White Man's Problems (10 page)

Then he had an idea. He ran into the garage and pushed a stepladder up against the large wall cabinets. At the top, he found what he was looking for: a red toolbox, barely touched since Christmas five years ago when Dennis had given it to him as a half joke. The elevated resting place showed how little Mulligan thought of it, and, pulling it down, he was reminded of how heavy it was. He managed himself off the ladder, ran out to the car, and threw the toolbox down—more anxious metal clangs pressed into the silence, more diaspora flowed to the ground. He looked for a set of Allen wrenches, the small tools used to drive hexagonal bolts and screws. He only knew such things existed from a distant but suddenly vivid memory from a
high-school class. Having seen that the jack required a hexagonal lever, he got the sense that a large Allen wrench might work on it, and this was what he visualized. He rifled through the toolbox, found the Allen wrenches buttoned up one by one in a clear plastic casing in escalating size, like fifes inside pencil packets. He removed the biggest wrench and dropped to the ground. He inserted the tool and turned it.

He was right—sort of. It fit, but the angle of the jack's opening only allowed him to turn the wrench less than an inch at a time. He had to take it out, adjust, and turn down again, repeatedly, to get any kind of progress. He could not tell if it was taking.
Maybe this is ridiculous
, he thought. But he was out of ideas, so he kept up his attack, cranking the Allen wrench an inch, reinserting it, and then turning it another inch. He felt a wave of failure.
This is not the way it was supposed to work
.
His knuckles became raw and then bloody, and his blood mixed with the gravel of the driveway until his fingernails were outlined in black.

He pushed back the panic. “That's a good boy in there, Henry,” Mulligan said, continuing to crank frantically but now making eye contact. The bruise on Henry's face was starting to darken. “I'm getting you out, buddy…getting you out of there. That's a
goot
boy, King Henry. Yes, sir.” At the edge of his vision, he sensed a fractional movement—did the lower edge of the Mercedes' chassis rise just a hair? He could not tell for sure, like one could not tell whether it was raining upon feeling a first raindrop. Then it happened again and in definite rhythm with his turning motion. It was working.
It's working
. The jack's interlaced support beams began to extend, like lowercase
x
s becoming capitals. He cranked faster. The car's suspension system lifted and the chassis followed. Beneath the car, Henry became newly calm, and, after a few moments, began to wriggle his front paw with more range. Next, he moved his shoulder, and then half his torso, and then he was out, limping slightly, into the open air of the driveway.

***

Mulligan sat by the pool in a lounge chair. His hands were bandaged, which made it difficult—but not impossible—to hold a cigar. After freeing Henry, Mulligan had carefully put him on his big doggy pillow in the den, made sure that all the doors were shut, and downed a Valium. He showered and waited for the girls, who rushed home from the restaurant to find both Mulligan and Henry bruised and shaken, but ok. A quick trip to the pet clinic verified there was nothing broken. They were lucky, the vet said—a less muscular breed of dog would have died. Rita came out with drinks. Mulligan had a Heineken, and the girls had lemonade from a carton with Paul Newman's picture. Bella lay next to Henry, who lay in his bed snoring. Mulligan's head swam in a swirl of exhaustion, alcohol, anxiety medication, and nicotine. He felt almost perfect.

“I can't believe I left that shirt back in the hotel,” he said.

“Just a shirt,” said Bella.

Rita did not look up from her magazine. “I'll go online and find the exact same one.”

Bella stroked Henry's neck and cracked a grin. “Yeah, like a do-over.”

“Very funny,” he said and took a sip of beer.

“I like the shirt you have on now,” Bella said, pointing to his tattered UCLA football T-shirt.

“Yeah, I love this one, too,” he said, touching its fabric. He considered his cigar and then looked up for the girls. “Tell you what. I'll make dinner.”

“Right,” Bella said. She rolled onto her stomach and smiled at him, enjoying this. “I wish Mariana heard that.”

“Are those braces?” Mulligan said to Bella. “They're very attractive.”

She stuck her tongue out at her father. Finding nothing in reach to throw at him, she said,

“Whatever you make would be
so
gross. I
so
wish Mariana was here.”

“C'mon. What should I make?”

“Forget it, Mulligan,” said Rita. “We ain't taking the bait.” She gathered up the glasses and headed for the kitchen. “I'll look at what Sondra bought. I told Mariana to tell her to get steaks.” Passing him with her hands full, she bumped the lounge chair with her hip and said, “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he said. “I'm totally relaxed.”

“Better to lose your shirt than kill the dog,” she said and then disappeared inside. Bella put her earphones in to listen to music.

“Both of you,” he said. “A couple of comedians.”

He sat back and felt the sunlight, beer in hand. The MexiCloud attachments remained unopened, and he had not left the house all day. Rita was right about not telling Mariana—Henry's bruise was the sole strand of memory left from the day, and it, like the shock of the moment, was lessening as the hours passed by. The dog slept, Bella drummed her fingers to her song, and Mulligan tried once more to relax.

Rain Come Down

T
he worst torments the pessimists of the world inflict on its optimists are their instinctual opposition to eating outside on the first mild evening in April; to going with no warning to Atlantic City; letting a snuggly grandchild stow away for the rest of the night; calling for a pizza; voting for Obama; taking a home-equity line to pay for new kitchen cabinets; refusing to honor the nowadays-common custom of ignoring people right there next to you on the plane, saying hi to the nice couple, finding out where they live, how old grandkids are, laughing at the ain't-it-the-truth stuff. Given enough time, the optimists win out, and the pessimists can be found getting into the bumper car; tagging along to the nursing home to visit Aunt Helen; using the MasterCard that's for a rainy day; drinking a Bloody Mary at the tailgate party for the fiftieth high-school reunion (and going in the first place to see all those fat, old people); risking the traffic on 95 into Philadelphia; taking the littlest grandkid out to the pool because she's about to cry; and starting over to the Performing Arts Center even though it's coming down pretty good.

John Collier shut the Volvo door, and for a moment the noise stopped. Like most men who came of age in a less regulated time—in his case, one who rode around in a jeep for two years in Korea—he didn't reach for the seat belt, and the dinging spoiled the silence. Once he buckled, the quiet reigned again, and as the rain fell on the windshield, he felt like he was watching it at the movies, the patter more a sound effect than wet and physical. Imaginative moments like this were more common since he began living with Ann's condition; he wondered if it was how he compensated for the lack of conversation, one of the many adjustments that came with going from partner to caretaker. Collier pulled the car a few yards to the front door, where she stood under the big red and white Titleist umbrella. She turned to ease her too-skinny frame down the Astroturf steps. He made it as quickly as he could around the front of the car and gently helped her in, placing her feet so she sat straight ahead.

Ann smiled as he settled behind the wheel. “Damned if it's not turning to hail,” he said. Her teeth were chattering a little, so he turned on the heat, holding his hand up to the air until he was sure it was getting warm. “Ok, then, whadd'ya say, Annie? Let's get on the road.” She smiled at him again and faced forward, tugging the tuck of her scarf. To Collier's amazement, with enough time in the morning, Ann could still manage her hair, makeup, and lipstick. She did not know what day it was, yet she maintained the deep patterns of femininity and the pride in her appearance as a beautiful woman. She had chosen the pearls he bought her at Tiffany's in New York many years ago on a weekend trip for their twenty-fifth. “Emily's very excited about this,” he said and hit the right turn signal even though he was just going out of the driveway and then out onto the road. “Classical music. You like that, honey. They've brought in a little Japanese girl to play the piano.”

***

Today is a special day Annie we are going for a ride. I can't make the breakfast John brings me tea and the waffles from the microwave and the butter and the syrup he puts on for me and Emily called Mom Daddy's going to bring you and hear a concert at the PAC so rainy today honey. John by doorstop red umbrella for golfing brings around the car a safe car much safer these days you can hit a brick wall with that car hon he knows that kind of things I told Nicholas they made gigantic engines where your Pop Pop works in Philadelphia gigantic GE engines for machines worldwide things kids don't think about Emily never did that's for sure. John drives the beat and slide windshield wipers wind shield from strokes of rain against window. Outside all the roads of Middletown I've been riding on these roads in rain all my life they were narrower even some dirt the wind sure does whirl by not too cold getting to be summer we drive Darlington Road mother's house by gravel shoulders of the roads we walked when there were no cars. Look in front look straight at the road my father said don't take your eyes off the road and around John driving talking to me really talking keeping the conversation up everywhere dark green wet trees and gray dry streets now wet and made darker bright yellow from the PENNDOT men paint bright yellow lines with machine rollers these days and the PENNDOT guys so lovely to me always for a stop hello see them talk to them looking up under red emergency helmets and orange raincoats safety
was their main concern. More rain sheets of rain beat shields of rain in front see yellowing fields of Jensen's dairy and its 352 where Margie and Bunny died. Oh my these roads that's a long long time ago that '52 Oldsmobile that boy from Haverford whatchamacallit Kretchley or something had that accident when both Margie and Bunny were in it I was their best friend Daddy had to go to the hospital for the body and we cried. John says up this hill and just get over to the left lane here Annie drive and we'll be at the pack that's what Nicholas called it the pack like it was a pack of gum or wolves Nicholas would say when he was much littler. Emily needs to bring him by I have that present for him oh shoot shoot shoot I can't remember a goddamn thing it is still sitting in that closet Chandler's and Megan's too Nicholas is eight Chandler is six Megan is four Emily needs to get me the new school pictures. Dry inside this car—truck—car are you in a truck or a car you're up high like a car. Fresh air little nip in it but nice riding with warm John good John waking me up with breakfast helping me to go and the washing. Feel him there good John not one bit different than I expected between two people for fifty years the radio station oh Annie it's Frank Sinatra you remember this the summer wind can you believe it's the oldies radio songs. It's clearing up that's good Annie.

***

“Hi, Mommy,” Emily said as she helped Ann out of the car, ignoring her father. “Don't you look sweet?” She took an inventory of Ann's outfit, making sure there were no disasters. Collier was hovering over the wheel, confused, and Emily realized he didn't know where to park. “Follow the guys with the orange things, Dad. They'll wave you to a spot.” She heard his muffled holler through the door and for a moment regretted her decision not to make him stay at home; she sure as hell didn't need whatever instruction he was about to give her. Then she remembered he would need his ticket, which explained his agitation. Emily fished it out of her bag and handed it to him.

She held her mother's arm through the doorway, had their passes scanned, and headed through the lobby, which had the carpeted feel and paneled walls of a well-funded suburban theater. She talked in Ann's ear as they walked. She knew that her mother could hear very little, but the cognitive specialist had told her it couldn't hurt. They flowed with the crowd of locals, their steps syncopating the excitement that precedes all shows.

West Chester Performing Arts Center presented a full season of music and theater, and its schedule was, by all accounts in the major papers, at the level of most urban venues. Its members sought for it the feel of a Tanglewood or a Saratoga. Last season they'd scored an RSC traveling production of
Twelfth Night
and a Special Evening with James Taylor. For the summer, the board of directors voted to sprout an impromptu side venue, a smaller and more intimate setting for a series of special events. It was a coup to land a performance by Nyoto Kanata, the prodigy pianist. A three-day break between her performances at the Philadelphia Museum of Art had afforded WCPAC the opportunity to slot in a culturally important afternoon recital; the only minor gamble was that it would have to be the first Sunday in May. Risky weather. Though it was not her idea, Emily, who was on the programming committee, had been in favor of going to the extra expense of erecting the tent; she saw how a small program of more experimental works would give the center a boost. She had taken increasing ownership of the effort and even found a friend in the catering business, who found a wedding planner, who found a construction guy, who put up the tent and got 250 seats comfortably inside. The board found enough dollars in the budget to allow for orchids and a small rock path. The stage area had the simple feel of a Japanese garden.

“Nyoto's adorable,” Emily said. She was holding Ann's hand, sitting to her left. Her father reappeared, taking the empty chair on the other side.

“It doesn't look good out there,” said Collier.

“We'll be fine,” said Emily.

Ann said, “I don't need any water.” Collier and Emily shared quick, pleased looks. Her split seconds of lucidity often presented like this: situational responses and statements completely in rhythm with the commonplace. The moments were like wine at a church party, welcome and rare.

“Nyoto spent the night at the Hilton,” said Emily. “We had a little dinner at Tom Benton's. She's really very lovely, and completely polite.” She leaned closer to make sure no one could hear. “She didn't say a word.”

“Probably doesn't speak English,” Collier said,
trawling for reading glasses in his sport coat. Emily hated that jacket, a brown plaid weave with a dreadful light-blue stitch throughout. It was what he wore for years to anything he did not really want to go to; it was his way of signaling that a visit to Phil's parents' house or attending a school play was against his plans. He stuck his head in the program, making Emily feel like a gossip for commenting on Nyoto. She was only trying to keep her mother's mind focused by narrating things.

***

Emily my dear sweet girl she doesn't mean to be so hard on people my full love black-haired girl just like my father so much she pulls me down from the truck car touches my pearls and my sweater. No more rain mommy don't you look sweet let me take your pocketbook, there come down easy John says oop de doop and I'm out of car good John helping me hero john put his nice coat Emily walking through hallways carpet talking at me where's Johnny he's parking the car don't worry mom she is so worried heavy with worry she holds my arms and shows me where how to keep her from being a gloomy I always say to John I'll never know pass by the faces and pushing to seats Emily so anxious not stopping when we see the Butlers stop Big Ted says hi Annie how ya feelin' and Helen whispering to Emily on my side smile at Teddy always such a lovely fella looked like Fred MacMurray. It's a tent how about that a tent a big top everyone is tromping their wet inside the grass is patted into paths under the feet and plastic to walk through we've got seats right near the front mom Emily pushes my elbow. Her father is a complicated man that men are complicated we can't know that so poor thing she two-times can't know she can't know like a parent she doesn't think right about men like her father or the others. Here we go Mom John is back with us you know my John looks like Jimmy Stewart I'd tell him and he'd say bah honey you're full of soup I set down with them on my either side and they talk to people but not each other save a few words like I am not there what's the matter sweetheart he says but he knows I know when they talk like I'm not there and he knows that he tangles his arm through my arm and holds my hand.

***

“She speaks perfectly fine English, Dad,” said Emily.

“Well, good,” Collier said, dropping it. He was happy he had gotten Ann and himself there on time and in one piece. He had promised himself he would be sweet to Emily today, but she was putting him to the test.

Now she was whispering a rundown of the names of the people passing through the aisles. “Mr. and Mrs. Butler said hi,” she said, trying to make up for snapping at him. He grunted. Emily knew damn well Ann could not follow what she was saying and would not have a clue who the people were anyway. He looked up toward the front of the tent and surveyed the concert apparatus before him to try to get a sense of exactly what his daughter had conjured up. The folding chairs were arranged amphitheatrically, and the piano, shiny as patent-leather Sunday shoes, stood on a square section of hardwood that had been put down to serve as a stage. He squinted to see if it was just a caterer's rental. He supposed a really professional outfit would have its own floor. The light in the room—if the inside of a tent could be called a room—was gauzy and yellow. The painted pine of the folding chairs, the grass ruined beneath all the loafers and pumps, and the sound of the plastic tarp doors zipping closed created the mood of a wedding crossed with a town-hall meeting. It had the same air as all local events striving to be fancy, and that, he thought to himself as Emily bent her mother's ear, was just the problem with everything the WCPAC put on.

Taking care of Ann since the stroke should not have been such a tug-of-war, such a contest of wills. It began before they had even left the hospital, with Emily speaking to the doctors alone, the nurses smiling at Collier and making small talk, only discussing how Ann slept and the changes in medication when his daughter arrived. He wondered how it had come to be that his child distrusted him so when it came to her mother. Before the thought got away, it was replaced with the reply that Emily had never forgiven him for years of inattentiveness. The day that Ann fell and the ambulance had to rush her in to Saint Joseph's, Emily took to the hospital room, sized up her mother, and shot her father a look that told him he could no longer pretend he had not ignored everything that ever mattered. He had no one to tell the way he felt since that moment: that his own little girl could reach that point was a helluva thing.

Regardless of the hurt, he worried again about rain for Emily's sake. Collier knew she'd be disappointed about the music, but he could also tell she had made the event personal, its success essential to her self-esteem in this moment. Emily rode the fence between risk and hope, which she got, respectively, from him and from her mother. In pushing all the special programs—here, take this Japanese kid playing classical piano in a tent in early May—his daughter was surely being hopeful, having faith that the needle could be threaded. But, unlike her mother, Emily was simultaneously burdened with Collier's gloomy foreboding. He saw that she had picked up his ability to disguise a punishing sense of doom with patronizing precautions, and he listened silently to her explaining to her uncomprehending mother how she had hedged the upside of pulling something special off with contingency plans full of shuttle buses and breakdown crews.