The Art of Mending
Elizabeth Berg
THE ART OF MENDING
A Novel
RANDOM HOUSE NEW YORK
CONTENTS
For those who find forgiveness
by way of the truth
and for those who find the truth
by way of forgiveness
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing There is a field. I’ll meet you there.
—
RUMI
Anyone’s childhood can be an act of disablement if rehearsed and replayed and squinted at in a certain light.
—
CAROL SHIELDS, FROM
UNLESS
The foxes were having their pups.
.
.
.
If a stranger appeared near the pens, if anything too startling or disruptive occurred, they might decide to kill them. Nobody knew whether they did this out of blind irritation, or out of roused and terrified maternal feeling.
—
ALICE MUNRO, FROM
LIVES OF GIRLS AND WOMEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Kate Medina has believed in me unequivocally since she first read me, and she makes no secret of it. I make no secret of this: I love her, and my gratitude to her is boundless. And I think that this time, she just needs to have the whole page to herself.
It is a photograph of a staircase that I took with my Brownie camera over forty years ago. On the newel post hang three jackets. At the bottom is mine, a turquoise corduroy, with deep pockets in which I used to hide Kraft caramels—I ate them every morning on my walk to school. Over my jacket is my brother Steve’s: denim, with a fleece lining. And over that, my mother’s stylish brown tweed car coat, an apricot-colored scarf spilling out of the pocket. Late-afternoon sun is streaming in through the window beside the stairs, illuminating the coats as well as three paper bags of groceries resting on the floor. I remember we’d been to Red Owl with our mother, and Steve and I had been given our own carts to select items from our own lists. That’s why I took the picture: I was proud of the grown-up work we’d done. Nearly out of frame are the rounded tips of shoes. Someone sitting on the staircase, waiting for us to see her.
1
THIS IS THE MINNESOTA STATE FAIR I REMEMBER MOST:
It was 1960, a Saturday morning when I was eleven years old, and I was the first one up. I had brought my mayonnaise jar stuffed with dollar bills and coins into the living room, spilled the money out onto the carpet, and then stepped over it to turn the television on to a low volume. I was going to watch
The Three Stooges
while I sorted my fortune.
I had just finished counting when my father came into the room. He was wearing a pair of trousers and a T-shirt and his battered old leather slippers speckled with paint the color of my bedroom walls. His blond crew cut was damp; you could see the glistening of water in it, making him look anointed, and he smelled of a citrusy aftershave. He was headed for the kitchen, where he would make coffee and bacon. This was his Saturday routine: He’d take a cup of coffee up to my mother in bed, prepared the way she liked it, with an eighth of a cup of cream and three level teaspoons of sugar. Then she would come down in one of her silk robes and make pancakes to go with the bacon.
I always hoped she would wear her peach-colored robe. It was my favorite, for its generous yardage and elaborate ruffled trim. Seeing what my mother wore was always interesting to me, whether it was the three-quarter-sleeve blouses she wore with the collars up, or the full skirts, tightly belted, or the pastel-colored cashmere sweater sets, or one of her many bathing suits, works of art designed to showcase her spectacular figure. Those suits came complete with cunning little skirts and jackets to wear over them, and broad-brimmed sun hats trimmed with fabric bands in coordinating colors. Before she was married, my mother worked for several years for an upscale department store, parading beautiful clothes before rich men’s wives. She inspired more sales than any other model before or after her; everyone wanted to look like her, though of course no one did. Think Grace Kelly with red hair and green eyes—that was my mother. But it wasn’t just her model’s training that made it so interesting to see what she wore, it was a quality inside herself. Charisma, my father said, but it seemed to me to be more than that. Other people had charisma. No one had what my mother did.
She had a large collection of jewelry, too; sometimes she allowed me to take one necklace at a time over to her bed, where I would lay it out and turn it this way and that, making it shine hard in the sunlight. “Are these real diamonds?” I once asked, and she said, “Why have them if they’re not?”
That Saturday morning, my father saw me sitting on the floor and came over to survey my neat stack of dollar bills, my coins piled high. “How much have you got there?” he asked.
“Forty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents.” I kept my smile tight to hold back my pride and stuck all my fingers between all my toes for the low pull of pleasure.
My father whistled between his teeth in a falling-bomb way I greatly admired and could not emulate despite hours of practice. He took his glasses off to polish them on the bottom of his T-shirt, then held them up for inspection: still dirty—he never managed to get them completely clear. “How’d you get that much?” He resettled his glasses on his face, pushing them up snug against his nose, a gesture I associated so strongly with him that I reflexively took issue with others doing it.
I said I’d been saving for a long time. I told him about the groceries I’d carried in for Mrs. Riley, “Mrs. Five Operations,” my mother called her, for her incessant replaying of the laminectomies she’d endured. I’d pulled weeds for Muriel and Helen Lockerby, the two wild-haired old-lady sisters who lived around the corner. I’d babysat for little Rachel Thompson every Thursday after school while her mother went to run errands, and I’d occasionally walked their dog, an arthritic old German shepherd named Heintz, who seemed to me to grimace every time he lifted his leg. I’d made pot holders and sold them around the neighborhood—once, a man who answered the door in his bathrobe had bought my entire week’s inventory, which made him in my eyes equally wonderful and weird. Also, though I did not tell my father this, I’d recently found a ten-dollar bill on the street, and I’d made no effort whatsoever to find the owner.
My father told me to wait for just a minute and disappeared. I sat immobile, my high spirits on hold, because I thought he was going to consult with my mother about how much I’d have to share with my eight-year-old sister, Caroline, who had saved little, and my seven-year-old brother, Steve, who had saved nothing at all. But that’s not what happened. Instead, my father reappeared, holding his wallet. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me. Mutely, I put it on the bottom of my pile, so no one would see. But I found out later that each of us kids had received the same gift.
I still remember what I brought home from the fair that day: a lantern that glowed Gatsby green in the dark, which I intended to take under the covers with me to read by; a bag of Tom Thumb doughnuts so redolent with the scent of cinnamon sugar it nearly levitated me; a poster of a brown mare and her foal, lying in a field full of daisies. The rest of the money I’d spent on rides and on chances to win something big on the midway. Over and over I tried, and over and over the carnies at the tacky wooden booths smiled and said, “Sorry. Want to try again?” They knew what I’d say. From the time I was quite small, I had about me a certain air of heedless determination.
When my funds were gone, I went to the blanket my parents had spread out near the edge of the fairgrounds. This was our meeting place, our refueling station—our family went to the fair once a year and stayed there all day. We kept a cooler filled with drinks and sandwiches and fruit, deli containers of various salads, Oreos and Chips Ahoy!—all this though we knew we would be gorging on fair food. There were also pillows and Band-Aids, suntan lotion and insect repellent, aspirin and a couple of Ace bandages. My parents took turns manning the station, sitting in a lawn chair and amusing themselves in their own way—my mother flipping through fashion magazines or crocheting, my father doing crossword puzzles or reading one of the historical tomes he so enjoyed. He tried often to interest us kids in history, saying it was invaluable for putting things into perspective. “You think something’s really great?” he’d say. “A long time ago, there was something just as good or better. You think something’s really bad? Look in the past—you’ll find something worse. Think something can never happen again? Wrong! History repeats itself
—that’s
what you can be sure of.” But we, like most children, did not resonate much to things beyond the day at hand. History had nothing to do with us.
My father also liked people-watching—he could sit for hours and stare at all the fairgoers who passed by him and feel perfectly entertained. He just got a charge out of people, their frailties and foolishness as much as their more admirable characteristics. I remember once lying in bed and overhearing an argument between my parents. This was a rare thing; they almost never crossed each other. But that night my mother was yelling: “Is
everything just fine
with you, then?” After a moment, I heard him say simply, Yes, everything was. An accusatory silence followed. I rose up on one arm and leaned toward my parents’ bedroom wall. I heard the ticking of my bedside clock; the movement of night air in the trees outside my window; then, finally, the even, comical sounds of my father snoring. I lay back down and fingered the buttons on my nightgown, and contemplated the disturbing possibility that my parents were not perfect.
On that day at the fair when I came back to the blanket, my mother was off with my brother and my sister was with a new neighbor her own age whom we’d brought along in the desperate hope that Caroline and she would become friends. My father was alone. I sat on the blanket beside his chair, and he gave my shoulder a little squeeze. Then he moved out of the chair to sit beside me. He looked at me for a long moment, then asked, “How are you doing, Laura?”
I held my hands out, palms up. “I spent it all.”
“Yes,” he said. “But I meant, how are you doing in general? Is there . . . well, how’s life treating you?”
I smiled. I thought he might be kidding. Sometimes he would ask me about politics in the same false and jocular way. “How about that Eisenhower?” he would say. And I would shrug and say, “
I
don’t know.” But his expression now was serious; he asked me again how I was, so I said, “Good, I guess.” Then, feeling this was not enough, I described my excitement at finding out I’d be getting the teacher I wanted that year at school: Mrs. Lindemeyer, who was old as the hills, and an easy grader.
My father nodded. “So you’re okay, then, are you? You’re happy?” The question was odd to me—I didn’t ever really think about whether or not I was happy—but I said yes. It seemed he was looking for something he couldn’t name and I couldn’t decipher, and the closest I could come to satisfying us both was for me to say I was fine; I was “happy.” He returned to his chair, and we sat in uneasy silence until the others returned.
My brother, his mouth rimmed with red from a candy apple he’d just eaten, had spent all his money too. My sister had spent none. I remember being astounded at this; angry, too, that Caroline would be left with so much when I now had nothing. “How can you have fun if you don’t even spend any money?” I asked her.
A pleated caramel-apple wrapper skittered by, and she captured it beneath her shoe. “I had fun.”
I snorted. “How?”
She looked up at me, an irritating calmness in her eyes. “I watched.” The new neighbor, Linda Carmichael, confirmed this: While Linda rose high up in the sky on the Ferris wheel, Caroline stood watching and waving from below.
“That’s retarded,” I said. I could tell Linda agreed with me, and I remember thinking that she and Caroline would never be friends; here was yet another opportunity Caroline had lost.
“You mind your own business, Laura,” my mother said quietly. That’s what she said when I told Caroline she was stupid not to eat the treats that were handed out at various classroom celebrations, too. Every time there was a party at school, Caroline ate nothing. No candy corn at Halloween, no message hearts on Valentine’s Day, no red- and green-sprinkled spritz cookies at Christmas, no garishly decorated cupcakes brought in because someone in class was having a birthday. Instead, anything she ever got she tented with paper towels and then carefully carried home on the school bus. As soon as she walked in the door, she presented it to my mother and my mother ate it.
I never understood this about Caroline. Now I do. It’s all clear now: the times Caroline, as a small child, lay in the hall outside the bathroom door while my mother bathed. The presents she later bought for her with babysitting money: barrettes, scarves, lipsticks. Paperback books and velvet roses. “Brownnoser!” I once whispered after she’d given my mother a bottle of dime-store perfume. Caroline ignored me; she sat at the kitchen table where I was doing homework and began pulling books and papers out of her schoolbag. She was in sixth grade then, and I in eighth. “Brownnoser!” I said again, out loud.
“Laura,” my mother said, and I returned to my homework. There was a tiny smile on Caroline’s face, and I kicked her under the table. She did not kick me back; rather, she moved away to another chair and straightened with pinched-nose efficiency a stack of notebook paper that did not need straightening. She cocked her head slightly to the left and the right as she did it. I hated it. I glared at her between narrowed lids; I believed I could feel heat coming from my eyeballs. All this was to no avail; Caroline looked at her schoolwork only.
Then came a gift I remember particularly well, something given to my mother by Caroline the Christmas she was sixteen. It was the last gift opened that year, and it was a framed photograph, an 8-by-10. My mother stared at it briefly, murmured a low thanks, and started to put the picture back in the box.
“What is it?” I said. “Let me see!” I snatched it away. The picture was of Caroline wearing one of my mother’s slinky evening gowns, her hand on her hip. Caroline’s auburn hair, the same color as my mother’s, was styled in a twist like the one my mother always wore. Her makeup was heavily applied in a style exactly my mother’s own, and she stared unsmilingly into the camera. It was chilling, the look on Caroline’s face: the flat eyes, the hard line of mouth, the
remove.
I had never seen such a look. “What is this supposed to be?” I asked.
My brother took the photo from me and looked at it. He burst into laughter, the goofy adolescent-boy kind, and Caroline grabbed the picture from him and threw it onto the floor. “It isn’t for you,” she said. She turned to stare at my mother, who did not look back at her, and then left the room.
“Caroline!” my father called after her. “Come back here!” But she did not return. My father rose, as though to go after her. Then he saw the picture, and he sat back down.
This I understand now, too—as well as what my father meant that long-ago day at the fair, when what he was really asking was if I knew.
