The World Without You (9 page)

“And all
I’m
saying is I’d appreciate it if you minded your language.”

“Yes, Noelle. You’ve made your point.”

Ahead of them, a deer stands next to the road, looking from side to side, as if checking out the traffic. “Don’t you dare,” Lily says.

“What?”

“I was talking to the deer.” She drives around a bend, and when they emerge into the clearing, they are surrounded by huge stalks of corn and, beyond them, patches of butter lettuce. A sign at the side of the road reads
MEATBALLS
,
NACHOS
,
WATER
. They pass an ad for an animal clinic, with the words
IAMS
SOLD
HERE
.

“Why do you need cell phone service, anyway? Can’t you stand to be unwired for a few days?”

“I have work to do, Noelle. This holiday hasn’t exactly come at a good time.”

“Well, it’s not good for any of us. Do you think it’s easy to fly in from Israel? Or cheap?”

“I assumed Mom and Dad helped you out.”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“Or Grandma. You’re always asking Grandma for money.”

“That’s not true.”

Lily looks at her.

“Well, sometimes.”

Lily nods, feeling as if she’s proven a point, though she doesn’t even know what that point is.

They drive past Ludlow, where the grass is lined with yellow flowers and where, beyond a wooden fence, horses are at a feed trough and a woman in a straw hat is navigating a tractor. Through the window, Lily takes in the smell of freshly mown grass.

“Grandma could help you out, too,” Noelle says. “And if you weren’t so pigheaded you’d let her.”

“I don’t need Grandma’s money.”

“But Malcolm does, doesn’t he? Isn’t he trying to open his own restaurant?”

“What does that have to do with Grandma?” Malcolm has found a building on Capitol Hill, where there’s been a dining boom, and he’s been getting good press—he had a full-page photo in the
Washingtonian
in an article about D.C.’s best young chefs—and now all he needs is financial backing. A lot of it. But if Noelle thinks Malcolm should ask Gretchen for help, she misunderstands their grandmother entirely. Gretchen could fund Malcolm’s restaurant singlehandedly and she wouldn’t even know the money was missing. Gretchen’s first husband, Lily’s paternal grandfather, died of a heart attack when Lily’s father, their only child, was six, and she subsequently outlived two other husbands, both of whom were CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, neither of whom had children. So Gretchen inherited everything they owned. She speaks of this with pride. What others might call greed she sees as discernment: she knows whom to marry. Gretchen is ninety-four and lives alone in an enormous apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking the Met, where, Lily suspects, she’s busy honing those powers of discernment, determining whom best to bat her eyelashes at. At heart, she’s an insecure woman who believes people value her only for her money; if that’s true, Lily thinks, it’s because she has brought it on herself. She’s always promising people money, then breaking those promises; she rewrites her will every year. She demands strict devotion from her family, and she likes to pit the grandchildren against each other, writing a check to one that’s slightly larger than her check to the next one, all based on her quixotic assessment of who reveres her most. If Malcolm wants Gretchen to fund his restaurant, he’d do well to move to Fifth Avenue and show up every morning with a mimosa. Even that would do him no good, because he’d cross her in a way he hadn’t divined and then all his hard work would have been for naught. Lily’s family is comfortable, but it’s possible that when her grandmother dies—though Lily doesn’t believe this will ever happen; Gretchen is too iron-willed to die—she and her sisters could become very wealthy. Just as likely, Gretchen could give all her money to the New York Horticultural Society; she’d do it simply because she could. For all these reasons, Lily has resolved not to win Gretchen’s favor. She received the money all the siblings received at twenty-five and she doesn’t want anything more. If her grandmother offered to fund Malcolm’s restaurant, Malcolm would think the money came without strings, but there are always strings with Gretchen. In no time, she’d be taking the train down to D.C., where she would camp out in Malcolm’s kitchen cooking her favorite breakfast, scrambled eggs with horseradish cheddar. She’d have the restaurant closed in a matter of months.

“Anyway,” Noelle says, “it’s not just money, it’s time. Do you know how long it takes to fly here?”

“Probably about as long as it took me to drive up from D.C. You should have seen the traffic. I was stuck with all the soccer moms.” Lily gives the dashboard a firm, affectionate rap, as if she’s thumping the rear of a horse.

“Well, I’m sorry Leo’s death has inconvenienced you.”

“Tell me something, Noelle. Do you think Leo would have wanted us to have this memorial?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, I do. He’d have hated it. If he were here, he’d be off vomiting in the corner.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

On the other side of the turnpike, two scarecrows are pinned to a tree. An American flag hangs from a pole, folded over on itself like a napkin.

“Where’s Malcolm?” Akiva asks, leaning over from the backseat.

“I left him behind,” Lily says. “He’s been grounded.”

“He’s not coming?” says Noelle.

“He’s too busy at work. He had a hundred reservations for dinner tonight.” What Lily doesn’t tell Noelle is that, once he leaves work, Malcolm will be driving down to the Outer Banks. One of his roommates from culinary school is in from London, so the roommates have decided to make a North Carolina beach holiday out of it.

They pass a road sign with a picture of a cow on it, and a few hundred yards later a pasture opens before them with dozens of cattle. At the exit is a sign for miniature golf.

“How long have you guys been a couple, anyway?” Noelle says.

“Ten years,” Lily says. “We celebrated our anniversary last month.”

“Have you ever thought about getting married?”

“You mean, have we thought about getting married since the last time you asked me if we’d thought about getting married?”

“Well, have you?”

“No, Noelle, we haven’t.” Lily considers asking Noelle why she wants her to marry Malcolm. Malcolm isn’t Jewish, so if she were to marry him Noelle and Amram would boycott their wedding the same way they boycotted Leo and Thisbe’s wedding. But there’s no point in pursuing this path. Noelle will disapprove of her not marrying Malcolm just as she’ll disapprove of her marrying him.

“Because you don’t believe in marriage,” Noelle says.

“How can I possibly not believe in marriage?”

“You certainly don’t seem to.”

“For several years there, I was spending every weekend in a cocktail dress at some winery, allocating my disposable income to bridal gifts. Now my paycheck goes to baby showers. I should take it as a tax deduction. Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re above it all,” Noelle says.

“Believe me, Noelle, I’m not above anything.”

“But you’re not going to have kids.”

“Noelle, you’re having enough kids for both of us.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“To have so many kids?”

“To have them for you. Doesn’t it bother you that your line will run out?”

“My line?” Lily says. “What is this? Divine right of kings? Heir to my throne?”

“Why do you think we were put here on earth?”

“We weren’t put here,” Lily says. “We’re just here.”

Noelle sniffles, blows her nose, and for a second Lily thinks she’s crying. But when she glances over, Noelle is just sitting there impassively, staring straight ahead.

Now the boys have woken up, and Lily finds herself rattling to the percussive thump of her nephew’s foot against the back of her seat.

“Yoni,” Noelle says, “stop kicking Aunt Lily.”

“I don’t mind,” Lily says.

“Well, I do.”

From behind the wheel, Lily can hear the sound of elbows jamming into ribs; one of the boys has slugged the other.

“Kids!” Noelle says.

Yoni reaches into his mother’s bag and removes a tube of apple sauce and a container of Jell-O.

“Be careful,” Noelle says. “You don’t want to dirty Lily’s car.”

“It’s already dirty,” Lily says. “They can litter it to their hearts’ delight.”

Now one of the boys has switched on the interior light, the better to play finger baseball by.

“If we weren’t running late,” Lily says, “I’d take you kids to Fenway Park. I could show you the Green Monster.”

“Are you a Red Sox fan?” Akiva asks.

“Only when they play the Yankees.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a Mets fan.” In 1986, the year the Mets won the World Series, Lily accompanied Leo, who was fourteen at the time, on the subway to Flushing, to watch Dwight Gooden and Daryl Strawberry play at Shea Stadium. Everyone in the family was a Mets fan, and in the bleachers at Shea even Lily and Noelle got along. Lily has no patience for Yankee fans, especially the newly minted New Yorkers, the arrivistes. She knows suffering: she’s witnessed the Mets endure hundred-loss seasons. So when Akiva announces he’s a Yankee fan, she says, “Too bad for you. I guess we’ll have to eat at separate tables.”

Akiva is silent.

“I’m only kidding,” she says.

Though Akiva, perhaps to make sure, says, “I like basketball better, anyway.”

Now the boys have grown quiet, and Lily and Noelle turn quiet, too. Noelle’s phone rings, and she answers it in a whisper.

“Who was that?” Lily asks when she hangs up.

“Amram,” Noelle says. “He was checking on our progress.”

“And?”

“We’re progressing, aren’t we?”

More bird shit hits the windshield. It’s as if a flock of geese is following them, dappling them with waste.

The news is on again: there’s the possibility of a hailstorm. In July! Another reason, Lily thinks, to be back in D.C., land of March cherry blossoms and sweltering summers. Or on the Maryland shore. Or on the North Carolina shore with Malcolm. The summer she met Malcolm, she could occasionally get Mets games on the radio in Des Moines, when the team was playing the Cubs. Now she and Malcolm have gone in with friends to purchase Washington Nationals season tickets, though as often as not they have to give them away; it’s what they’ve done for tomorrow’s game. Lily wouldn’t mind being back home, sitting with Malcolm and their friends in their appointed seats, drinking beer and eating peanuts.

From the back of the van comes a sneeze, and another one.

“Does he have a cold?”

“Allergies,” Noelle says.

“Hay fever?”

“Some.” Noelle rolls down the window, but soon the rain starts to come in, so she rolls it up again. “It feels doggy in here. Has Svengali been in the van?”

“At some point,” Lily says. “Malcolm likes to take him on errands.”

“On errands?” Noelle says. “He’s a dog”

“I know what he is”

“Does he still drink from the toilet?”

“Whenever possible. We try to leave the seat up for him. That way, he has more room to maneuver.”

“I hope you at least flush beforehand.”

“If we remember to.”

“The things you let that dog do. I remember one time you went for a run, and afterward Svengali was licking your forehead.”

“He likes salt,” Lily says.

“Well, I wouldn’t let a ninety-pound Rhodesian ridgeback lick my forehead no matter how much I loved him.”

“Yes, Noelle, you’ve made that clear.” When, Lily wonders, did Noelle become so squeamish? She remembers years ago catching Noelle peeing in the shower. “We do have toilets in this house,” she said. To which Noelle responded, “What’s a WASP? Someone who gets out of the shower to pee.” And afterward, Lily and Clarissa, the ostensible WASPs, would do little riffs on Noelle’s words. “What’s a WASP?” Lily said. “Someone who puts on clothes to go to school.” “What’s a WASP?” Clarissa said. “Someone who wipes her butt after she takes a dump.”

The boys have fallen asleep again, and Lily can hear them breathing in quiet syncopation. Through the rearview mirror, she sees a line of drool descend Yoni’s mouth and settle on his chin. “I have a tissue.”

Noelle shakes her head. “Better to let him sleep.”

“They’re cute,” she says.

“Who?”

“Your kids. The other ones, too. In the car with Amram.” But the words come out hollow. It’s always that way with Noelle. Even when she’s doing her best, Noelle looks at her askance, as if whatever she says smacks of pretense.

The Berkshire mountains surround them now, the clouds perched low above the summits. Lily recalls the car rides when she was a girl, going past Brewster and Pawling and Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center, stuck behind a Winnebago with the words
OVERSIZE
LOAD
printed across it, then on to the familiar Berkshires towns, to South Egremont and Great Barrington and Stockbridge, closer and closer to their summer home. “Soon, soon,” she says, but Noelle doesn’t answer her.

The boys wake up long enough to play tic-tac-toe on the window, but now they’ve fallen asleep again, moving in and out of wakefulness.

They go over a small bridge, the car reverberating along the wooden planks. Deer signs lie up ahead, one after the other like mile markings. “Those signs are ridiculous,” Lily says.

“They’re warnings,” says Noelle. “They’re for our own good.”

“Those deer are always prancing—looking happy when they’re about to get killed. And us along with them, if we’re not careful.”

“The problem in Israel is cats,” Noelle says. “You can’t open a dumpster without having one jump out at you.”

“At least they don’t have antlers.”

“Israel used to have a mice problem,” Noelle says. “So they brought in the cats. Next they’ll have to bring in the dogs.”

“And then the buffalo.”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

Lily glances up at the rearview mirror. Akiva’s head, which was leaning against the window, is now lolling to the other side; he’s bent over himself like a puppet. For an instant, she has an image of Leo as a baby, so rubbery, so pliable—he resembled Gumby—and of herself up late holding him against her chest, trying to quiet him as he cried, tiptoeing down the long hallway of her parents’ apartment, around and around as if they were doing a waltz.