They May Not Mean To, but They Do: A Novel (31 page)
Read They May Not Mean To, but They Do: A Novel Online
Authors: Cathleen Schine
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Contemporary Women, #Family Life
“It was very satisfying, at any rate, telling the kids,” Karl said. “Put the fear of god into them.”
Joy nodded. “Good. That’s good. Poor things.”
Then she had an idea.
She didn’t want to marry him, and she didn’t want to live with him, it was true. They were both too old and set in their ways, and her apartment turned out to be just big enough for her and all her mail, and now that she had the dog, she didn’t mind staying there alone. But, well, she had feelings for Karl. She did. Strong feelings. She loved being with him, having dinner or sitting beside him in the park. She missed him when they were not together. Karl bracketed her long love for Aaron—on the one side hovered the youthful, passionate Karl and the foggy memories of a college beau, on the other this new foggy tolerant affection for a man in old age.
Marriage, however, even living with him—that was a time together they had missed, a time that could not be recovered.
“No wedding,” she said. “No oldies shacking up.”
“I know, I know.”
But their children, they’d gotten her back up. Who did they think they were, those sons of his, telling Karl he shouldn’t marry someone if he wanted to? As for Molly and Daniel, had Karl’s presence at the bat mitzvah hurt anyone?
“The children mean well,” she said. “But it can be a bit much.”
He said, “Amen.”
“Well, here’s my idea,” she said. “We’ll get engaged. Just engaged. Nothing decided, nothing certain, no plans, but always that possibility. It’s very existential.
And
it’ll keep those kids all on their toes.”
Karl laughed. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Joy,” he said, “you take my breath away.”
A ticket window and a growl from the female functionary. The paint was thick and tired on the walls. The trip down to 2 Washington Street had been a tiring fuss of bumps and jerks, horns, the sputtering of the taxi TV that would not turn off, the smell of the driver’s lunch, which he ate as he swore automatically and without passion in his second language. The fare was a shock, and Joy tried to put it out of her mind as she waited for the elevator, waited and waited, then forgot what floor she was going to and guessed the fifth. She was right, there was a sign, and she turned and stood before a counter that had obviously emigrated from Eastern Europe well before the Velvet Revolution. Joy gave Ben’s name and handed over the rumpled pink traffic ticket.
“Is this where I belong?” she asked the clerk.
The woman nodded, and Joy said, “But I don’t really. I’m here for my grandson. He’s back in New Orleans tending bar while he applies to law school. He did very well on the LSATs. So he’s not here. But I am his emissary.”
The clerk handed her a card with a number and name scribbled on it.
“Where do I go?” Joy asked.
The clerk pointed to a hallway.
In the courtroom, Joy walked down the center aisle. On either side were long benches crowded with people, like a well-attended church, although a round-shouldered resentment permeated the space, a communal almost penal resentment and resignation. Joy found a space far in the back and settled on the hard bench. She was out of breath. She was out of her element. She was out of her mind. She could have been married to a nice old man who loved her and had enough money to keep her safe and warm and fed and to hire someone to wipe the drool from her chin. Aaron, she thought, don’t you think I should have said yes? I still could, though it would be so undignified. What do you think, Aaron? But Aaron had no answers for her. Why should he? He was safely out of this vale of tears. Well, enjoy, she said to him. Don’t worry about me, left behind in this place where I have no place. Enjoy.
There was a judge in the room, though he was not seated high above them on an elaborate wooden platform as Joy had expected. The bench in this case appeared to be a metal folding chair. In front of the judge, a lawyer stood and seemed to interview each defendant, reading out their names and crimes in a loud ringing voice, asking them questions, then repeating it all to the judge, who sat not more than two feet away.
Joy had dressed for a civic appointment. Her outfit did not fit her as well as she would have liked, that’s how much weight she had lost since Aaron’s death, but it was respectable, and with her silk scarf, it was quite elegant, she thought. The other traffic offenders had been somewhat less exacting about their clothing. Most of the men were wearing tank-top undershirts, and it was hot for a September day, Joy had to admit. There weren’t too many women present, but the ones who were there were also, for the most part, wearing tank tops, though theirs were brightly colored. So many young people had tattooed their arms and shoulders and necks. Joy could see tigers and winking eyes and dragons and flags and long-tailed birds. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. She had not a single tattoo. She could not imagine what tattoo she would wear if she chose to wear a tattoo. Her grandchildren’s initials? Betty Boop, perhaps.
She was overcome with self-consciousness. I do not belong here. I have no tattoo. I am out of place. My clothing is wrong. No, their clothing is wrong. How dare people come to a public hearing dressed for the beach? But that’s how it’s done these days, that must be how it’s done. I have lost touch with normal social behavior. I no longer know what is expected. And when I find out what is expected, undershirts and tattoos, I do not like it.
I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere.
A gust of the place’s generalized resentment wafted over her for a moment, becoming her own resentment, resentment toward Ben for peeing in the street, resentment toward New York City for giving him no alternative, resentment toward the courtroom full of sweating people in shorts and flip-flops. Then the resentment eased into resignation, the room’s other mood, heavier, oppressive. Here I am, she thought, where I don’t belong. One more place in which I do not belong. A great spinning globe of places revolved beneath her feet, and not one patch of it was the right patch for her, Joy Bergman.
She thought of the museum, of her job, of Molly and Freddie and their house in California, of her own house Upstate, of her apartment with the windows looking over the white headlights and the red taillights and no one to sit beside to watch them.
The judge, who may or may not have been listening to the lawyer hollering information in his direction, perhaps he was deaf like Joy and all her friends, spoke softly into the lawyer’s ear, leaning forward, his hand cuffed over his mouth. He was no spring chicken. There were young men and middle-aged men in the pews, young women and middle-aged women, but there was no one, neither man nor woman, who approached Joy’s age, not even the elderly judge.
The big clock on the wall behind the judge proclaimed the time was now 3:39. Three thirty-nine p.m., Eastern Standard Time, Joy thought. Or was it Eastern Daylight Time? When young people said, “This is my time,” they meant it was the portion of their lives to treasure and to live fully. When old people said, “This is my time,” they meant it was their time to die.
Joy took a juice box from one of her bags, but a guard in a brown uniform shook his head and she put it back. She had already inserted the straw. It would leak.
She waited and watched the tattoos that went by. Some were so elaborate and colorful. She wondered if Ben had a tattoo, a hidden tattoo. So much about a young person’s life is hidden. So much about anyone’s life. That was a blessing. Other people’s secrets were so often tawdry and so rarely surprising, even the most extravagant gossip. Gossip was not what it used to be, which was to say, shocking.
Nothing was shocking anymore because everything was shocking. Public urination. Public urination certainly existed when Joy was young. It must have. But no one knew about it, or talked about it, or asked their grandmothers to go to court about it.
The room was hot and the air was stale. Joy noticed it blurring, first the heads of the people in front of her, then the walls. There was a golden light. Fluorescent light, yellow walls. A blurry room. Oh, a blurry room was never a good sign.
The man next to her said, “You okay, Mommy?” He smiled and fanned her with his
New York Post.
For a moment she thought he was Danny. Who else would call her Mommy? But he was short and thickset and had a perspiring bald head, and the hand that held the newspaper was hairy and loaded with chunky gold rings. How beautiful that hand looked to her, bringing the gentle breeze.
“You are so kind,” she said. “Oh, thank you.”
The man on the other side of her offered her a Life Saver. Mint. Perfect. “You feel better, Mommy?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “You are such gentlemen. Old-fashioned gentlemen.”
The room straightened itself out slowly.
Joy sucked on the Life Saver, felt the rim of the circle sharpen, sucked on it until it was a paper-thin sliver.
A man in front of her was called up for a broken taillight. A woman was called for no signal lights.
Oh, Ben, Joy thought. Public urination? Was that really necessary?
A missing muffler.
Bennie, Bennie, Bennie.
The nice man who had given her the mint Life Saver was called up. He squeezed apologetically past her. A missing headlight.
A missing headlight, Ben. A missing headlight. But Ben had always been a difficult child. Sweet. But difficult.
“I’m here for my grandson,” she whispered to the gentleman with the
New York Post.
He smiled.
And then she heard a name. Bea Harkavy. Harkavy was Ben’s last name. Bea Harkavy, the clerk said again, even louder. Joy looked at the card the Cold War clerk had given her. There it was. Bea Harkavy.
“No, it’s Ben,” she said, standing up.
“Bea Harkavy,” the clerk called again.
Joy made her way to the center aisle.
“Public urination,” the clerk called out loudly.
“It’s not me,” Joy was saying. “It’s my grandson…”
And then she looked around at all the men and women whose cars did not have taillights or headlights or side-view mirrors, all the men and women who had made mistakes on their registration papers or had read a form wrong or who had forgotten to mail some paper or who’d just never gotten around to going to the garage to get the muffler fixed, and she thought, This is humanity, all these people with shining sweaty bare shoulders and Life Savers and
New York Post
s folded into fans and excuses and worries and troubles and fines, and here they were all together. Everyone was so kind. Everyone was so helpful. It was really very cosmopolitan. Here she was surrounded by her fellow citizens, part of them, one of them.
“Bea Harkavy,” the voice boomed. “Public urination.”
“Is that correct?” the lawyer asked Joy.
“Oh yes,” said Joy. “This is exactly where I belong.”
I would like to thank Lynn Swartz Dodd and the USC Wrigley Marine Science Center for sharing Catalina with me; my friend Elizabeth Strout; my editor, Sarah Crichton; my agent, Molly Friedrich; my dearest Janet; and my entire endlessly indulgent and good-humored family.
Also by
Cathleen Schine
The Three Weissmanns of Westport
She Is Me
The Evolution of Jane
Rameau’s Niece
Cathleen Schine
is the author of
The Three Weissmanns of Westport
,
The Love Letter
, and
The New Yorkers
, among other novels. She has contributed to
The New Yorker
,
The New York Review of Books
,
The New York Times Magazine
, and
The New York Times Book Review
. She lives in Los Angeles. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
