was—I was counting on his being awake by Thursday. And us having a celebration. I guess I’ll have to go home after all,” she added faintly.

“What, it’s either dinner in the hospital or dinner in Newark,” Ronnie laughed, “and Newark is worse? You’re having such a wonderful time here?”

“It’s just that my kids keep phoning, they’re clamoring for me to come home—and David’s getting antsy too, I’ve been away so long. So I told them we were going to celebrate Father’s waking up. You see, I’m sure he’ll be awake by then. I know it.”

Mary drew a sharp breath.

Unheeding, Alex continued, “All along I’ve been telling them that I have to stay here, that it’s vital to Father’s well-being that we all visit him every day. I believe it is.” She turned and glanced at each of them. “But I can’t explain not coming home for Thanksgiving if we don’t spend it with Father. It’s such a joyful holiday in our house. The kids wouldn’t understand. Or David.”

“And you don’t want to go home,” Ronnie concluded. So was there trouble in that little middle-class heaven too? Didn’t sound it, she always made things sound perfectly ordinary, perfectly happy. Build a heaven in hell’s despite and it turns into hell. Wonderful irony.

Alex’s face twisted. “It’s not that … I can’t explain … I feel … There’s so much going on inside me these days. I need to let it happen and it won’t happen if I go home, it will stop. And I need something … it feels as if something terrible will happen if I leave.”

“To you? To your father? To your kids?” Ronnie asked with intense curiosity.

“To me.”

“Thanksgiving was never one of my favorite holidays. Actually I hate all holidays except Mardi Gras,” Mary said, “and that only in the old days.” She grimaced. “Too … déclassé now.”

“I just hate them all,” Elizabeth said dourly. She and Mary looked at each other.

“I love Thanksgiving,” Alex said, her voice very soft, “the family gets together. …”

“Precisely,” Elizabeth muttered.

God how I hate Thanksgiving: Mary let in the thought she’d been shutting out all day. All the way out to Pound Ridge to Martin’s house, sitting there eating a dried-up turkey with Marguerite so supercilious and bored-looking, those white eyelashes of hers how I hate them wouldn’t you think her mother would have taught her to use mascara? and those brats, and Bertie acting like a silly fool, Marie-Laure sulking. No one else invites me anymore. Have to go to Martin’s or sit alone in my apartment with no maid to cook for me. I couldn’t go to a restaurant alone. Call someone to escort me: Larry? Oh, it’s too late. Everyone has plans by now.

“My children are dying to have me come, of course,” she said, “but I must confess I find it trying being around babies—my grandchildren are still small. And Martin lives all the way out in the suburbs, such an awful trip.” Have to beg him to drive all the way to the airport to pick me up. He hates doing chores, expects Marguerite to do everything for him. Just like his father. He’d do it, but with that martyred air, Yes Mother, get in the car Mother. Horrible. Or he’d send Bertie, who drives like a maniac.

Thanksgiving in Washington, Elizabeth thought with a sinking heart. Always welcome at the Bernsteins’ but there’s limited pleasure in sitting at the dinner table of somebody who works for you, everybody so excessively polite you could die from facecrack. Year the secretary invited me, now that was worthwhile. No invitation this year: wonder why. Am I on my way out? Could go to the Ethiopian restaurant in Georgetown. Or stay home, eat a frozen dinner. Could do that here. Save a trip.

“Actually, I don’t want to break off my work at this point,” Elizabeth said self-importantly “I’d prefer to stay here and maintain the continuity. And of course, if Father is about to wake up, it’s vital to be here,” she added, looking at Alex.

I could have dinner with Rosa, Ronnie thought, she invited me last month. I forgot all about it. I have to call her, she’s shy about calling here. Would be good to see them all. But Rosa has no room for me to sleep now the kids are grown. Lidia sleeps on a futon as it is. I have no place to stay. But I bet Linda’d let me sleep on her couch. She’d welcome me. If she’s there. Maybe she’ll go home too. Anyway, I could go, use her pad. Wouldn’t want to be stuck here alone. Or with them if Alex left.

Alex’s eyes were damp. “I want to stay with you,” she said.

Three pairs of eyes met hers, held.

After a long silence, Mary said vaguely, “I suppose we could do something. Have a turkey or …” She gasped. “But I gave Teresa the day off too!” she recalled.

Elizabeth shrugged. “So we’ll go out. What’s the difference?”

“Restaurants are horrible on Thanksgiving!” Mary exclaimed petulantly. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little late to get a reservation at one of the few decent restaurants around here?”

“Why don’t
we
cook?” Alex asked, her voice brightening.

“That would be nice,” Mary agreed, “but I can’t cook. I
can
make tea.”

“Neither can I,” Elizabeth said. “But I’m willing to peel vegetables if someone gives me directions.”

“Tea and peeled vegetables for dinner!” Ronnie brayed. “Wonderful! Well, hell, I can make beans and rice for dessert.”

They all laughed. Together. The tension loosened.

So that was what it was all about: Thanksgiving.

Only Alex was biting her lip. “I guess I’ll have to lie and
tell
them we’re spending the day with Father.”

Drawing up the menu proved fertile ground for disagreement.

“Quenelles for
Thanksgiving
, Mary! Only you would want that!” Alex laughed. “And I don’t know how to make them.”

“Beans and rice? Beans and rice? What is that? Yes, I know it’s Mexican, but do you eat it
with
the turkey,
instead of
the turkey, or
after
the turkey? I mean, why do we have to have that at all?”

“Because I want it,” Ronnie said. “We have to honor my traditions too. Like pricking our fingers and mingling our blood,” she smiled.

Mary shuddered. “Suppose one of us had AIDS!”

“Well, if one of us does, it isn’t likely to be Ronnie,” Elizabeth quipped.

After much discussion, they decided on a traditional turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce, guacamole to start, Mexican beans and rice, Mary’s white puree, a salad, and a pumpkin pie from Alex. It was agreed that all of them together would market, that Alex and Ronnie would cook and Elizabeth and Mary would clean up, not just after the meal but after each stage of preparation—of the cranberry sauce, the pumpkin pie, the giblet stuffing. Mary was not enthusiastic about this idea, but since she had quashed eating in a restaurant, she had little choice.

They were high, even a touch giggly on the day itself, driving back from the hospital (no eye flutters that day), eager to get into action in the kitchen. Mary turned up the volume on the old stereo in the playroom so they could hear it in the kitchen and took charge of putting on records. The sisters commented on each selection—all of
The Well-Tempered Clavichord
, played by Artur Schnabel (“Boring,” Ronnie yelled; Mary thought that set must date back to her mothers day); the Mozart Piano Concerto K. 467 (“Father must have seen
Elvira Madigan
,” Mary said sarcastically); two Beethoven piano sonatas (“Why do you think he bought those?”); Frank Sinatra (“Yuck,” cried Ronnie, who also decided that Stephen had liked Ella Fitzgerald because she sang white bread music). Wayne Newton was unanimously booed off the turntable. “It’s what he has,” Mary apologized.