Ben made a decision. He would take the pot roast to Henry, his homeless friend. He had taken computer software in the past but had never taken food. He dumped the pot roast into a container and brown-bagged it. He threw in a bottle of Diet Lime Coke, all he could find in the way of drink.
Then he called Binkie. Binkie ran in from the back yard.
Hey, boy. Want to go for a walk?
Ben wasn’t fond of Binkie. A dog was a dog and he wasn’t a dog man. But Binkie didn’t get in the way. He was a good companion and needed exercise. Ben and Binkie walked along the trail. It was about a mile and a quarter to the homeless encampment. Ben wore only a T-shirt and jeans, sunning himself in the unexpected warmth. Why bother with a coat? It was global warming. It was the most amazing winter he had ever known. A few days of snow, then day after day of sunshine. It had been a Truman Capote Christmas. What was the name of that book? Rose would know. He had seen the TV special years ago.
Happy New Year, y’all, he said to a passing jogger. The woman giggled at him.
Y’all? she said. What’s with “y’all?”
I’m practicing Southern. He smiled rakishly.
Are you from the South?
No.
She ran on.
Well, he couldn’t say he’d scored. But usually Ben had a way with women.
Maybe he would switch from Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams. Except he didn’t like Tennessee Williams. “Stella!” Or “I have always depended on the kindness of... “ Memory failed him.
His friend Henry was sitting outside his tent enjoying the beautiful day and reading a paperback. Strange as it seemed, Henry had a credit card. He ordered used books from Amazon and had them delivered to his mother’s house in the suburbs. He read books that nobody else wanted to read. Philosophy in German. During the crisis over Gunter Grass’s youthful Nazism last fall, Henry had read The Tin Drum in German.
A great war novel, he had said. Henry liked war novels.
He had been in Germany in the Army during the early ‘70s. Most men went to Vietnam, but Henry’s people knew people. He was a middle-class guy who got posted in Berlin instead. The experience changed him. He met a lot of intelligent people in Germany who seemed better-read than the people back home. They had lived through war. The “Iron Curtain” was still an issue. It was the Cold War. They had relatives in East Berlin. Nobody admitted to having been a Nazi, though some of them must have been descendants of Nazis. There was a bitterness about them. It was not Isherwood’s Berlin, though there were artists and writers and philosophers. They got him thinking.
When he came back to the States, he wanted to study German. He went to college for a while. He was reading Thomas Mann on his own while they read easy stuff like Siddhartha in his German classes. Siddhartha. He was disgusted. He had planned to be a high school German teacher but suddenly he dropped out. He knew he didn’t want to teach German vocabulary and dialogues.
He worked at a series of easy jobs. Then he went to New Mexico and lived on a campground. A lot of people did it. He met freaks and old people. It got cold in the winter but he could stand it with a lot of blankets. He did odd jobs for the campground manager.
But after a couple of years he got sick. Really sick. He got cancer. He was never the same after that. The cancer was in remission, but he was too weak to work. He moved back to New York state where he had relatives and tried living at home but it didn’t work out.
Now he lived on disability in his tent. He took showers at his mother’s house. If it got too cold, he stayed there for a few days. But he had everything he needed in his tent.
Hey, said Ben.
Hey, said Henry.
I’ve brought you a pot roast. Rose made it.
Really? I saw her this morning. Nice lady.
Yes, she’s very nice. And a very good cook.
Henry went into his tent and got a couple of Bakelite plates. They ate the meat and potatoes and carrots and talked about what they’d been doing.
Sorry I didn’t make it to the Shakespeare, man. I was under the weather.
Have you seen anybody about that cold?
Nah. It’s just a cough.
It might be bronchitis. Let me have a look.
You don’t have to do that, man. It’s nothing.
Ben wrote him a prescription for Penicillin. Fill the prescription. You want to live through the winter.
It’s mild. It’s like living in a science fiction movie. One where the global warming gets you in the end.
They both laughed.
But seriously take care of that cough.
Ben went home full of dinner. There was nothing left. He had known it would be that way. He knew Rose would be pissed. But he would make it up to her. He would take her out to a restaurant. The kind of place she liked, where they had to dress up.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Work
Rose loved the red sky, with the sun coming up over the river. She put on a jacket over a flannel nightgown tucked into her pants and strolled along the trail. Only joggers were out at this hour. Binkie came with her for protection. She didn’t keep him on a leash. He frolicked ahead of her, then ran off after a squirrel.
Binkie, come back!
Binkie took his time. He loved being outside. She thought he would love to be a wild dog, living permanently outdoors.
Binkie was a mutt, part poodle, part something big. She had found him at the pound. It was love at first sight. Binkie got up on his hind legs and pawed at the cage.
He thinks you’re his girlfriend, Ben had said.
He’s sweet. They had brought him home. He loved everybody and everything.
In the woods she saw a homeless encampment. She remembered when the homeless had been called hoboes. It was easy to spot the tents this time of year.
A man crawled out of a pup tent. She knew him. He was one of Ben’s friends. He was a famous homeless man who had a laptop computer in his tent.
Morning, Rose. He nodded at her.
Good morning.
How’s Ben?
Working the graveyard shift at the hospital. He does this every winter.
Tell him to stop by.
Rose laughed. It seemed so ridiculous: a homeless man inviting Ben to visit. I’ll tell him.
Binkie barked.
Don’t bark, Binkie.
He’s a watchdog, said the man.
Well... Binkie and I have to be going.
Rose loved the outdoors, but when she got home she was cranky. She didn’t want to see a homeless encampment when she hadn’t done a damned thing for them this year. Some got checks from the government and the money went for booze. Don’t give them money, the nuns at the shelter told her. Give them things they can use. They’ll blow the money. Rose did not romanticize the homeless. But she should do something. Coats, hats, and glvoes. She would have to ask Ben. He lent the guy with the computer CDs and software. The homeless man and Ben belonged to the same game club on the internet.
Rose was also cranky because she had to go to work. Someone had to answer the phones and pretend to work, though there would be few phone calls and no work. Everybody shut down this time of year. Rose had some freelance stuff to do. In her spare time she was plotting to buy some urban land and build her own development. A development with houses designed to face different directions: some with a traditional front door, some with a main door on one side of the house, some with a door on another side of the house. Rugged individualism. An American concept.
She would be so successful she could retire. I quit, she heard herself say.
No, she had the work ethic. It was unavoidable. She had gotten it from her mother. People worked, women worked. She had worked like a dog since she was twenty-four in her first responsible job. She did not think she was discriminated against. She was paid more than anyone at her firm except Kent.
People without the work ethic had more fun. She really thought so. Her sister Megan didn’t have a work ethic. As a young woman, Megan had been so unmaterialistic that she held a job only every other year. She and her husband had taken turns working. On their years off they would write or paint or do whatever they wanted at the time. Megan had found jobs easily. At first she had been a nurse, then she became a dietitian. Finally she got serious and stuck to a career so she could earn Social Security and a pension. Now she had taken early retirement and received only a fraction of her pension.
Megan had shrugged it off. Who cares? The house is paid for.
I’ll work forever, Rose thought. It kind of made her miserable, though she was also kind of proud.
What are you doing up? Ben asked when he came in I thought everybody took this Friday off.
She was relieved to see him. She hated to go to work when he hadn’t come home first. They do. All except me. I have to go to work.
Work? He laughed. We never see each other.
I know. It’s sad.
She was preparing a pot roast before she left for work. She threw the beef and the vegetables into the slow cooker and set it on low. Then she looked at the slow cooker with satisfaction.
She wore jeans and a sweater. She was damned if she was going to dress up. i’m going to work like this.
Rebel, rebel, he sang, hugging her hard.
A rebel in blue jeans, she agreed. Do you think I’m too old for jeans?
No one’s too old for jeans.
By the way, I saw your friend from the homeless encampment He says hi.
Maybe I’ll go see him today.
You’re too amiable.
I like him.
Rose groaned. I know you do. Bye, Ben.
Binkie, come back!
Binkie took his time. He loved being outside. She thought he would love to be a wild dog, living permanently outdoors.
Binkie was a mutt, part poodle, part something big. She had found him at the pound. It was love at first sight. Binkie got up on his hind legs and pawed at the cage.
He thinks you’re his girlfriend, Ben had said.
He’s sweet. They had brought him home. He loved everybody and everything.
In the woods she saw a homeless encampment. She remembered when the homeless had been called hoboes. It was easy to spot the tents this time of year.
A man crawled out of a pup tent. She knew him. He was one of Ben’s friends. He was a famous homeless man who had a laptop computer in his tent.
Morning, Rose. He nodded at her.
Good morning.
How’s Ben?
Working the graveyard shift at the hospital. He does this every winter.
Tell him to stop by.
Rose laughed. It seemed so ridiculous: a homeless man inviting Ben to visit. I’ll tell him.
Binkie barked.
Don’t bark, Binkie.
He’s a watchdog, said the man.
Well... Binkie and I have to be going.
Rose loved the outdoors, but when she got home she was cranky. She didn’t want to see a homeless encampment when she hadn’t done a damned thing for them this year. Some got checks from the government and the money went for booze. Don’t give them money, the nuns at the shelter told her. Give them things they can use. They’ll blow the money. Rose did not romanticize the homeless. But she should do something. Coats, hats, and glvoes. She would have to ask Ben. He lent the guy with the computer CDs and software. The homeless man and Ben belonged to the same game club on the internet.
Rose was also cranky because she had to go to work. Someone had to answer the phones and pretend to work, though there would be few phone calls and no work. Everybody shut down this time of year. Rose had some freelance stuff to do. In her spare time she was plotting to buy some urban land and build her own development. A development with houses designed to face different directions: some with a traditional front door, some with a main door on one side of the house, some with a door on another side of the house. Rugged individualism. An American concept.
She would be so successful she could retire. I quit, she heard herself say.
No, she had the work ethic. It was unavoidable. She had gotten it from her mother. People worked, women worked. She had worked like a dog since she was twenty-four in her first responsible job. She did not think she was discriminated against. She was paid more than anyone at her firm except Kent.
People without the work ethic had more fun. She really thought so. Her sister Megan didn’t have a work ethic. As a young woman, Megan had been so unmaterialistic that she held a job only every other year. She and her husband had taken turns working. On their years off they would write or paint or do whatever they wanted at the time. Megan had found jobs easily. At first she had been a nurse, then she became a dietitian. Finally she got serious and stuck to a career so she could earn Social Security and a pension. Now she had taken early retirement and received only a fraction of her pension.
Megan had shrugged it off. Who cares? The house is paid for.
I’ll work forever, Rose thought. It kind of made her miserable, though she was also kind of proud.
What are you doing up? Ben asked when he came in I thought everybody took this Friday off.
She was relieved to see him. She hated to go to work when he hadn’t come home first. They do. All except me. I have to go to work.
Work? He laughed. We never see each other.
I know. It’s sad.
She was preparing a pot roast before she left for work. She threw the beef and the vegetables into the slow cooker and set it on low. Then she looked at the slow cooker with satisfaction.
She wore jeans and a sweater. She was damned if she was going to dress up. i’m going to work like this.
Rebel, rebel, he sang, hugging her hard.
A rebel in blue jeans, she agreed. Do you think I’m too old for jeans?
No one’s too old for jeans.
By the way, I saw your friend from the homeless encampment He says hi.
Maybe I’ll go see him today.
You’re too amiable.
I like him.
Rose groaned. I know you do. Bye, Ben.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Mother
Carrie didn’t want to be a mother.
She stopped wanting to be a mother sometime during menopause. She had a boyfriend, a mail carrier, Fred, with whom she spent her free time, and at this time her oldest daughter began to bore her. Megan at 15 was never home, out with her friends for hours, returning from downtown with merchandise she had probably shoplifted. Carrie made her take some of it back. She didn’t know if it went to a store or over to a friend’s house. Carrie screamed at Megan when she came home stinking of tobacco or marijuana. She didn’t know where they smoked. Some parents were more liberal than she was.
You can’t tell me what to do.
I can and I will.
There was a lot of screaming.
One day Megan hitched to a rock concert by a lake and stayed out all night. Carrie didn’t know where she was. Rose and Abby said, Some kind of concert. They were so young they didn’t know. Carrie called the police, who told her it was at Duck Lake.
You’ll never find her, ma’am. There are thousands of them.
Carrie drove out to the lake, wandered around, looked for Megan among the tents and blankets.
She was nowhere. She had gone to a motel with a boy. Carrie found out about this later.
When Megan came home, she said innocently, I went to Nan’s house.
Carrie called Nan’s mother. Bitter words were exchanged.
I’m not sure. She might have been here. I went to bed early, Nan’s mother yawned.
You don’t know?
I didn’t check.
What kind of mother are you?
Nan does what she wants.
Carrie hung up, exasperated. She grounded Megan. Megan wouldn’t speak to Carrie but did extra chores. As soon as the week was up, she went off with her friends.
Nan’s mother called. She’s pregnant. I heard her throwing up and I had a talk with her. I said I’d break it to you.
Why don’t you fix up the abortion then? Carrie said wearily.
They went to New York for the abortion. The whole family. Carrie drove them in the station wagon. They stayed in a hotel downtown and went shopping for bargains at a department store. They went to the symphony orchestra and MOMA and saw an Andy Warhol exhibition. On Monday morning Megan had her abortion. Rose and Abby were silent in the waiting room, Rose reading a novel by Daphne du Maurier and Abby reading Sugar and Spike comic books, but Megan wept.
I can’t believe I got pregnant the first time I had sex. This couldn’t be God’s punishment.
We’re fertile. I had three of you, remember? I want you all to remember this. I don’t want to bring any of you here again.
The abortion hurt, though the doctor said it wouldn’t. Megan cried out in pain. Carrie held her hand. The doctor wrote out a prescription for birth control pills.
Megan dragged herself out of there with a thick sanitary pad between her legs. When she got back to the hotel room, she checked the pad and said, Mom, it’s black with blood.
Carrie checked. It looks okay. Just take a nap. Let’s watch TV.
It was not a happy time. Rose and Abby fetched cookies and coffee from a bakery (Abby drank chocolate milk). The next day they drove home.
Megan was now free to do what she wanted. Carrie said nothing when Megan came home late. Like Nan’s mother, Carrie was now a free spirit. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She just couldn’t be bothered to fight all the time. Megan’s pregnancy had been a shock to her.
Carrie concentrated her energy on Fred and her younger daughters. Rose and Abby didn’t fight her as hard.
Like Carrie, they were sick of Megan’s fighting.
She stopped wanting to be a mother sometime during menopause. She had a boyfriend, a mail carrier, Fred, with whom she spent her free time, and at this time her oldest daughter began to bore her. Megan at 15 was never home, out with her friends for hours, returning from downtown with merchandise she had probably shoplifted. Carrie made her take some of it back. She didn’t know if it went to a store or over to a friend’s house. Carrie screamed at Megan when she came home stinking of tobacco or marijuana. She didn’t know where they smoked. Some parents were more liberal than she was.
You can’t tell me what to do.
I can and I will.
There was a lot of screaming.
One day Megan hitched to a rock concert by a lake and stayed out all night. Carrie didn’t know where she was. Rose and Abby said, Some kind of concert. They were so young they didn’t know. Carrie called the police, who told her it was at Duck Lake.
You’ll never find her, ma’am. There are thousands of them.
Carrie drove out to the lake, wandered around, looked for Megan among the tents and blankets.
She was nowhere. She had gone to a motel with a boy. Carrie found out about this later.
When Megan came home, she said innocently, I went to Nan’s house.
Carrie called Nan’s mother. Bitter words were exchanged.
I’m not sure. She might have been here. I went to bed early, Nan’s mother yawned.
You don’t know?
I didn’t check.
What kind of mother are you?
Nan does what she wants.
Carrie hung up, exasperated. She grounded Megan. Megan wouldn’t speak to Carrie but did extra chores. As soon as the week was up, she went off with her friends.
Nan’s mother called. She’s pregnant. I heard her throwing up and I had a talk with her. I said I’d break it to you.
Why don’t you fix up the abortion then? Carrie said wearily.
They went to New York for the abortion. The whole family. Carrie drove them in the station wagon. They stayed in a hotel downtown and went shopping for bargains at a department store. They went to the symphony orchestra and MOMA and saw an Andy Warhol exhibition. On Monday morning Megan had her abortion. Rose and Abby were silent in the waiting room, Rose reading a novel by Daphne du Maurier and Abby reading Sugar and Spike comic books, but Megan wept.
I can’t believe I got pregnant the first time I had sex. This couldn’t be God’s punishment.
We’re fertile. I had three of you, remember? I want you all to remember this. I don’t want to bring any of you here again.
The abortion hurt, though the doctor said it wouldn’t. Megan cried out in pain. Carrie held her hand. The doctor wrote out a prescription for birth control pills.
Megan dragged herself out of there with a thick sanitary pad between her legs. When she got back to the hotel room, she checked the pad and said, Mom, it’s black with blood.
Carrie checked. It looks okay. Just take a nap. Let’s watch TV.
It was not a happy time. Rose and Abby fetched cookies and coffee from a bakery (Abby drank chocolate milk). The next day they drove home.
Megan was now free to do what she wanted. Carrie said nothing when Megan came home late. Like Nan’s mother, Carrie was now a free spirit. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She just couldn’t be bothered to fight all the time. Megan’s pregnancy had been a shock to her.
Carrie concentrated her energy on Fred and her younger daughters. Rose and Abby didn’t fight her as hard.
Like Carrie, they were sick of Megan’s fighting.
In the Know
Ben was never tired.
Never, never. It was why women loved him. He could go on and on and on all night.
I love you, they would say.
That was the problem. He didn’t love them.
Wakefulness was his nature. It was why he originally became a doctor. His residency was a breeze, though they were required to work 36-hour-stretches. He didn't get tired. His supervisor became suspicious and made him take drug tests.
Honestly, no. No speed.
Eventually the other doctors got used to him. He was a very friendly guy. He didn’t mind covering for someone who was exhausted.
It’s nothing, he would say. Ms. Vail wants a sleeping pill. Mr. Dote had a heart attack, but he’s doing fine.
Ben left medicine when he got sick of it. The medicines didn’t come in when he worked for Doctors without Borders. He’d be in some godforsaken war-torn country treating patients without medicine. He did no good, he did no harm.
He became an attorney. Law was more straightforward the way he practiced it. He helped the poor. It was that simple. He needed no medicines.
Then there was Shakespeare. He genuinely enjoyed that.
As for Rose...she was his wife. He thought about her very little.
Rose insisted he take time off. Ben didn’t really need the days off after the play. Rose, who was tired from the party, went to bed at nine o’clock for four days after the play. Ben stayed up till 3 playing computer games and reading The Complete Short Stories of Somerset Maugham. Rose had volumes of them around the house and he had nothing else to do.
Rose forbade him to read Shakespeare.
He laughed at her.
Why was he reading Maugham? He could vaguely remember Rose’s reading Maugham, hair combed forward, her intense face eager, cross-legged on the couch, reading without stopping.
What are you reading?
Maugham. They’re such good stories.
He had always though Maugham was crap. He had tried to read a novel about a doctor with a club foot. The club foot was the equivalent of Maugham’s stammer.
The stories were better. He enjoyed them a lot. He hadn’t read short stories in a long time.
He was not a fiction man.
Four in the morning. He hadn’t been drinking caffeinated beverages. Why was he awake?
He didn’t know how Rose stood so many days at home. Whenever she took time off, she stayed home and read or watched movies. He had to work. He wanted to work all the time. When he wasn’t at his law office, he was directing plays or working the graveyard shift in the emergency room.
He had ADHD, people told him.
Everybody’s a psychiatrist.
He didn’t need Ritalin. He needed not to be still.
He liked the ER. It wasn’t exactly like the TV show. How he had despised the genial doctors.
The ER. There was a lot of sitting around. There was flirting, there was paperwork. Suddenly a guy with a gunshot wound would be brought in on a stretcher . The man had been shot behind a Mexican restaurant. The nurse, who heard the story from a cop, told him about it while he scrubbed up.
He might not have insurance.
Ben swore. I don’t give a damn.
As soon as he looked at the man, he knew he would die. It was three in the morning.
Since the man--What’s your name? Pedro?--didn’t have insurance, Ben tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He washed the wound and extracted the bullet.
Pedro’s wife showed up with her family. She was very quiet in the waiting room. When he told her the news, she cried.
What had happened? He didn't know the story. Two restaurant workers with a feud.
Maugham would write a story. That’s why he was fascinated by Maugham. Maugham always sounded as though he were in the know.
Never, never. It was why women loved him. He could go on and on and on all night.
I love you, they would say.
That was the problem. He didn’t love them.
Wakefulness was his nature. It was why he originally became a doctor. His residency was a breeze, though they were required to work 36-hour-stretches. He didn't get tired. His supervisor became suspicious and made him take drug tests.
Honestly, no. No speed.
Eventually the other doctors got used to him. He was a very friendly guy. He didn’t mind covering for someone who was exhausted.
It’s nothing, he would say. Ms. Vail wants a sleeping pill. Mr. Dote had a heart attack, but he’s doing fine.
Ben left medicine when he got sick of it. The medicines didn’t come in when he worked for Doctors without Borders. He’d be in some godforsaken war-torn country treating patients without medicine. He did no good, he did no harm.
He became an attorney. Law was more straightforward the way he practiced it. He helped the poor. It was that simple. He needed no medicines.
Then there was Shakespeare. He genuinely enjoyed that.
As for Rose...she was his wife. He thought about her very little.
Rose insisted he take time off. Ben didn’t really need the days off after the play. Rose, who was tired from the party, went to bed at nine o’clock for four days after the play. Ben stayed up till 3 playing computer games and reading The Complete Short Stories of Somerset Maugham. Rose had volumes of them around the house and he had nothing else to do.
Rose forbade him to read Shakespeare.
He laughed at her.
Why was he reading Maugham? He could vaguely remember Rose’s reading Maugham, hair combed forward, her intense face eager, cross-legged on the couch, reading without stopping.
What are you reading?
Maugham. They’re such good stories.
He had always though Maugham was crap. He had tried to read a novel about a doctor with a club foot. The club foot was the equivalent of Maugham’s stammer.
The stories were better. He enjoyed them a lot. He hadn’t read short stories in a long time.
He was not a fiction man.
Four in the morning. He hadn’t been drinking caffeinated beverages. Why was he awake?
He didn’t know how Rose stood so many days at home. Whenever she took time off, she stayed home and read or watched movies. He had to work. He wanted to work all the time. When he wasn’t at his law office, he was directing plays or working the graveyard shift in the emergency room.
He had ADHD, people told him.
Everybody’s a psychiatrist.
He didn’t need Ritalin. He needed not to be still.
He liked the ER. It wasn’t exactly like the TV show. How he had despised the genial doctors.
The ER. There was a lot of sitting around. There was flirting, there was paperwork. Suddenly a guy with a gunshot wound would be brought in on a stretcher . The man had been shot behind a Mexican restaurant. The nurse, who heard the story from a cop, told him about it while he scrubbed up.
He might not have insurance.
Ben swore. I don’t give a damn.
As soon as he looked at the man, he knew he would die. It was three in the morning.
Since the man--What’s your name? Pedro?--didn’t have insurance, Ben tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He washed the wound and extracted the bullet.
Pedro’s wife showed up with her family. She was very quiet in the waiting room. When he told her the news, she cried.
What had happened? He didn't know the story. Two restaurant workers with a feud.
Maugham would write a story. That’s why he was fascinated by Maugham. Maugham always sounded as though he were in the know.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Knight
The confusion of soaps, shower gels, shampoos, and mousses distracted Avdo. Should he use Ivory or lemon soap? Should he use Paul Mitchell or herbal shampoo? He laughed, thinking of his life in Bosnia, of hiding out in a burned-out building in Sarajevo. He and his family had had no water. They had gone weeks without bathing. Everyone stank. He had seen his sister killed in the street. No one had buried her. The street was bombed again before they could.
Her soul, her soul, his mother had shouted.
No one here had seen deaths like that.
His mother, brothers, and sister had died. He never talked about it. He never thought or felt anything about it unless something made him reflect. He stayed busy all the time: hehad his job at the bank; he went to movies and Shakespeare Club meetings. He had told Ben he had no people in town. He pretended they lived elsewhere, in an unknown midwestern city.
They lived in Omaha.
Avdo looked at the bathroom. A bathtub with brass fixtures. He climbed into the tub, turned on the shower, poured lemon shower mousse on a washcloth, washed himself, and washed his hair with green tea shampoo.
He toweled himself and put on clean jeans, a shirt, and sweater Ben had lent him. Avdo was slim, 5 feet ten and only 140 pounds, with a sharp, Slavic face. Ben was much taller. The sturdy clothes were too big.
Avdo went downstairs, looking like Willem Defoe in Spiderman, only younger.
Rose was now gracious. She had made buckwheat pancakes with warm syrup. She didn’t talk as much as Ben, but she wasn’t unfriendly. They sat at the kitchen table and looked at the river and Ben asked Avdo about Christmas in Bosnia. Avdo was Greek Orthodox.
Really? Rose grew alert. Do they swing incense and sing?
Yes, he said.
We don’t have a Russian Orthodox church here.
I go to the Catholic church.
You converted?
Yes.
After breakfast Ben and Avdo played a game called Battleship. There was a divider on the board. The object was to bomb the battleships. it didn’t feel like real war, though. Ben and Avdo were amused by the game. Avdo found it relaxing, so unlike war was it. It had nothing to do with Bosnian history. No running around Sarajevo with guns, no hiding in a burnt-out building with one’s mother and brothers, no lining up for food, no bombs, no refugee camps.
Rose walked through the room to pick up her book and said, That game disgusts me. Can’t you play something else?
Ben yawned. We like this. I think we’ll play Chess later.
Rose was a Chess fiend. She couldn’t get enough Chess. She was impossible to beat. She didn’t often play with people she didn’t know. She didn’t want to discourage them. She had won a state chess tournament in high school. She was still good though she hardly ever played.
Maybe I’ll play later.
Oh no. Ben laughed. We’re not losing to you, Rose.
Why won’t anybody play chess with me?
Avdo bowed. I’ll play chess with you. He had played chess in the burnt-out building with his mother, both covered with blankets they had found in an abandoned house. His quick-witted mother had often beaten him. He had learned some good tricks from her. His mother didn’t cry while they played chess so they played game after game He remembered the stink of the chamberpot while they played. Some people shat in the courtyard. The streets were dangerous and his mother had gotten up in the middle of the night to help the neighborhood baker so they would have loaves of bread. Chess kept them going.
After Battleship I’d love to, Rose said.
But by the time Avdo and ben had finished Battleship she was absorbed in a book, a collection of Colette’s short stories. Ben and Avdo laughed to see her curled up in bed, wearing her old thick glasses, stretch pants, and slippers, reading so hard she didn’t see them.
Oh, you startled me. She took off her thick glasses guiltily. Usually she wore small fashionable glasses, but she liked her old ones for reading.
We’re ready to play chess.
Later? she begged.
What’s so good about the book?
It’s a great book.
Later she came downstairs and whispered something in Avdo’s ear. He laughed. No. I can’t do that.
Ben groaned. She sees moves on the chessboard no one else can see. That’s why no one plays with her.
Rose laughed and went into the kitchen to pour more coffee.
Avdo laughed and moved his knight.
Her soul, her soul, his mother had shouted.
No one here had seen deaths like that.
His mother, brothers, and sister had died. He never talked about it. He never thought or felt anything about it unless something made him reflect. He stayed busy all the time: hehad his job at the bank; he went to movies and Shakespeare Club meetings. He had told Ben he had no people in town. He pretended they lived elsewhere, in an unknown midwestern city.
They lived in Omaha.
Avdo looked at the bathroom. A bathtub with brass fixtures. He climbed into the tub, turned on the shower, poured lemon shower mousse on a washcloth, washed himself, and washed his hair with green tea shampoo.
He toweled himself and put on clean jeans, a shirt, and sweater Ben had lent him. Avdo was slim, 5 feet ten and only 140 pounds, with a sharp, Slavic face. Ben was much taller. The sturdy clothes were too big.
Avdo went downstairs, looking like Willem Defoe in Spiderman, only younger.
Rose was now gracious. She had made buckwheat pancakes with warm syrup. She didn’t talk as much as Ben, but she wasn’t unfriendly. They sat at the kitchen table and looked at the river and Ben asked Avdo about Christmas in Bosnia. Avdo was Greek Orthodox.
Really? Rose grew alert. Do they swing incense and sing?
Yes, he said.
We don’t have a Russian Orthodox church here.
I go to the Catholic church.
You converted?
Yes.
After breakfast Ben and Avdo played a game called Battleship. There was a divider on the board. The object was to bomb the battleships. it didn’t feel like real war, though. Ben and Avdo were amused by the game. Avdo found it relaxing, so unlike war was it. It had nothing to do with Bosnian history. No running around Sarajevo with guns, no hiding in a burnt-out building with one’s mother and brothers, no lining up for food, no bombs, no refugee camps.
Rose walked through the room to pick up her book and said, That game disgusts me. Can’t you play something else?
Ben yawned. We like this. I think we’ll play Chess later.
Rose was a Chess fiend. She couldn’t get enough Chess. She was impossible to beat. She didn’t often play with people she didn’t know. She didn’t want to discourage them. She had won a state chess tournament in high school. She was still good though she hardly ever played.
Maybe I’ll play later.
Oh no. Ben laughed. We’re not losing to you, Rose.
Why won’t anybody play chess with me?
Avdo bowed. I’ll play chess with you. He had played chess in the burnt-out building with his mother, both covered with blankets they had found in an abandoned house. His quick-witted mother had often beaten him. He had learned some good tricks from her. His mother didn’t cry while they played chess so they played game after game He remembered the stink of the chamberpot while they played. Some people shat in the courtyard. The streets were dangerous and his mother had gotten up in the middle of the night to help the neighborhood baker so they would have loaves of bread. Chess kept them going.
After Battleship I’d love to, Rose said.
But by the time Avdo and ben had finished Battleship she was absorbed in a book, a collection of Colette’s short stories. Ben and Avdo laughed to see her curled up in bed, wearing her old thick glasses, stretch pants, and slippers, reading so hard she didn’t see them.
Oh, you startled me. She took off her thick glasses guiltily. Usually she wore small fashionable glasses, but she liked her old ones for reading.
We’re ready to play chess.
Later? she begged.
What’s so good about the book?
It’s a great book.
Later she came downstairs and whispered something in Avdo’s ear. He laughed. No. I can’t do that.
Ben groaned. She sees moves on the chessboard no one else can see. That’s why no one plays with her.
Rose laughed and went into the kitchen to pour more coffee.
Avdo laughed and moved his knight.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Hangover
Rose woke up first. She looked at Ben sleeping and kissed him. It would be another year till the uproar started again. She was glad it was over. She was dying of thirst, the result of too much beer. She put on a bed jacket over a flannel nightgown and drank a glass of water, too tired to shower. She felt so depressed. She couldn’t handle beer anymore. She looked in the mirror, studying the wrinkles between her eyebrows and at the sides of her eyes. Crow’s feet. Crows were really ravens. Her hair hung witchily down her shoulders. She was brushing her hair when Ben came up behind her and said, I invited Avdo to spend Christmas with us. Well, he worked so hard in the play.
What?
He has no one in town.
But I thought it was going to be just Juliette and Bert and us.
What’s one more?
It will be weird. It’ll be Thanksgiving all over again, people who don’t belong together.
Juliette and Bert will like him.
Oh, God. It’s just like the days when you were a diplomat. It’s like living abroad again. Never a moment to ourselves, Ben. Not even on Christmas.
She threw a sponge at him.
Hey!
I had Megan for a month, then I had your whole cast and God knows who else last night, and I had to comfort a woman crying outside our bedroom.
Well, I can’t disinvite him.
She left the room. How could she love a man who irritated her so much? In the living room Avdo stood up anxiously to greet her, but she couldn’t bear to see him, either. He had slept drunkenly on the couch. She had assumed he would go home in the morning. Was he going to be living here until Christmas? That was three days away. She rushed into the kitchen and put on the coffee.
Coffee. Coffee would save her. She loaded the beans into her special coffeemaker and it ground and brewed them. Coffee dripped into the coffeepot. She did not have to leave the house to have coffee the way she had when she was young. As a student she had drunk instant coffee in her rented room. Did anyone still drink instant coffee?
When the coffee was done, she held the warm cup in her hands. When Avdo came in she gave him a cup of coffee and shooed him out.
I have to drink coffee before i can talk in the morning, she said.
He looked worried. She didn’t smile.
Outside the window she saw seagulls wheeling over the river. Urban seagulls in December. What were they doing here? Why didn’t they fly away? The river was so cold even in the sun this time of year. She had once had to rescue Binkie from the river when he got carried away and ran in. Ice was on the water. She had no idea what had possessed Binkie.
Binkie came in from the back yard and rubbed up against her.
Binkie, she said. Tears flowed.
She couldn’t believe she was crying. She never cried.
You’re brave, the nurses had said when they stuck her with needles. She had been ill, very ill, with what the doctors couldn’t figure out. She had wheeled her IV around the hospital, arms black and blue, till she completely broke down. Then she refused anaesthesia during the surgery.
The stoic thing was a gene, no doubt. Someone would borrow her DNA for that. She had heard a horrible story on NPR about genetic selection. The return of the Nazis right here in the U.S.
And that’s why she had to be kind to the Bosnian banker refugee. Otherwise she would be like a Nazi, she supposed. She didn’t want to be a Nazi. She wanted to accept difference and be kind. She didn’t want to spend Christmas with strangers, but she would have to do it. She had planned an easy dinner of a ham from Harry and David and fruitcake for dessert. She had made the fruitcake weeks ago. Her guests would sit around after dinner and eat fruitcake and watch a movie on DVD or listen to Ben’s music.
Now there would be a fifth wheel. He didn’t speak English well. They would have to ask him questions about his life in the U.S. (no one would dare bring up Bosnia). He was a person who had to pretend he had no history.
If only she could invite Dorrie...Avdo knew Dorrie. Dorrie would make him comfortable. But then Ben would have a fit.
Ben came into the kitchen. Are you all right?
Yes. She smiled sleepily. Just hung over.
it is Christmas. We’re supposed to open our house to others.
Sure. It’s all right.
We’re Catholics.
“Are there no workhouses?” She started to laugh.
Shut up. He pretended to shove her.
Okay. We’ll have a good time.
What?
He has no one in town.
But I thought it was going to be just Juliette and Bert and us.
What’s one more?
It will be weird. It’ll be Thanksgiving all over again, people who don’t belong together.
Juliette and Bert will like him.
Oh, God. It’s just like the days when you were a diplomat. It’s like living abroad again. Never a moment to ourselves, Ben. Not even on Christmas.
She threw a sponge at him.
Hey!
I had Megan for a month, then I had your whole cast and God knows who else last night, and I had to comfort a woman crying outside our bedroom.
Well, I can’t disinvite him.
She left the room. How could she love a man who irritated her so much? In the living room Avdo stood up anxiously to greet her, but she couldn’t bear to see him, either. He had slept drunkenly on the couch. She had assumed he would go home in the morning. Was he going to be living here until Christmas? That was three days away. She rushed into the kitchen and put on the coffee.
Coffee. Coffee would save her. She loaded the beans into her special coffeemaker and it ground and brewed them. Coffee dripped into the coffeepot. She did not have to leave the house to have coffee the way she had when she was young. As a student she had drunk instant coffee in her rented room. Did anyone still drink instant coffee?
When the coffee was done, she held the warm cup in her hands. When Avdo came in she gave him a cup of coffee and shooed him out.
I have to drink coffee before i can talk in the morning, she said.
He looked worried. She didn’t smile.
Outside the window she saw seagulls wheeling over the river. Urban seagulls in December. What were they doing here? Why didn’t they fly away? The river was so cold even in the sun this time of year. She had once had to rescue Binkie from the river when he got carried away and ran in. Ice was on the water. She had no idea what had possessed Binkie.
Binkie came in from the back yard and rubbed up against her.
Binkie, she said. Tears flowed.
She couldn’t believe she was crying. She never cried.
You’re brave, the nurses had said when they stuck her with needles. She had been ill, very ill, with what the doctors couldn’t figure out. She had wheeled her IV around the hospital, arms black and blue, till she completely broke down. Then she refused anaesthesia during the surgery.
The stoic thing was a gene, no doubt. Someone would borrow her DNA for that. She had heard a horrible story on NPR about genetic selection. The return of the Nazis right here in the U.S.
And that’s why she had to be kind to the Bosnian banker refugee. Otherwise she would be like a Nazi, she supposed. She didn’t want to be a Nazi. She wanted to accept difference and be kind. She didn’t want to spend Christmas with strangers, but she would have to do it. She had planned an easy dinner of a ham from Harry and David and fruitcake for dessert. She had made the fruitcake weeks ago. Her guests would sit around after dinner and eat fruitcake and watch a movie on DVD or listen to Ben’s music.
Now there would be a fifth wheel. He didn’t speak English well. They would have to ask him questions about his life in the U.S. (no one would dare bring up Bosnia). He was a person who had to pretend he had no history.
If only she could invite Dorrie...Avdo knew Dorrie. Dorrie would make him comfortable. But then Ben would have a fit.
Ben came into the kitchen. Are you all right?
Yes. She smiled sleepily. Just hung over.
it is Christmas. We’re supposed to open our house to others.
Sure. It’s all right.
We’re Catholics.
“Are there no workhouses?” She started to laugh.
Shut up. He pretended to shove her.
Okay. We’ll have a good time.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
The Crying Scene at the Party
Rose was glad that the play was over.
At the community center she had milled and thronged. Her boss Kent was there, dressed up in a suit and tie. Ben’s friends the politicians had come. There were state senators, a U.S. senator, and a congressman.
We hear you don’t trust us, Rose, one of them said. Will you still vote Democrat in 2008?
She sighed. Nobody understood her. Yeah, yeah. If you keep your promises and end the war.
They said they looked forward to RICHARD III and bought paperback copies in the foyer to benefit the club.
Rose sold the books. She always had to do something. She had worn her favorite velvet dress, an old thing from L. L. Bean, which Ben said looked good. It was a little tight around the bosom, but she wore it anyway. She had had it for years. As she had grown older, her bosom had grown bigger. She couldn’t imagine what had happened. But she wanted to dress up. and felt like a Renaissance woman in the velvet dress and tights.
As she bent over to give change, a button burst. She smiled and said nothing about it. in the restroom she tried to fold the back of the dress so no one would notice.
The community center auditorium was sold out. Two hundred people had bought tickets.
Ben appeared briefly to make announcements about the Shakespeare Club.
The play had gone as expected. Avdo, the Bosnian Richard III, occasionally forgot a line. Dorrie had been there to prompt.
Now is the winter...
Of my discontent...
Then he remembered.
It had been quite charming, really. Everyone had been enraptured. They thought Ben was trying to make a statement about the war in Bosnia. What the statement was no one knew, but perhaps Richard was the mad psychiatrist who had committed genocide.
Dorrie did not forget any lines. She was a natural actress. No one knew she was a schizophrenic who had fallen several classes from her origins. She was coherent, emotional, a Queen Margaret who wanted revenge. She would get what she wanted.
Rose thrilled when Dorrie delivered her speeches. Dorrie deserved a break. She got it in the Shakespeare Club. Rose crossed her fingers. Maybe she could get a part in the community theater plays. Maybe one of the men in the audience would date her. One of the state senators was widowed. She loved the idea of getting the two of them together.
After the play there was the usual wild party. Too wild for Rose. She went upstairs and lay on the bed. She had already drunk more beer than was good for her. She read Martha Stewart Living. “Catch up on correspondence and write holiday thank-you notes.” What world did Martha live in? Thank-you notes. Did anyone still write thank-you notes? She remembered buying thank-you cards and sending them out after birthdays and holidays when she was young at her mother’s insistence. She had never sent thank-you cards after 1970 and nobody had ever sent her a thank-you card. Rose’s world was post-Emily Post. Martha was of another generation.
Still, she liked the magazine. It provided her with hours of fascination. She liked the shelf brackets in Martha’s kitchen. She decided to send thank-you cards to Mom and Megan (would they be surprised), rubber-stamped with dots made from an eraser dipped on an ink pad. She wanted to try the recipe for golden beet soup.
Somebody came upstairs. Oh God, it was the crying scene. There was always a crying scene at a party. Somebody always got her feelings hurt.
Somebody sat on the floor outside her room, crying. Somebody didn’t know that Rose was there. Rose wasn’t sure whether to comfort the person or not. She got out of bed. She combed her hair. She drank water out of a bottle in her backpack. Then she opened the door.
It was the wife of somebody important, somebody she didn’t know, one of Ben’s friends, a doctor or a lawyer, probably a lawyer.
Are you all right? Rose asked.
The woman stopped crying. I’ll be fine in a minute.
Let me get you some water.
Rose went downstairs and got a glass of ice water. She added a lemon slice. She wondered what on earth had caused the woman to cry so she looked around. It wasn’t Ben. Ben was happily playing old jazz records and talking to some of the actors about his favorite music. The politicians were talking to each other and drinking too much because there were no reporters around. Avdo, the Bosnian actor, was so drunk he was lying on the floor. The lawyer whose wife she thought was upstairs in tears had his arm one of the actresses. Oh God, she had better break that up. Oh God, she was tired.
Rose went upstairs with the water. Here you go. It’s the best thing after drinking. The guys are hard drinkers. I had to lie down myself.
The woman drank the water. Thank you, she said coldly.
I’m going back downstairs. Is there anything I can get you?
No. Suddenly the woman looked very unfriendly.
Rose thought wearily, wearily, Here I am, Ben’s wife in a dress with the button popped, and I’d better let her cry, but I don’t want crying strangers in my house.
In the living room she went up to the lawyer or doctor and did what Ben would never forgive her for if she told him. Did you lose your wife? Sitting on the floor upstairs with dark hair, in a red sweater and black pants?
The man abruptly took his arm away and the actress departed. Oh. That would be mine.
He came downstairs a few minutes later with his wife, who gave her a hateful look, and they left.
Rose shivered. One good deed... If only someone were here she could laugh with
She went upstairs and called Mom. No answer. Then she called Megan, who would be less sympathetic but at least would be home.
Megan said, You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have come out of my room.
That woman will hate me forever now. But that crying scene.
I don’t cry.
No, I don’t either. Tears just kept me home for days. I couldn’t go out my face was so swollen.
How did we learn not to cry?
All that Bonnie Raitt and Joni Mitchell educated us. Hours of sad music.
Did you hate the Margaret Drabble book as much as I did?
It wasn’t her best.
All those fish.
Sarah Hall’s The Electric Michaelangelo warmed over?
The mermaid and fish motif?
Yeah. Well, I’d better get back to the party.
Ben put his arm around her. He was explaining something about Stan Getz to the man who had done the lights. Rose talked animatedly about Tommy Dorsey but Ben insisted that cool jazz was superior.
She went into the kitchen and made oatmeal muffins. That way she could be a good hostess and still be as tired as she felt. As soon as the muffins were out of the oven, she went upstairs and fell asleep.
When she woke up the next morning, everybody except Avdo was gone.
At the community center she had milled and thronged. Her boss Kent was there, dressed up in a suit and tie. Ben’s friends the politicians had come. There were state senators, a U.S. senator, and a congressman.
We hear you don’t trust us, Rose, one of them said. Will you still vote Democrat in 2008?
She sighed. Nobody understood her. Yeah, yeah. If you keep your promises and end the war.
They said they looked forward to RICHARD III and bought paperback copies in the foyer to benefit the club.
Rose sold the books. She always had to do something. She had worn her favorite velvet dress, an old thing from L. L. Bean, which Ben said looked good. It was a little tight around the bosom, but she wore it anyway. She had had it for years. As she had grown older, her bosom had grown bigger. She couldn’t imagine what had happened. But she wanted to dress up. and felt like a Renaissance woman in the velvet dress and tights.
As she bent over to give change, a button burst. She smiled and said nothing about it. in the restroom she tried to fold the back of the dress so no one would notice.
The community center auditorium was sold out. Two hundred people had bought tickets.
Ben appeared briefly to make announcements about the Shakespeare Club.
The play had gone as expected. Avdo, the Bosnian Richard III, occasionally forgot a line. Dorrie had been there to prompt.
Now is the winter...
Of my discontent...
Then he remembered.
It had been quite charming, really. Everyone had been enraptured. They thought Ben was trying to make a statement about the war in Bosnia. What the statement was no one knew, but perhaps Richard was the mad psychiatrist who had committed genocide.
Dorrie did not forget any lines. She was a natural actress. No one knew she was a schizophrenic who had fallen several classes from her origins. She was coherent, emotional, a Queen Margaret who wanted revenge. She would get what she wanted.
Rose thrilled when Dorrie delivered her speeches. Dorrie deserved a break. She got it in the Shakespeare Club. Rose crossed her fingers. Maybe she could get a part in the community theater plays. Maybe one of the men in the audience would date her. One of the state senators was widowed. She loved the idea of getting the two of them together.
After the play there was the usual wild party. Too wild for Rose. She went upstairs and lay on the bed. She had already drunk more beer than was good for her. She read Martha Stewart Living. “Catch up on correspondence and write holiday thank-you notes.” What world did Martha live in? Thank-you notes. Did anyone still write thank-you notes? She remembered buying thank-you cards and sending them out after birthdays and holidays when she was young at her mother’s insistence. She had never sent thank-you cards after 1970 and nobody had ever sent her a thank-you card. Rose’s world was post-Emily Post. Martha was of another generation.
Still, she liked the magazine. It provided her with hours of fascination. She liked the shelf brackets in Martha’s kitchen. She decided to send thank-you cards to Mom and Megan (would they be surprised), rubber-stamped with dots made from an eraser dipped on an ink pad. She wanted to try the recipe for golden beet soup.
Somebody came upstairs. Oh God, it was the crying scene. There was always a crying scene at a party. Somebody always got her feelings hurt.
Somebody sat on the floor outside her room, crying. Somebody didn’t know that Rose was there. Rose wasn’t sure whether to comfort the person or not. She got out of bed. She combed her hair. She drank water out of a bottle in her backpack. Then she opened the door.
It was the wife of somebody important, somebody she didn’t know, one of Ben’s friends, a doctor or a lawyer, probably a lawyer.
Are you all right? Rose asked.
The woman stopped crying. I’ll be fine in a minute.
Let me get you some water.
Rose went downstairs and got a glass of ice water. She added a lemon slice. She wondered what on earth had caused the woman to cry so she looked around. It wasn’t Ben. Ben was happily playing old jazz records and talking to some of the actors about his favorite music. The politicians were talking to each other and drinking too much because there were no reporters around. Avdo, the Bosnian actor, was so drunk he was lying on the floor. The lawyer whose wife she thought was upstairs in tears had his arm one of the actresses. Oh God, she had better break that up. Oh God, she was tired.
Rose went upstairs with the water. Here you go. It’s the best thing after drinking. The guys are hard drinkers. I had to lie down myself.
The woman drank the water. Thank you, she said coldly.
I’m going back downstairs. Is there anything I can get you?
No. Suddenly the woman looked very unfriendly.
Rose thought wearily, wearily, Here I am, Ben’s wife in a dress with the button popped, and I’d better let her cry, but I don’t want crying strangers in my house.
In the living room she went up to the lawyer or doctor and did what Ben would never forgive her for if she told him. Did you lose your wife? Sitting on the floor upstairs with dark hair, in a red sweater and black pants?
The man abruptly took his arm away and the actress departed. Oh. That would be mine.
He came downstairs a few minutes later with his wife, who gave her a hateful look, and they left.
Rose shivered. One good deed... If only someone were here she could laugh with
She went upstairs and called Mom. No answer. Then she called Megan, who would be less sympathetic but at least would be home.
Megan said, You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have come out of my room.
That woman will hate me forever now. But that crying scene.
I don’t cry.
No, I don’t either. Tears just kept me home for days. I couldn’t go out my face was so swollen.
How did we learn not to cry?
All that Bonnie Raitt and Joni Mitchell educated us. Hours of sad music.
Did you hate the Margaret Drabble book as much as I did?
It wasn’t her best.
All those fish.
Sarah Hall’s The Electric Michaelangelo warmed over?
The mermaid and fish motif?
Yeah. Well, I’d better get back to the party.
Ben put his arm around her. He was explaining something about Stan Getz to the man who had done the lights. Rose talked animatedly about Tommy Dorsey but Ben insisted that cool jazz was superior.
She went into the kitchen and made oatmeal muffins. That way she could be a good hostess and still be as tired as she felt. As soon as the muffins were out of the oven, she went upstairs and fell asleep.
When she woke up the next morning, everybody except Avdo was gone.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Atlas
Megan needed an old map.
Mom, you’ve got maps. I gave you an atlas, remember?
She had called her son at the office. He didn’t want to hear from her.
That atlas is too new. I need something from the late sixties. Anyway, aren’t you glad to hear from me? I’ve been gone for a month.
He laughed. So why do you only call when you need something? A ‘60s atlas? We’re talking e-bay.
I can’t use the computer. It’s against my principles.
It makes no sense. You benefit from the computer, but won’t use it yourself.
In the pre-computer age I would have just sent you to a used bookstore and the clerk would have done a search. It wasn’t the Dark Ages, you know.
It’s so fast this way.
Too fast. I’ve retreated.
I bought you a computer. Why won’t you use it?
There’s too much junk unless you subscribe to databases. Do you think I’m going to subscribe to Lexis?
He clicked the keys of his computer. Almost but not quite silent tapping. Other noises in the newsroom included murmured voices, phones, and other unidentified machines. Whirr-buzz. Faxes? Or was the fax dead? She had put up with fewer noises in her career. She had had an office and a phone. A computer only in the last decade. She hadn’t used it much. She had pretended to use it, had written up her notes by hand, and kept them in a folder. No computer needed. The secretary had input the necessary information on the computer.
Her son worked in a big newsroom, without so much as a Dilbert cubicle. He did everything on the computer.
I love my job, it’s the work I hate, said the old 1960s sweatshirt her son had bought on e-bay.
In her son’s case it was the reverse. Love the work, hate the job. He gave her the sweatshirt. She never wore it. She thought Rose had had one as a child. It looked familiar. The cartoon on the sweatshirt was hideous. She remembered teasing Rose about it. It wasn’t like Rose was old enough to work. She could not understand why that had seemed so humorous to Rose.
She was writing about Biafra. Where were the old maps? She and her late husband had had an atlas, but perhaps they had thrown it out. She had worried about Biafra as a young woman. She had sent money to a Joint Church Aid fund, organized after the Red Cross stopped its flights. (Biafra was too dangerous for the Red Cross. A Red Cross plane had been shot down.)
In those days Megan had attended Mass regularly. A rebel priest, who talked about Vietnam and Biafra, had impressed her. When he left the priesthood (or was kicked out: she couldn’t tell which), she stopped attending.
Megan needed maps. Perimeters, boundaries, crinkly, mutating borders, geography, history, novels. Where was the great Biafran novel? This dreadful chapter in Nigerian, British, and Russian history was all but forgotten, obviously not by Africans, but by others, unmapped. Off the map. The CIA, as far as she had read, did not fund this war: the British and the Russians had been imperialists, had sent shipments of arms to Nigeria, hoping to conquer Biafra, a secessionist state in southeast Nigeria, and the site of the oil fields. Another oil war. Could the Bush administration not have seen what happened there before the war in Iraq?
No lessons were learned ever. That’s what stunned Megan.
The Europeans’ anti-American feeling was, well, odd, considering that they had waged wars since World War II.
Her son called her later with the news that he had found an atlas on e-bay.
Good, she said.
Now what else do you need? Food, I suppose.
I’ve got kashi. And I made a cake with very old eggs.
He laughed. Well, I’ll pick up some bread and other things.
I’ll make you dinner. Come by at eight or nine, okay?
He sighed. He knew what that meant. She was expecting a delivery from her dealer this evening.
After the secondhand clothing shop closed, the dealer visited Megan sometimes since Megan didn’t leave the house. They usually smoked a joint together.
I’ll just drop off the groceries then, he said. You won’t want me around.
No, I always love to see you. You’re ridiculous.
Well...
See you tonight, she said firmly.
Mom, you’ve got maps. I gave you an atlas, remember?
She had called her son at the office. He didn’t want to hear from her.
That atlas is too new. I need something from the late sixties. Anyway, aren’t you glad to hear from me? I’ve been gone for a month.
He laughed. So why do you only call when you need something? A ‘60s atlas? We’re talking e-bay.
I can’t use the computer. It’s against my principles.
It makes no sense. You benefit from the computer, but won’t use it yourself.
In the pre-computer age I would have just sent you to a used bookstore and the clerk would have done a search. It wasn’t the Dark Ages, you know.
It’s so fast this way.
Too fast. I’ve retreated.
I bought you a computer. Why won’t you use it?
There’s too much junk unless you subscribe to databases. Do you think I’m going to subscribe to Lexis?
He clicked the keys of his computer. Almost but not quite silent tapping. Other noises in the newsroom included murmured voices, phones, and other unidentified machines. Whirr-buzz. Faxes? Or was the fax dead? She had put up with fewer noises in her career. She had had an office and a phone. A computer only in the last decade. She hadn’t used it much. She had pretended to use it, had written up her notes by hand, and kept them in a folder. No computer needed. The secretary had input the necessary information on the computer.
Her son worked in a big newsroom, without so much as a Dilbert cubicle. He did everything on the computer.
I love my job, it’s the work I hate, said the old 1960s sweatshirt her son had bought on e-bay.
In her son’s case it was the reverse. Love the work, hate the job. He gave her the sweatshirt. She never wore it. She thought Rose had had one as a child. It looked familiar. The cartoon on the sweatshirt was hideous. She remembered teasing Rose about it. It wasn’t like Rose was old enough to work. She could not understand why that had seemed so humorous to Rose.
She was writing about Biafra. Where were the old maps? She and her late husband had had an atlas, but perhaps they had thrown it out. She had worried about Biafra as a young woman. She had sent money to a Joint Church Aid fund, organized after the Red Cross stopped its flights. (Biafra was too dangerous for the Red Cross. A Red Cross plane had been shot down.)
In those days Megan had attended Mass regularly. A rebel priest, who talked about Vietnam and Biafra, had impressed her. When he left the priesthood (or was kicked out: she couldn’t tell which), she stopped attending.
Megan needed maps. Perimeters, boundaries, crinkly, mutating borders, geography, history, novels. Where was the great Biafran novel? This dreadful chapter in Nigerian, British, and Russian history was all but forgotten, obviously not by Africans, but by others, unmapped. Off the map. The CIA, as far as she had read, did not fund this war: the British and the Russians had been imperialists, had sent shipments of arms to Nigeria, hoping to conquer Biafra, a secessionist state in southeast Nigeria, and the site of the oil fields. Another oil war. Could the Bush administration not have seen what happened there before the war in Iraq?
No lessons were learned ever. That’s what stunned Megan.
The Europeans’ anti-American feeling was, well, odd, considering that they had waged wars since World War II.
Her son called her later with the news that he had found an atlas on e-bay.
Good, she said.
Now what else do you need? Food, I suppose.
I’ve got kashi. And I made a cake with very old eggs.
He laughed. Well, I’ll pick up some bread and other things.
I’ll make you dinner. Come by at eight or nine, okay?
He sighed. He knew what that meant. She was expecting a delivery from her dealer this evening.
After the secondhand clothing shop closed, the dealer visited Megan sometimes since Megan didn’t leave the house. They usually smoked a joint together.
I’ll just drop off the groceries then, he said. You won’t want me around.
No, I always love to see you. You’re ridiculous.
Well...
See you tonight, she said firmly.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Back
Back in Philly, Megan saw some strange things on the ride from the airport. Lined up on the street at precise intervals, men stood singly on the curb. Why were they alone? What were they waiting for? What were they expecting to see on the Sunday after Thanksgiving?
In Philly it was better not to know. (She had a wild imagination.)
Maybe I saw a gang war or something, she once told her husband.
I didn’t read about that in the paper. He thought she was funny.
Don’t look. That was his mantra. Pay attention. That was her mantra.
The taxi driver said, Don’t look, man. I wouldn’t.
The men were not looking apparently.
Her husband could no longer look or not look. He had died. She missed him. She didn’t date because she didn’t want anyone except Roy, whom she could no longer have. She grieved. She smoked marijuana occasionally, not as much as she had at her sister’s, to help her deal with her grief.
Substance abuse problem, my ass.
A couple of limos paused at the corner. She couldn’t see in their black-tinted windows, so there was nothing to see. What did it matter if she looked?
She caught one of the license plate numbers. PHIXX.
A couple of men shouted at each other outside the limos, their faces angry. Was one of them holding a weapon? She strained to hear and caught, “Tree is in no shape to campaign around the state.”
Tree? She must have misheard.
Politics. Her sister could write about it for her online column.
Now that was a strange scene. The Rose scene. Her sister Rose spent a lot of time on the internet. She received e-mails from old friends and political organizations and went to the websites Commondreams and Alternet.
Megan had studied Rose’s bookmarked websites and political blogs when Rose insisted and had not been thrilled.
They’re just like alternative papers. And the political bloggers are mostly paid by politicians. I read about it in The Times. They’re paid tens of thousands of dollars.
They’re pamphleteers, Rose said.
Rose, they’re working for the politicians.
The taxi drew up in front of Megan’s house.
Out of the taxi, she studied the yard. All the leaves were gone from the big sycamore. She had left before all the leaves had fallen. In her mind Philly was still stuck in October but of course the seasons had changed here, too.
Her house looked the same as it had when she left. All the houses were similar: small two-story houses with porches. Hers was a light primrose color with blue trim. She and her husband had bought it when they were first married, when it was dirt-cheap, all they could afford, a mere $20,000. The house had been different colors over the years: red, yellow, blue, green, browm, and traditional white. The neighborhood was a little more ramshackle than it used to be, but the folks who used to be known as yuppies were moving in now that a neighborhood organization gave grants to people whoo fixed up the houses. Her working-class neighbors had mostly moved to the suburbs, living out the American dream in new houses in treeless neighborhoods.
Afternoon, she said to her neighbor, a man whose name she didn’t know.
He was yawning, dressed in boxer shorts though it was freezing-cold, and picked up his newspaper from the stoop.
I slept late, he said, saluting her.
She laughed.
The urn was there on the stoop, no flowers, but some UPS person had left a package on top of it. Strange place to leave a package. She glanced at it. It was from her sister Abby, who lived in California.
She went inside. Megan was glad to be home.
She ripped open the package. A new Margaret Drabble book from England. Abby wrote, I found this in a used bookstore.
Megan, Rose, and Abby all read Drabble’s books. They had similar tastes in literature.
She sat down and started to read. Some beautiful writing. But perhaps it was not Drabble’s best work. Perhaps Drabble did not understand the twenty-first century as well as the 1960s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, decades she had documented in her wonderful novels.
Certainly Megan understood it less well.
Well, she was an agoraphobe.
Drabble's delvings into science did not interest her as much as her sociological novels. She would finish the book later. She had preferred THE RED QUEEN and THE SEVEN SISTERS.
Megan went into the kitchen and ate a bowl of kashi. It was all she had.
In Philly it was better not to know. (She had a wild imagination.)
Maybe I saw a gang war or something, she once told her husband.
I didn’t read about that in the paper. He thought she was funny.
Don’t look. That was his mantra. Pay attention. That was her mantra.
The taxi driver said, Don’t look, man. I wouldn’t.
The men were not looking apparently.
Her husband could no longer look or not look. He had died. She missed him. She didn’t date because she didn’t want anyone except Roy, whom she could no longer have. She grieved. She smoked marijuana occasionally, not as much as she had at her sister’s, to help her deal with her grief.
Substance abuse problem, my ass.
A couple of limos paused at the corner. She couldn’t see in their black-tinted windows, so there was nothing to see. What did it matter if she looked?
She caught one of the license plate numbers. PHIXX.
A couple of men shouted at each other outside the limos, their faces angry. Was one of them holding a weapon? She strained to hear and caught, “Tree is in no shape to campaign around the state.”
Tree? She must have misheard.
Politics. Her sister could write about it for her online column.
Now that was a strange scene. The Rose scene. Her sister Rose spent a lot of time on the internet. She received e-mails from old friends and political organizations and went to the websites Commondreams and Alternet.
Megan had studied Rose’s bookmarked websites and political blogs when Rose insisted and had not been thrilled.
They’re just like alternative papers. And the political bloggers are mostly paid by politicians. I read about it in The Times. They’re paid tens of thousands of dollars.
They’re pamphleteers, Rose said.
Rose, they’re working for the politicians.
The taxi drew up in front of Megan’s house.
Out of the taxi, she studied the yard. All the leaves were gone from the big sycamore. She had left before all the leaves had fallen. In her mind Philly was still stuck in October but of course the seasons had changed here, too.
Her house looked the same as it had when she left. All the houses were similar: small two-story houses with porches. Hers was a light primrose color with blue trim. She and her husband had bought it when they were first married, when it was dirt-cheap, all they could afford, a mere $20,000. The house had been different colors over the years: red, yellow, blue, green, browm, and traditional white. The neighborhood was a little more ramshackle than it used to be, but the folks who used to be known as yuppies were moving in now that a neighborhood organization gave grants to people whoo fixed up the houses. Her working-class neighbors had mostly moved to the suburbs, living out the American dream in new houses in treeless neighborhoods.
Afternoon, she said to her neighbor, a man whose name she didn’t know.
He was yawning, dressed in boxer shorts though it was freezing-cold, and picked up his newspaper from the stoop.
I slept late, he said, saluting her.
She laughed.
The urn was there on the stoop, no flowers, but some UPS person had left a package on top of it. Strange place to leave a package. She glanced at it. It was from her sister Abby, who lived in California.
She went inside. Megan was glad to be home.
She ripped open the package. A new Margaret Drabble book from England. Abby wrote, I found this in a used bookstore.
Megan, Rose, and Abby all read Drabble’s books. They had similar tastes in literature.
She sat down and started to read. Some beautiful writing. But perhaps it was not Drabble’s best work. Perhaps Drabble did not understand the twenty-first century as well as the 1960s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, decades she had documented in her wonderful novels.
Certainly Megan understood it less well.
Well, she was an agoraphobe.
Drabble's delvings into science did not interest her as much as her sociological novels. She would finish the book later. She had preferred THE RED QUEEN and THE SEVEN SISTERS.
Megan went into the kitchen and ate a bowl of kashi. It was all she had.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Lyall
After a dark and gloomy day at work, after the dreadful meeting with Belle, Rose stopped in at Wolf’s. She hadn’t been there in a long time. He was alone, typing titles into the computer. He sold books online to supplement his income.
Did you decide to move in with me? is that why you’re here?
Rose laughed. No. I’m still happily married. I’m here to buy a book. I need a book after a meeting with Belle today.
Belle? Is she still around? How is her financial group doing?
All right, I guess. She wants an urban location as well as a suburban location now. And she wants a woman architect. Believe it or not, I am her choice.
Rose Underwood, urban woman architect.
Exactly.
I hate her. I hate all your friends. I wonder why I like you.
Sometimes I wonder, too, she said wearily. Could it be that we both love books?
A lot of people love books.
They say they love books. Clinton says he has 5,000 books in his home in Westchester County, enough to keep him for a year.
She and Wolf both laughed.
Or--let’s see--at 50 books a year, maybe several years.
Do the math, Wolf.
Both of them shuddered. They were mathphobes. They had grown up in the liberal arts age.
Rose found an advance reader’s copy of Margaret Drabble’s novel THE SEA LADY. She was delighted. She also found a used copy of Ted Bishop’s RIDING WITH RILKE: REFLECTIONS ABOUT MOTORCYCLES AND BOOKS, a new book she had read about in a free pamphlet that came with a book review publication.
These are exorbitantly priced, Wolf.
The Drabble isn’t out yet. That’s a UK edition. And the Bishop is brand-new.
Up with the UK! she said. Up with motorcycles!
That was a joke. Rose hated the gray weather in the UK. She had taken a motorcycle trip through the UK with Ben. Rain, rain, nothing but rain. It had been dismal. They had gone to Ireland to escape the rain, though it also rained there, and rented a freezing cottage with a wood stove. Both of them had caught bad colds and flown home early. That was the story they told when they got back to the east coast.
How could I live there? And yet they’re the most charming people in the world, she said.
Wolf laughed. Did you read the Sarah Lyall in the New York Times?
Of course.
Sarah Lyall, who often wrote about British writers for the New York Times, had written about the art of conversation. The question posed was which was better, British or American conversation? Gwyneth Paltrow had started the argument after she was quoted as saying that “the English are much more intelligent and civilized than the Americans” and “talk about more interesting things at dinner.” Afterwards, she denied that she had said it.
You didn’t need Gwyneth Paltrow, an actress who had only been in one good movie, to write an interesting essay about conversation (though the New York Times cartoon of Paltrow, which she had tried to find in vain online to illustrate her blog, was good). American and English writers and professors and a few expatriates had weighed in.
It was fun to read. It made her want to move to the UK immediately.
She paid for her books. It was pitch-dark out. Wolf offered to give her a ride home.
She accepted.
I’ll see you at RICHARD III next weekend.
She sighed. Will I?
I’ll bet you’ll both be glad when it’s over.
I’m very tired of Richard. Ben’s not, though.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Red Suit
The bed-in was over. Rose was dressed. She was a new person. She smiled at Ben and kissed him good-bye.
Looking good, he said.
Rose had a red suit. It wasn’t her color. She laughed her head off as she left the house. Rose and Ben had been watching the news on TV and had seen Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi wearing red suits. A la Nancy Reagan in the ‘80s? No, all the news anchors wore them. Red was the new black. Honestly she knew nothing about fashion. She had seen The Devil Wore Prada and that was as close as she got.
Rose was drab. Ben didn’t say so, but he got tired of her black and blues. Ben had suggested a red suit might look good on her. If Democrats were wearing red, she supposed she could do it, though she questioned Ben's taste. He had a thing for Hillary Clinton, as did Michael Moore, who had once written that Hillary was sexy. Americans were so familiar with First Ladies: Mamie, Jackie, Lady Bird, Pat, Betty, Rosalyn, Nancy, Barbara, Hillary, and Laura. One would think they would rebel and insist on being called "Mrs." or “Ms.”
She tried to think of Hillary as Senator Clinton and failed.
So Ben liked red? Well, Rose never understood men. She bought the suit on sale because she needed something conservative for a meeting with a powerful rich woman who wanted to hire “a woman architect.”
Rose Underwood, woman architect. It was 2006 and she was still identified by gender. She liked being a woman, but wanted to distance herself from being "a woman professional." What did it matter? She wanted to be a humanist, not a woman architect.
She stopped at the coffeehouse. Something was going on. Somebody had jostled somebody else and spilled a latte on somebody's coat. Latte dripped on wool. Baristas were offering the tip jar to pay the cleaning bill.
Rose stood aside, detached from the upset, thinking about her freedom while she stood in line. Yesterday it had been “good-bye, good-bye, good-bye” at the airport. "Hello, Good-bye," Megan had hummed. Megan was eager to leave. Megan had nothing, really nothing to say to their mother. Megan’s plane left first: she embraced Rose and allowed Mom to peck her on the cheek before she ran through the passenger tunnel to her plane. Mom’s plane left an hour later. Rose and Mom had a beer.
Good-bye, Mom, Rose cried. She wouldn’t see her mother at Christmas. Mom was going to visit Abby.
When Rose got home from the airport, she found Megan's pills in the bathroom. Whoops! A psychiatric diagnosis and meds wasted. Megan had considered the whole thing bullshit. Her idea? In a sick society you got by however you could. If you (or Megan) wanted to smoke harmless marijuana, that was your (or her) business.
But what about organized crime? Rose asked.
Rose, you are so naive. My dealer is very upscale. She owns her own secondhand designer clothing shop and is probably a police spy.
What? Where do you get this stuff? Rose mocked. Yet she was fascinated by Megan.
Megan studied her nails. Imagination. But she does own a designer clothing shop.
Rose paid for her coffee, stopped thinking about her sister's problems, and walked across the street.
Belle’s in the conference room, the secretary said.
Oh, shit. I’ll just hang up my coat. She dashed into her office and then into the conference room.
Belle stood up and reached out a limp hand. It’s great to see you, Rose.
Sorry I’m late. I’ve got a design. I thought you’d want something simple.
Belle was not simple. As a matter of fact, she went for flash. That’s why Rose knew she was the wrong architect. Woman-schoman. Belle did not need a woman architect: she needed a good match. Rose was not a good match in her designs. Strong, simple lines. Simplicity was her trademark. It would never do. Belle would want something shaped like a vagina. Something with a pink ribbon. God knows what she’d want.
Hm. Belle glanced at the plan. I wanted something more like that old building you’re renovating for the computer firm. Only new, of course. She laughed.
Rose said thoughtfully, That’s a very traditional building. She did not say she wasn’t interested in designing cheap replicas of old buildings and that her boss Kent, a sweet but tedious man, would be better at that that kind of work. She couldn’t say that. She had to be diplomatic. She had to land the contract. She was representing the firm. She was the untraditonal architect, but Belle specifically had requested “a woman architect.” Belle only hired women.
Could she NOT be a woman? No. She was apparently a woman first, an architect second. But she disliked Belle and didn’t want to work for her. She knew Belle from political gatherings. Eek! Belle had probably started the whole Dean scream in West Des Moines...
Belle said she loved the design, but it wasn’t right for her. She was sure Rose could do something that she wanted.
Rose said, Of course I can. But this is what I like; it’s the kind of work I’m known for. I’d be happy to show you photos of buildings I’ve designed. If you don’t like any of them, we’ll work together on something new.
Belle tapped the table impatiently. This wasn’t how the meeting was supposed to go. Rose was supposed to give her what she wanted. Rose was not supposed to be in control.
Lord help me, thought Rose. I’m always asserting myself. Why bother? This is just work. Why do I have to have integrity?
It was a problem she and Ben were always having. Megan no longer had that problem because she had dropped out.
As for Belle, she had always been pushy and was so rich that she bought people. She asserted herself constantly. It was her way or the highway, as they used to say.
Rose forced a smile. Do you have time for lunch? I'd love to hear your ideas.
Belle glanced at her watch. Tomorrow at one at the Riddle?
Yes, said Rose, beaming. Then she went straight to Kent’s office and said, She wants a replica. This is a job for you, Boss.
He laughed. Sounds like you’ve got it under control. I know you think replicas are hackneyed but...I’ve got one in my files you can give her.
We can swap. Here's my design. Very good if I say so myself.
She’s got no taste.
I know.
Looking good, he said.
Rose had a red suit. It wasn’t her color. She laughed her head off as she left the house. Rose and Ben had been watching the news on TV and had seen Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi wearing red suits. A la Nancy Reagan in the ‘80s? No, all the news anchors wore them. Red was the new black. Honestly she knew nothing about fashion. She had seen The Devil Wore Prada and that was as close as she got.
Rose was drab. Ben didn’t say so, but he got tired of her black and blues. Ben had suggested a red suit might look good on her. If Democrats were wearing red, she supposed she could do it, though she questioned Ben's taste. He had a thing for Hillary Clinton, as did Michael Moore, who had once written that Hillary was sexy. Americans were so familiar with First Ladies: Mamie, Jackie, Lady Bird, Pat, Betty, Rosalyn, Nancy, Barbara, Hillary, and Laura. One would think they would rebel and insist on being called "Mrs." or “Ms.”
She tried to think of Hillary as Senator Clinton and failed.
So Ben liked red? Well, Rose never understood men. She bought the suit on sale because she needed something conservative for a meeting with a powerful rich woman who wanted to hire “a woman architect.”
Rose Underwood, woman architect. It was 2006 and she was still identified by gender. She liked being a woman, but wanted to distance herself from being "a woman professional." What did it matter? She wanted to be a humanist, not a woman architect.
She stopped at the coffeehouse. Something was going on. Somebody had jostled somebody else and spilled a latte on somebody's coat. Latte dripped on wool. Baristas were offering the tip jar to pay the cleaning bill.
Rose stood aside, detached from the upset, thinking about her freedom while she stood in line. Yesterday it had been “good-bye, good-bye, good-bye” at the airport. "Hello, Good-bye," Megan had hummed. Megan was eager to leave. Megan had nothing, really nothing to say to their mother. Megan’s plane left first: she embraced Rose and allowed Mom to peck her on the cheek before she ran through the passenger tunnel to her plane. Mom’s plane left an hour later. Rose and Mom had a beer.
Good-bye, Mom, Rose cried. She wouldn’t see her mother at Christmas. Mom was going to visit Abby.
When Rose got home from the airport, she found Megan's pills in the bathroom. Whoops! A psychiatric diagnosis and meds wasted. Megan had considered the whole thing bullshit. Her idea? In a sick society you got by however you could. If you (or Megan) wanted to smoke harmless marijuana, that was your (or her) business.
But what about organized crime? Rose asked.
Rose, you are so naive. My dealer is very upscale. She owns her own secondhand designer clothing shop and is probably a police spy.
What? Where do you get this stuff? Rose mocked. Yet she was fascinated by Megan.
Megan studied her nails. Imagination. But she does own a designer clothing shop.
Rose paid for her coffee, stopped thinking about her sister's problems, and walked across the street.
Belle’s in the conference room, the secretary said.
Oh, shit. I’ll just hang up my coat. She dashed into her office and then into the conference room.
Belle stood up and reached out a limp hand. It’s great to see you, Rose.
Sorry I’m late. I’ve got a design. I thought you’d want something simple.
Belle was not simple. As a matter of fact, she went for flash. That’s why Rose knew she was the wrong architect. Woman-schoman. Belle did not need a woman architect: she needed a good match. Rose was not a good match in her designs. Strong, simple lines. Simplicity was her trademark. It would never do. Belle would want something shaped like a vagina. Something with a pink ribbon. God knows what she’d want.
Hm. Belle glanced at the plan. I wanted something more like that old building you’re renovating for the computer firm. Only new, of course. She laughed.
Rose said thoughtfully, That’s a very traditional building. She did not say she wasn’t interested in designing cheap replicas of old buildings and that her boss Kent, a sweet but tedious man, would be better at that that kind of work. She couldn’t say that. She had to be diplomatic. She had to land the contract. She was representing the firm. She was the untraditonal architect, but Belle specifically had requested “a woman architect.” Belle only hired women.
Could she NOT be a woman? No. She was apparently a woman first, an architect second. But she disliked Belle and didn’t want to work for her. She knew Belle from political gatherings. Eek! Belle had probably started the whole Dean scream in West Des Moines...
Belle said she loved the design, but it wasn’t right for her. She was sure Rose could do something that she wanted.
Rose said, Of course I can. But this is what I like; it’s the kind of work I’m known for. I’d be happy to show you photos of buildings I’ve designed. If you don’t like any of them, we’ll work together on something new.
Belle tapped the table impatiently. This wasn’t how the meeting was supposed to go. Rose was supposed to give her what she wanted. Rose was not supposed to be in control.
Lord help me, thought Rose. I’m always asserting myself. Why bother? This is just work. Why do I have to have integrity?
It was a problem she and Ben were always having. Megan no longer had that problem because she had dropped out.
As for Belle, she had always been pushy and was so rich that she bought people. She asserted herself constantly. It was her way or the highway, as they used to say.
Rose forced a smile. Do you have time for lunch? I'd love to hear your ideas.
Belle glanced at her watch. Tomorrow at one at the Riddle?
Yes, said Rose, beaming. Then she went straight to Kent’s office and said, She wants a replica. This is a job for you, Boss.
He laughed. Sounds like you’ve got it under control. I know you think replicas are hackneyed but...I’ve got one in my files you can give her.
We can swap. Here's my design. Very good if I say so myself.
She’s got no taste.
I know.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Peace on Earth
Rose collapsed after Thanksgiving. She was always collapsing. She could not get out of bed. She stayed in bed and pretended she was John and Yoko having a bed-in.
Her mother said she did not know what Rose was talking about. A bed-in?
Mom, did you miss the sixties? I’m not sure of the year. Megan will have it in her book.
So I have one daughter who’s writing a book about the sixties and another who’s trying to relive them?
No, no. Rose adjusted her bed jacket over the black pajamas. I’m not giving interviews like John and Yoko. I’m just not getting up.
Her stomach growled. She would never get up again if she didn’t have to eat. She read an essay in The Best American Political Writing 2006 and lost her appetite. She remembered that John Lennon had said in an interview that if people stayed in bed they couldn’t fight wars. Stay in bed and find peace.
What did he and Yoko eat in bed?
Someone should make Bush stay in bed for the next two years, she thought.
Peace on earth, good will to men.
How many men had been blown up in Iraq today? The stats depressed her: they were everywhere, on the internet, in The Times, and on CNN, unavoidable. Something weird was going on: a civil war, though Bush denied it. Tens of thousands of Iraqis had left the country. Refugees: where did they go? Not to the U.S. obviously. Bush and his cronies had hoped to go in and win free oil while toppling the regime, purging Bush’s enemies, and setting up a puppet democracy. It had all been done, done, done before in Central and South America, in Asia, and in Africa. Nobody was fooled. The Europeans turned on America. Huge, wild protests in the UK and France, pathetic turnouts for demonstrations in the U.S. Rose gave up marching after she was attacked. Ben gave up marching when he got too busy with his play.
Even the English writer, Margaret Drabble, wrote an essay about how she no longer could tolerate Americans because of the war . Rose felt embarrassed and personally rejected. As a Drabble fan who had protested against the war, she believed Drabble’s essay was illogical. How could she blame all Americans for Bush’s war? But perhaps Drabble had a point. No one with power had stood up to Bush. The Senate and Congress went along with the war: Kerry, Hillary Clinton, Edwards, and the other great American hopes. Except Dennis Kucinich, whom she wasn’t wild about. What a country. What was in a war for the senators and congressmen and women? Did they all own stock in the oil companies?
Rose, why do you have to be so snotty? her mother asked. Can’t you see the good in anyone? They were afraid of appearing weak.
It takes more strength to oppose a war than to play those horrid war games. I’m very suspicious of their bloody motives and they won’t get my vote again.
Now give them a chance. The Democrats are in again.
I’m giving them a chance. I’m waiting to see what they do in 2007. I voted for them, didn’t I?
It’s a terrible war.
I honestly don’t know if we’re a republic or a dictatorship or what. It doesn’t feel like a democracy. There were problems with the voting machines again. And you know that we vote with ball-point pens here, don’t you?
You told me. It does seem primitive.
Try sitting at a table with cardboard dividers and filling in bubbles with a pen. Not exactly a private ballot.
Rose was the last person to understand politics. She hated politics, simply was bored by politicians, and had not believed in elections since 2000. She continued to vote in primaries on the off chance she could help eliminate some of the sillier candidates on the ballot. She was never charmed by politicians’ talk or charisma. She had never understood why people thought Bill Clinton charming, though she supported him and thought he was a good president. What was charming about the slick down-home jokes and why did Hollywood actors attend his meetings on global warming and AIDS?
As for Bush, he had no charisma. Yet people said he did. He spoke badly on TV and argued poorly in the debates. He was not brainy like Bill Clinton, Rhodes scholar. Yet he used to be very popular. The tide had turned suddenly and his approval ratings dropped. The Senate and House hadn’t yet impeached him for his war, though now the majority of Americans disapproved of his "handling" of the war. She thought cynically that the war was too long for Americans’ short attention spans. It was one of the most unjust wars in history, but that did not seem to concern them.
Yes, she was bitter. Bitterness, cynicism, depression: it felt a lot like her sister’s description of the political sixties. Only scarier somehow. People were even more afraid of speaking out.
In Iraq--good God!--people were blown up every day. Speaking, silent, they were blown up anyway.
In the U.S. terrorists did not attack after 2001, but millions of people were depressed. The pharmaceutical companies had never been richer. Middle-class people were depressed (though they had everything, computers, TVs, SUVs, all kinds of junk; the depression was supposed to be a biological illness). War veterans were depressed (and violent). Perhaps depression was a form of biological warfare. Perhaps people were depressed because education was worse and worse. They were no longer excited about education: they saw it as a means for earning money and getting the things that would not satisfy them. She could see the decline of education in the younger people at work. They couldn’t write. She didn’t understand why they couldn’t write. They were all on antidepressants. Did that rewire the brain?
Rose did not understand the whole picture. She stayed in bed and cut out articles from newspapers. Bicyclists run over by cars on dark streets at one in the morning. Alleged suicides.
Her friend the editor called her. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?
I’ve collapsed. I’m having a bed-in.
Can’t you write something about the war?
That must have been, of course, the point of the bed-in. She had written it.
Her mother said she did not know what Rose was talking about. A bed-in?
Mom, did you miss the sixties? I’m not sure of the year. Megan will have it in her book.
So I have one daughter who’s writing a book about the sixties and another who’s trying to relive them?
No, no. Rose adjusted her bed jacket over the black pajamas. I’m not giving interviews like John and Yoko. I’m just not getting up.
Her stomach growled. She would never get up again if she didn’t have to eat. She read an essay in The Best American Political Writing 2006 and lost her appetite. She remembered that John Lennon had said in an interview that if people stayed in bed they couldn’t fight wars. Stay in bed and find peace.
What did he and Yoko eat in bed?
Someone should make Bush stay in bed for the next two years, she thought.
Peace on earth, good will to men.
How many men had been blown up in Iraq today? The stats depressed her: they were everywhere, on the internet, in The Times, and on CNN, unavoidable. Something weird was going on: a civil war, though Bush denied it. Tens of thousands of Iraqis had left the country. Refugees: where did they go? Not to the U.S. obviously. Bush and his cronies had hoped to go in and win free oil while toppling the regime, purging Bush’s enemies, and setting up a puppet democracy. It had all been done, done, done before in Central and South America, in Asia, and in Africa. Nobody was fooled. The Europeans turned on America. Huge, wild protests in the UK and France, pathetic turnouts for demonstrations in the U.S. Rose gave up marching after she was attacked. Ben gave up marching when he got too busy with his play.
Even the English writer, Margaret Drabble, wrote an essay about how she no longer could tolerate Americans because of the war . Rose felt embarrassed and personally rejected. As a Drabble fan who had protested against the war, she believed Drabble’s essay was illogical. How could she blame all Americans for Bush’s war? But perhaps Drabble had a point. No one with power had stood up to Bush. The Senate and Congress went along with the war: Kerry, Hillary Clinton, Edwards, and the other great American hopes. Except Dennis Kucinich, whom she wasn’t wild about. What a country. What was in a war for the senators and congressmen and women? Did they all own stock in the oil companies?
Rose, why do you have to be so snotty? her mother asked. Can’t you see the good in anyone? They were afraid of appearing weak.
It takes more strength to oppose a war than to play those horrid war games. I’m very suspicious of their bloody motives and they won’t get my vote again.
Now give them a chance. The Democrats are in again.
I’m giving them a chance. I’m waiting to see what they do in 2007. I voted for them, didn’t I?
It’s a terrible war.
I honestly don’t know if we’re a republic or a dictatorship or what. It doesn’t feel like a democracy. There were problems with the voting machines again. And you know that we vote with ball-point pens here, don’t you?
You told me. It does seem primitive.
Try sitting at a table with cardboard dividers and filling in bubbles with a pen. Not exactly a private ballot.
Rose was the last person to understand politics. She hated politics, simply was bored by politicians, and had not believed in elections since 2000. She continued to vote in primaries on the off chance she could help eliminate some of the sillier candidates on the ballot. She was never charmed by politicians’ talk or charisma. She had never understood why people thought Bill Clinton charming, though she supported him and thought he was a good president. What was charming about the slick down-home jokes and why did Hollywood actors attend his meetings on global warming and AIDS?
As for Bush, he had no charisma. Yet people said he did. He spoke badly on TV and argued poorly in the debates. He was not brainy like Bill Clinton, Rhodes scholar. Yet he used to be very popular. The tide had turned suddenly and his approval ratings dropped. The Senate and House hadn’t yet impeached him for his war, though now the majority of Americans disapproved of his "handling" of the war. She thought cynically that the war was too long for Americans’ short attention spans. It was one of the most unjust wars in history, but that did not seem to concern them.
Yes, she was bitter. Bitterness, cynicism, depression: it felt a lot like her sister’s description of the political sixties. Only scarier somehow. People were even more afraid of speaking out.
In Iraq--good God!--people were blown up every day. Speaking, silent, they were blown up anyway.
In the U.S. terrorists did not attack after 2001, but millions of people were depressed. The pharmaceutical companies had never been richer. Middle-class people were depressed (though they had everything, computers, TVs, SUVs, all kinds of junk; the depression was supposed to be a biological illness). War veterans were depressed (and violent). Perhaps depression was a form of biological warfare. Perhaps people were depressed because education was worse and worse. They were no longer excited about education: they saw it as a means for earning money and getting the things that would not satisfy them. She could see the decline of education in the younger people at work. They couldn’t write. She didn’t understand why they couldn’t write. They were all on antidepressants. Did that rewire the brain?
Rose did not understand the whole picture. She stayed in bed and cut out articles from newspapers. Bicyclists run over by cars on dark streets at one in the morning. Alleged suicides.
Her friend the editor called her. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?
I’ve collapsed. I’m having a bed-in.
Can’t you write something about the war?
That must have been, of course, the point of the bed-in. She had written it.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Barista
Oh no. Rose looked out the window and couldn't believe her eyes.
The vicious, sarcastic barista from Ben's favorite coffeehouse rang the doorbell. The barista with the illegal sideline business. She conducted her business in the restrooms. Nothing like washing your hands while a deal is going down. It made Rose feel very urban (not urbane) and annoyed.
You have met this barista. She’s basically the barista slut model. Think barista Barbie.
The barista who flirted with Ben in front of Rose. Who touched his hands and let Rose know by body language that she was seeing him.
The Monica Lewinsky of Rose's life.
The barista, a college dropout who had taken two undergrad psychology classes, fancied herself an expert at diagnosis. She had dubbed Rose a case of arrested growth when she saw Rose reading Louisa May Alcott for her office book group.
Rose figured that the barista hated her because (a) Rose got to be the wife and the barista had to be the mistrees, and (b) the stupid slut didn’t understand Alcott is a great American novelist whose work is included in a Library of America volume.
The barista believed she looked like Elizabeth Taylor because she had a retrousse nose.
Violet Eyes, the customers laughed.
She thought they were complimenting her. I can look like Liz if I want to, she said, showing her profile (and her teeth). She spent hours watching herself in the mirror behind the counter.
The barista was impatient, ringing the doorbell again and again. She wanted to see Ben’s house legitimately. Oh, she had been there when Rose wasn’t around, but the real kick would be in being there at Thanksgiving and letting Rose see how cozy she was with Ben. She could feel her heart pounding. It was real first-class vampire blood in her veins. Along with something else. Quaaludes maybe.
Rose sighed. She did not want to deal with this. She was not expecting the Liz impersonator on Thanksgiving.
Rose hoped she would go away.
But she knew she had to deal with this before Ben opened the door.
Hi! I brought a casserole, said the barista.
Rose stared at her. You'd better take it elsewhere. You see you're not on our guest list and we simply don't have room for sluts.
What? The barista laughed. Ben invited me.
He didn't tell me.
But I have nowhere else to go. She raised her voice, hoping to attract Ben.
Now that I don't believe. Rose stepped outside and closed the door behind her. She wanted to handle the scene quietly on her own. You're not the lonely type. I've seen you with several customers. Ben and I have a traditional marriage, not an open marriage. And you see I happene to know you're a dealer, too. If you come near thls place I'll report you for trespassing.
Well aren't you a bitch?
Or perhaps you are.
And Rose slammed the door and went back to deal with the real people who meant something to her in her life.
The vicious, sarcastic barista from Ben's favorite coffeehouse rang the doorbell. The barista with the illegal sideline business. She conducted her business in the restrooms. Nothing like washing your hands while a deal is going down. It made Rose feel very urban (not urbane) and annoyed.
You have met this barista. She’s basically the barista slut model. Think barista Barbie.
The barista who flirted with Ben in front of Rose. Who touched his hands and let Rose know by body language that she was seeing him.
The Monica Lewinsky of Rose's life.
The barista, a college dropout who had taken two undergrad psychology classes, fancied herself an expert at diagnosis. She had dubbed Rose a case of arrested growth when she saw Rose reading Louisa May Alcott for her office book group.
Rose figured that the barista hated her because (a) Rose got to be the wife and the barista had to be the mistrees, and (b) the stupid slut didn’t understand Alcott is a great American novelist whose work is included in a Library of America volume.
The barista believed she looked like Elizabeth Taylor because she had a retrousse nose.
Violet Eyes, the customers laughed.
She thought they were complimenting her. I can look like Liz if I want to, she said, showing her profile (and her teeth). She spent hours watching herself in the mirror behind the counter.
The barista was impatient, ringing the doorbell again and again. She wanted to see Ben’s house legitimately. Oh, she had been there when Rose wasn’t around, but the real kick would be in being there at Thanksgiving and letting Rose see how cozy she was with Ben. She could feel her heart pounding. It was real first-class vampire blood in her veins. Along with something else. Quaaludes maybe.
Rose sighed. She did not want to deal with this. She was not expecting the Liz impersonator on Thanksgiving.
Rose hoped she would go away.
But she knew she had to deal with this before Ben opened the door.
Hi! I brought a casserole, said the barista.
Rose stared at her. You'd better take it elsewhere. You see you're not on our guest list and we simply don't have room for sluts.
What? The barista laughed. Ben invited me.
He didn't tell me.
But I have nowhere else to go. She raised her voice, hoping to attract Ben.
Now that I don't believe. Rose stepped outside and closed the door behind her. She wanted to handle the scene quietly on her own. You're not the lonely type. I've seen you with several customers. Ben and I have a traditional marriage, not an open marriage. And you see I happene to know you're a dealer, too. If you come near thls place I'll report you for trespassing.
Well aren't you a bitch?
Or perhaps you are.
And Rose slammed the door and went back to deal with the real people who meant something to her in her life.
Dolls
Their mother brought them a box of 1960s dolls for Thanksgiving.
Oh, I used to love these, Rose said, staring at her old plastic friends.
Good God, Mom, what are we going to do with these? Megan asked.
Megan, are you stoned?
You’re not supposed to ask that.
Rose recognized Ponytail Barbie, Bubble-Cut Barbie, Barbie’s friend Midge, and Barbie's little sister Skipper. These dolls had had a cardboard Dream House AND a Fashion Shoppe, which Rose and Megan had quarreled over constantly. Who got to play with which when? Once Rose had fallen into the Dream House while goofing around. Their mother had pasted some cardboard on the outside of the trampled wall, but it never stood quite straight afterwards.
Where are the Dream House and the Fashion Shoppe? Rose asked.
I gave them away, Mom said mysteriously.
Who could you have given them away to? Megan snapped. My daughters never got them.
The Hummels in LITTLE WOMEN? Rose guessed.
You girls are so hard on me, Mom sighed.
Sighing, snapping, guessing. It happened whenever the three of them were together. The chemistry between Mom and Megan was murderous. Megan became an antagonistic rebel, their mother changed from a charming member of University Women to a querulous bruja. Rose became a nervous bore.
If we still had the Dream House and the Fashion Shoppe, we’d be rich. People sell this stuff on e-bay to sentimental middle-aged women, Rose said.
Like us, Megan said
Rose picked up Barbie and looked at her. A plastic figure with an expressionless face and slanty eyes from the sixties. Barbie was and is all the rage. An article in The New Yorker said that Barbie was still the top seller and only something called Bratz came close. Every girl in Rose’s elementary school had to have Barbie in the sixties. Rose remembered coming home from school one day and begging her mother to take her to Osco Drug to find one.
Their mother liked dolls. She bought two Barbies, one for Rose and one for Megan. Later she bought them a Barbie with wigs. The wigs provided hours of entertainement. She also gave them Midge and Skipper. The dolls were somehow too well-dressed and static--namby-pamby, feet forever in high-heel position-- to make lively companions, but they were mad about them. When Barbie played her cardboard records on her cardboard hi-fi, they played real records on their stereo. They listened to the Beatles while Barbie listened to the Everly Brothers and Nat King Cole, people Rose and Megan had never heard of. . Eventually they made albums for Barbie out of cut-up shoeboxes. Finally Barbie had the Beatles! Then she was a cool doll.
She had a boyfriend, Imitation Ken, a G.I. Joe lookalike who got to ride in the passenger seat of Barbie’s orange sportscar, which reminded Rose and Megan of Nancy Drew’s roadster. Sometimes Barbie got to be a detective, tearing up the city streets on the blue tile in the basement.
The Fashion Shoppe was weird for someone who was eight or nine. Rose was only vaguely aware of miniskirts and jumpsuits, but she still enjoyed dressing the cardboard mannequins in Barbie’s clothes and then having Barbie sell HER OWN CLOTHES to Midge and Skipper! Sometimes they pretended it was the secondhand church shop their mother volunteered at.
After Megan went to junior high, Rose got another family of dolls: Tammy and Pepper, made by the Ideal Toy Company. Tammy was her favorite, though less famous than Barbie, a more wholesome, less busty teenage doll, whose younger sister Pepper was less anorexic-looking than Barbie’s sister Skipper. Tammy and Pepper looked astonishingly like herself and Megan. Rose loved Tammy and Pepper! Like Barbie, they had a cardboard house, which came with its own soda fountain. Rose and her friends spent hours playing doll hide-and-seek, a game that revolved around the cardboard house. One person would go out of the room and the other person would hide the dolls inside the couch or under the soda fountain. Rose thought it was hysterically funny to take apart the cardboard furniture and squish the dolls inside. Tammy and Pepper were looser and more fun than Barbie somehow. And Pepper had a plastic treehouse. You might think Rose’ was making this up, but she wasn’t.
Rose took Tammy and Pepper out of the box. Oh my God! I spent hours with them. They’re so sweet. But they’ve lost that new plastic smell.
But there was another doll, a lonely glamour doll who was slightly slimmer than Tammy, but fatter than Barbie. And Rose couldn’t for the life of her figure out who she was.
Who is this? Whose family is she in? It really nagged at her.
Megan and Mom didn’t know.
She’s somebody, Mom said.
Is her name Misty? Is she a friend of Tammy? But she’s too small.
Finally she looked up Tammy on the internet and discovered that Misty was indeed one of Tammy’s companions, manufactured a few years later to be the size of a grown-up Tammy that none of Rose’s friends ever had.
I want to play with Misty! I want to play with Misty! Megan teased.
Get off the internet and let’s have the turkey. I’ve basted it the last two times and I think it’s done, Mom said.
Ben came into the kitchen and saw all the dolls and said as tactfully as possible, You know, our guests will be here any minute and they’re going to wonder about you people with your dolls.
Oh, you asshole, Megan shrieked. These are worth a million dollars or something. Can’t you just let us be?
Rose turned to Ben and explained, Megan doesn’t like dolls. And we’re not selling them. Hey, Megan, maybe they’re worth ten dollars apiece.
Megan walked Misty across the counter and said in a squeaky voice, I’m not Megan. I’m Misty. And in her own voice: I’m going out for some air. Want a smoke, bro?
Bro doesn’t want a smoke, Ben said. After she was gone he asked, What's wrong with her?
The holiday stress, Mom sighed. She's a good girl at heart.
Rose nodded in agreement.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Nowhere
Rose wrote a column for an online magazine. It made her sweat to write it. She wrote it as a favor for someone she had gone to school with.
The editor was not only hip, he was sweet. He had been her boyfriend for a while in college. They had broken up after she found Playboy magazines all over his studio (“I use them for life drawing, I swear” ). Now he was an art professor who invited graduate students to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. Rose was surprised when she learned he was also an editor. But the online arts magazine recruited him after someone showed the advertising department one of his department newsletters. The short articles were funny: “Ten Things We Love about Nowhere University.” “Ten Cartoon People We’d Like to Know” (with illustrations of Dilbert, Zonker, Cathy, etc.). “The Celebrity Wedding We Care Least about (1. Princess Di’s, 2. Tom Cruise’s, Elton John’s, etc.)
So her friend was editing this arts magazine, getting paid nothing.
Please write about architecture. We have nothing on architecture, he begged .
Please not.
It bored Rose so much to criticize architecture that she almost fell asleep writing the column.
Can’t I just draw the buildings?
Well, maybe.
For a while she drew cartoons critiquing architecture and he wrote captions. It was a collaboration.
But then she did this weird thing. She started writing about her daily life.
Daily life in ancient Rome. She remembered the papers she’d had to write in school.
She wrote about canning tomatoes. Where she shopped. What she thought of work.
The editor published it.
There was no call for Rose’s life. But Rose wrote it anyway.
The mail was weird.
“You’re obvious a serious person, but you hang around with so many losers. Lose Dorrie. Seriously. She annoys us.”
“Who are you, you pretentious bitch? Why should we care what you do? You, you, you.”
The mail depressed Rose, but the editor laughed and said it meant people were reading. You’re the person they love to hate.
Rose wrote quietly under a pseudonym. No one in her office knew she wrote the column. And she shut up for a while about Dorrie.
But one day Dorrie popped over to the house cautiously when Ben was out. Rose and Megan let her in, defying Ben’s orders. She was bruised and part of her head had been shaved so she could have stitches.
What happened?
Dorrie started to cry.
It had only been five o’clock, only beginning to be dark. She had left the church, where she had been helping a nun file some papers in the shelter’s office. She had noticed someone, but thought he was going into the church to pray. The man had slapped her head, knocked her down, and stolen her bookbag. No, no money. Just a library card and a couple of poetry books. She had also lost her copy of RICHARD III. The thing was she wondered if she could borrow a copy. She couldn’t check anything out of the library. Well, yes, the guy had gotten away with her I.D. The librarians required I.D. before they gave her a new card.
Rose took Dorrie to get a new I.D. and gave them hell at the library for denying her a new library card.
She comes here almost every day. You have to know her by now.
It’s our policy.
Dorrie got a new card.
Rose went home and wrote her column on her palm pilot. About Dorrie.
You could be Dorrie. You could be the woman who develops a mental illness. You could be the one who gets beaten up outside a church and loses a backpack.
Now that the Democrats have been elected (with the help of my ballot: just call me the Good Citizen), what are they going to do to help Dorrie? Find her housing in a decent neighborhood? Invest money in research for cures for mental illness? Set up a free taxi service after dark?
Do you have any idea how little money is spent on research for medicines for mental illness? Do you ever wonder why the same medications are prescribed for depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, agoraphobia, etc.?
A Republican wrote back, I resent the implication that Republicans aren't involved.
This column upset more people than usual. Just tell us about your personal life, they wrote.
The editor was not only hip, he was sweet. He had been her boyfriend for a while in college. They had broken up after she found Playboy magazines all over his studio (“I use them for life drawing, I swear” ). Now he was an art professor who invited graduate students to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. Rose was surprised when she learned he was also an editor. But the online arts magazine recruited him after someone showed the advertising department one of his department newsletters. The short articles were funny: “Ten Things We Love about Nowhere University.” “Ten Cartoon People We’d Like to Know” (with illustrations of Dilbert, Zonker, Cathy, etc.). “The Celebrity Wedding We Care Least about (1. Princess Di’s, 2. Tom Cruise’s, Elton John’s, etc.)
So her friend was editing this arts magazine, getting paid nothing.
Please write about architecture. We have nothing on architecture, he begged .
Please not.
It bored Rose so much to criticize architecture that she almost fell asleep writing the column.
Can’t I just draw the buildings?
Well, maybe.
For a while she drew cartoons critiquing architecture and he wrote captions. It was a collaboration.
But then she did this weird thing. She started writing about her daily life.
Daily life in ancient Rome. She remembered the papers she’d had to write in school.
She wrote about canning tomatoes. Where she shopped. What she thought of work.
The editor published it.
There was no call for Rose’s life. But Rose wrote it anyway.
The mail was weird.
“You’re obvious a serious person, but you hang around with so many losers. Lose Dorrie. Seriously. She annoys us.”
“Who are you, you pretentious bitch? Why should we care what you do? You, you, you.”
The mail depressed Rose, but the editor laughed and said it meant people were reading. You’re the person they love to hate.
Rose wrote quietly under a pseudonym. No one in her office knew she wrote the column. And she shut up for a while about Dorrie.
But one day Dorrie popped over to the house cautiously when Ben was out. Rose and Megan let her in, defying Ben’s orders. She was bruised and part of her head had been shaved so she could have stitches.
What happened?
Dorrie started to cry.
It had only been five o’clock, only beginning to be dark. She had left the church, where she had been helping a nun file some papers in the shelter’s office. She had noticed someone, but thought he was going into the church to pray. The man had slapped her head, knocked her down, and stolen her bookbag. No, no money. Just a library card and a couple of poetry books. She had also lost her copy of RICHARD III. The thing was she wondered if she could borrow a copy. She couldn’t check anything out of the library. Well, yes, the guy had gotten away with her I.D. The librarians required I.D. before they gave her a new card.
Rose took Dorrie to get a new I.D. and gave them hell at the library for denying her a new library card.
She comes here almost every day. You have to know her by now.
It’s our policy.
Dorrie got a new card.
Rose went home and wrote her column on her palm pilot. About Dorrie.
You could be Dorrie. You could be the woman who develops a mental illness. You could be the one who gets beaten up outside a church and loses a backpack.
Now that the Democrats have been elected (with the help of my ballot: just call me the Good Citizen), what are they going to do to help Dorrie? Find her housing in a decent neighborhood? Invest money in research for cures for mental illness? Set up a free taxi service after dark?
Do you have any idea how little money is spent on research for medicines for mental illness? Do you ever wonder why the same medications are prescribed for depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, agoraphobia, etc.?
A Republican wrote back, I resent the implication that Republicans aren't involved.
This column upset more people than usual. Just tell us about your personal life, they wrote.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Pine Cones
Rose found the pine cones. Twenty of them in a box. Twenty small pine cones which she meant to glue upside down on a straw wreath. She had gathered them one winter on a long walk in a neighborhood of mansions and shabby falling-apart houses. The mansions were a bit run-down, but beautiful. She’d love to renovate them. She thought about taking pictures, but the neighborhood seemed dangerous. Nobody was out on the street, but it had an atmosphere. She was sensitive to atmosphere. There were, however, pine trees everywhere. She stooped and picked up the pine cones. The pine cones were so small they fit in her pockets. Cars and trucks shot by slowly and she had a feeling they were pausing to look at her. Was she dressed too fancily in her secondhand Chanel coat, bought on e-bay? She shivered. She buttoned the top button of her coat. When a man in black came out on his porch and stood there holding a book, she scuttled down the street till she found a convenience store, asked directions, and then headed back to her office.
Find any good houses? her boss Kent had asked. He was always looking for a new old house. He wanted to move into the city.
Yes, but I’m not sure where I was. She looked at the map. Maybe I was here. Somewhere near a convenience store on Third Street.
He sighed. He couldn’t move there. All right for walks, though.
She took her pine cones home and put them in a shoebox. She liked shoeboxes. She collected them. She kept her sewing kit in one, a seashell collection in another. She kept her pine cones in a Timberland shoebox for two years.
First she covered the wreath with raffia. Then she attached the pine cones with a glue gun. The pine coney looked so beautiful upside down. Like lilliputian planets with sworls and petals. And she liked to use the glue gun. It got rid of her hostilities. Gluing pine cones on a wreath was somehow so much more satisfying than dealing with contractors.
The contractors were late. They should have finished the exterior. It was November and had already snowed twice. Instead they were working on a million other jobs. Occasionally they showed up and installed a new window. What was she paying them for? She had to be firm but indulgent. She couldn’t speak her mind. She couldn’t talk to them the way Kent did. If she did, they would resist. She had to act like a thin little woman. Thin little women didn’t yell. Not that she was that thin anymore. She weighed 142 pounds. Twenty years ago she had weighed 122. She had been nearly anorexic.
I want to be anorexic like you, her friend had said.
But people still treated her like a thin little woman.
Ben had never known her when she was skinny.
Kent yelled at the contractors. He was ferocious. He was a former state representative who had retired from politics and gone back to architecture. People did what he told them to. He was genial in his office but was a beast when he dealt with outsiders. He didn’t usually yell at anyone, but he yelled when the contractors were late.
What the hell? This is an important contract.
Rose was thrilled. Oh my God, he’s never lost it like that. If only I could.
Rose was often grim. She could keep her face utterly still, not move a muscle. Unlike Megan, whose face twitched. Megan had a naturally twitchy face.
That’s why I had to go into a helping profession, Megan often said.
But Rose couldn’t get men to obey her. Her still face wasn't enough. She wondered how Pelosi was going to do it. How did Hillary do it?
Rose was making the wreath for her neighbors. She thought she should join in the decorative fervor, hang something on her door.
Pine cones. She had never seen a prettier wreath. And to think she found them lying on the ground.
They sold them at craft stores.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Condign
Condign.
Rose had found the word in Osbert Sitwell’s BEFORE THE BOMBARDMENT. It was a condign novel, which no one read anymore. Maybe in Britain. She didn’t know what the British read. She had found it at a university library.
She loved the characters, Miss Collier-Floodgaye, a woman so lonely she believed she had to pay for friendship, and her paid companion, Miss Bramley. And she loved the epigraph:
“Is it Winter the Huntsman
who gallops through his iron glades,
Cracking his cruel whip
To the gathering shades?”
Winter the Huntsman. It had already snowed twice. She wore her boots to the mall.
Rose thought it condign that while sitting on a bench at the mall she prognosticated that she would become as addicted to shopping as she was to the books of Osbert Sitwell if Megan continued to live with her.
Megan was more or less living with them until Thanksgiving. Thank God it was November. Wreaths and pumpkins and inflatable turkeys. One of their neighbors put up his Christmas decorations. It was a lights festival: lights around the roof and bushes, Santa and the reindeer in the front yard. He was a friend of Ben’s. Ben helped the guy decorate every year: Lester was a Christmas nut who had served in World War II. He was 85, but pretty spry on that ladder. Lester was the one who saw Megan sitting on the front stoop in her nightgown smoking without a coat on.
Rose made an appointment with a psychiatrist. This can’t go on.
Megan actually got dressed like a normal person. She wore a prim skirt and sweater and tights she borrowed from Rose’s closet.
Why don’t you get dressed when you’re staying home? Then we wouldn’t have to go to the doctor, Rose said impatiently.
I can be straight. Watch how straight I can be.
Megan conversed with the psychiatrist about the history she was writing of the sixties. She mentioned her fascination with the Kennedys.
Isn’t that somewhat offbeat? Don’t you think there have been enough histories of the Kennedys and the sixties?
No. People are fascinated. There are always new books. And there’s a new movie called BOBBY.
The psychiatrist diagnosed her with agoraphobia, bipolar disorder, and substance abuse. He prescribed pills and also wanted her to attend group.
Megan laughed herself silly. I am not attending any group. I am beyond group.
Shouldn’t you at least try? I’ll go with you.
I’ll take the pills.
Every morning Rose and Megan took pills together. Rose took one, Megan took three. They took pills, drank orange juice, and read the newspaper.
The pills did not make Megan get dressed. She slept more, though. She went to bed earlier.
Rose was at the mall. She had taken to going to the mall after work to get away from Megan. She watched the peripatetic shoppers. They walked around the mall talking on phones, ignoring the clouds of perfume that someone mistakenly believed made the mall more attractive. The smell was not Chanel No. 5. It was acidic, like walking through Lysol. It clung to her clothes. She had to go home and wash her clothes the way she had when she had been a waitress at a diner years ago. A few carried bags from the Gap, others from the Limited, others from Borders, still others from the department store. But most carried nothing. It was a dying mall. The middle-class housewives with the expensively dyed hair shopped at the mall on the outskirts of town. The modish mall was so far out of town that it was in another county.
What did Rose need at the mall today? She bought two new blankets, a muffin pan and cookie sheet, candles, hats and gloves for her and Ben, sweatshirts, Comet, dish soap, and Lysol, a miniature teddy bear for her dog (who loved to chew them), another teddy bear for her mother (who collected them), and a new dictionary (her old one had fallen apart).
When she got home she spent another two hours making soup in the kitchen. Quiet time. Listening to the radio, wearing her favorite slippers and new sweats.
Megan came in and, laughing, ate half a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies.
I’m making soup. Don’t you want some?
This is all I want, Megan said.
Then she left the room. Rose blended the soup, ate two bowls, and then cried.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
They Poach Rabbits, Don't They?
There’s nothing to eat. Nothing. Except apples. Do you want poached fruit?
Nobody poaches fruit, said Ben. Fruit...not poachable. They poach rabbits, don’t they?
I wouldn’t poach a rabbit with a ten-foot pole. Ugh. I’m not Elizabeth David. But I have a recipe for poached fruit, said Rose.
She started to poach the fruit. First the syrup: she combined sugar, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla bean ,lemon, and peppercorns in a pan of water and simmered for ten minutes. Then she peeled and quartered the apples while Ben chose the CD. Apples. Red-skinned apples. She thought about apples and hoped he’d choose the Beatles. He usually made her listen to rock bands she hated, like the Who. She hated the Who so much that when the Who gave a concert in her town, in 2000 and then again in 2006, she left for the day.
She had once seen Pete Townshend whizzing across town in a Honda Civic. Really. They had made eye contact. And then she had had the feeling that she was followed. Really. And then two months later she had seen him at MOMA when she was on a trip to New York. She had raced out of the museum, where she had been examining the collage boxes of Joseph Cornell, because she felt in danger of becoming an exhibition. She hurried into the subway. She felt safer there, catching a train, going nowhere.
Things happened when the Who was in America. Everybody laughed at her. What could happen? For God’s sake! What did she imagine? Was life a horror novel? This was the year the Democrats won the midterm election. Wasn’t the Who a good influence then?
No. That wasn’t the Whoish thing she meant. Bad things happened. Every rock group has a different influence. It was clear to her that the atmosphere changed; the neighborhood gangs became more active. Violence was up in 2006. And there were always bad drugs in town when the Who was here. Even Ben admitted that. He heard things when he moonlighted at the emergency room, which he always had to do before Christmas to make up for the money he lost by directing the play.
Ben listened to the Who. She had listened to the Who many years ago. She had liked their songs before they sold them to SUV commercials and “Friends.”
It’s important to listen to the Who, Ben said. He believed that rock lyrics had a message that didn’t get conveyed by the media.
Grudgingly, she admitted they had something important to say. That didn’t mean they didn’t scare her to death.
As for herself, she protected herself from rock whenever possible. Rockers were not utopians. They sang about their hatred and contempt for society. Rock critics were two-faced. They were cynical about the business but lauded the new bands anyway. Were they so great? She had often been...dismayed. She couldn’t deny it. Had she ever known an ethical rock critic? Well...maybe one or two who wrote for Rolling Stone in the sixties... Now they were all about sniffing the coke. And, weirdly, they wanted to meet the stars. So they reduce them to stories.
She hoped and prayed she would never, never, never meet a rock star. That Ben wouldn’t bring one home from a party. It had been bad enough years ago when she had had a boyfriend who played electric guitar. She had had to sit around with everybody, saying nothing, pretending to get stoned.
She should write a mystery. Her therapist had suggested this years ago. The detective? A rock critic? No, she didn’t think so. More likely somebody unconnected to rock. A P.I. Everybody loved a good P.I. novel. Especially if the P.I. had a dog, money troubles, jogged, hated high heels, and was an orphan like V.I. Warshawki or Kinsey Milhone. Her P.I. could investigate rock and roll deaths. All those overdoses. Come on. Mama Cass offed by a sandwich? She didn’t think so.
When the poached apples were done, Ben turned off the Who.
Won’t get fooled again, she said. Wait till you taste this. “Fruits poached in a syrup gain flavor and sophistication.”
Good God, he said. These are the only sophisticated apples I’ve ever eaten.
They snickered. Then they ate most of them, then went into the living room and made out on the couch.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
After
After listening to opera all afternoon, Rose felt compos mentis again. But she didn’t want anything to do with her sister. Megan was just...inappropriate. Giving her that joint this morning. And Megan had advised her to vote socialist. She didn’t want to admit that Megan might be right. When she saw the politicians smiling fulsomely at the camera, she thought Megan had a point. The politicians were mostly Democrats, friends of Ben, whom she’d met at parties during other election years. They were better than Republicans, but still conservative and hypocritical. They said what pollsters told them to say. It was always the same thing: the economy, health insurance, the war. Yadda yadda yadda. All that would be taken care of now. Sure. What would they do? The health insurance situation never changed. She had a feeling that the war would go on and on like Vietnam even though President Bush announced Rumsfeld’s resignation. Obviously brought on by the election. Well, that was a good thing. So why didn’t she feel triumphant? Why didn’t she believe it would get better?
She listened to Wagner’s Parsifal in her bedroom.
Megan finally brought her a sandwich and some herbal tea.
No, thanks.
It’s only peanut butter. It’s not like I’m spoiling you.
Who are these politicians? Where’s my Huey Long?
Yeah but...just yesterday you were yelling, Nail them up! Nail them up! Nail them up!
Well, we nailed them up.
You did. I voted socialist.
Really?
Of course. The Democrats got us into the war by letting Bush do anything he wanted.
I’d like to revoke my vote.
Don’t you think any of them will help us? How about Nancy Pelosi of San Francisco?
Oh, Nancy. She doesn’t have a clue. Don’t you love it when they say she’s the only Democrat who knows what Middle Americans want?
She’s clueless...Drewless. More liberal than most, but she voted for the Patriot Act, I think. Did you smoke the joint?
No. You can have it back.
Now if you’d only let me smoke in your house...
No.
But Nancy of San Francisco would let me.
Huh.
The sisters wore bathrobes and slippers. It was almost five. They both sipped tea and looked out the window. It was a beautiful day. Violet sky, sun already going down. A few dead leaves clung to the trees. The trees looked the way they would until April.
Let’s get dressed and go out and rake leaves, Rose said suddenly.
Rake ‘em up! Rake ‘em up! Rake ‘em Up!
Yeah. Something normal like that.
You know Rose you’re not normal. Don’t be serious about elections. They don’t matter.
Well, if you say so, said Rose, struggling into her jeans and a rumpled T-shirt.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Brainwashed
Rose called in sick. She wept buckets. She woke up in a fog, regretting having voted. Why had she voted? It didn't matter whether, what, or why she voted. She lived in a Republican country. She had done her civic duty because it was supposed to be the mature thing to do. She had been brainwashed. She had been used by politiicans who would do nothing as usual. Her vote meant nothing. The flag was red, white, and blue. Predominantly red, she thought.
She tried to picture the flag in her mind...she pictured Wal-Mart. Perhaps Wal-Mart had red plastic carts.
The man who owned Curves gave millions of dollars to the anti-abortion lobbyists each years.
What her country stood for was: big business, chains, elevator music (now Starbucks music), Karl Rove, chemical dumping, prostitutes who turned tricks at fast food restaurants (she had walked in on this in a restroom), a mysterious thing called a “Facebook page,” microchips implanted in animals and human beings, cognitive psychology and computer software.
Rose screamed at Ben, Why did you let me vote?
I think it's the right thing to do. You wanted to.
I was brainwashed. Prozac and patriotic fever.
It's gone?
Yes. I'm depressed again.
Megan brought a cup of coffee to her tearful sister. On the saucer was a joint.
I don't need this, Rose said.
You might. Today is the rest of your life. And then she wafted mysteriously away.
Voting
Rose’s Prozac restored her to her old self, a woman who believed in suffrage and citizenship. She could scarcely remember her depressed decision earlier not to vote.
She read the newspaper and made a checklist of candidates. She talked them up to her colleagues. She persuaded her boss Kent to vote. He was "independent." They notoriously didn't make it to the polls.
I'll go on strike if you don't vote, she said. Vote for anyone.
You're scary, he joked.
She could still recite the intro to the Declaration of Independence if she concentrated. She threatened to recite it to him.
Our father who art in heaven...
No, wait. That was the Lord's Prayer. Catholicism doesn't matter here. It isn't a Kennedy world.
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the consent of the governed..."
Rose and Ben had been voting at the Catholic church for years. They were glad to vote because, if nothing else, they got away from Rose’s sister Megan for a while. Megan didn’t leave the house. Rose felt guilty about leaving her alone. But tonight she and Ben had an excuse to go out and Megan as usual refused to accompany them.
In the darkness one of the nuns hurried past them up the steps and said hello. Startled, Rose started to fall. She muttered that she felt a little dizzy.
Panic attack? Ben asked.
No. Nuns scare me . I still remember kneeling in school, when a nun wanted to see if my skirt hem touched the ground. She made me kneel because my skirt was too short.
They sat on the damp steps of the church until she recovered. She enjoyed going to Mass, but she didn’t want to go into the church. She had to go into the church. Voting. Got to vote. Too many bad things had happened since 2000. The twenty-first century was going down. That’s what it was about. The dollar was worthless, though economists lied and said the economy was in good shape. The U.S.A. was just a country that fought with Iraq. Crazed SUV drivers intimidated people in parking lots. Oil wars, fought even in parking lots. Who can drive the biggest vehicle? Right-wing nuts picketed plays.
Ben said he hated voting in a church.
I believe in separation of church and state. Should we genuflect at the voting booth?
The elderly women at the tables checked their names on a list and gave them voting cards. They went into the booths and voted.
They walked to the restaurant. They were glad to get away from Rose’s sister, Megan, who was having a nervous breakdown in their house. Megan wouldn’t see a doctor. She wore a bathrobe and clogs she had borrowed from Rose. Every day Rose came home to find the mail had been opened by Megan: bills, junk, letters, and packages. Rose didn’t like to scream at someone who had gone nuts, but she said, Are you the CIA or what? and they quarreled. She felt like getting stoned with Megan to get away from worrying about her. But she didn’t. It was against her principles. She had her Prozac. And she didn’t think marijuana was doing Megan any good.
The bed in the spare room was now covered with Look and Life magazines Megan had bought years ago in a store in Cape Cod when her husband was still alive...Rose wondered how the Kennedys felt about this crap being sold near their summer home. Spread out across the bed were biographies of the Kennedys, SOUL ON ICE, Beatles biographies, Edward Gorey books, journalism by Hunter Thompson and Tom Wolfe, novels by Brigid Brophy,William Burroughs, and Ken Kesey. She took notes in Mead marbled composition notebooks in all sizes, filled with writing....some of it quite good. But it was all in note form. Nothing really got done. Megan sat in bed, writing occasionally, stoned, then read POLDARK half the time.
And then there was the Ben problem. Rose waited up late to spend time with Ben. Megan didn’t like Ben much. At a late dinner the night before Megan urged Ben and Rose to vote socialist, just to agitate Ben, though as far as Rose knew Megan always voted Democrat. Ben got very upset.
Ignore her, said Rose to Ben. To Megan she said, Leave him alone. You’re so perverse. Why do you do it?
He’s so despotic. I can’t take it.
Well, take it. Everybody likes Ben.
Oh, then I’m jealous. I don’t have a husband anymore. I miss my husband. He and I voted socialist when we were in our twenties. I was just reminiscing really.
Well...that wasn’t clear, Meg. Now we’re just trying to hold the country together.
With votes? How naive.
What else do you suggest?
Drop out. Have a garden.
They giggled. Megan had actually tried that for a while. In a commune.
Once the door was closed Rose could forget about Megan. That morning it rained and she and Ben walked under an umbrella, holding hands. Under the umbrella. So Little Women. So Jo and Professor Bhaer.
She read the newspaper and made a checklist of candidates. She talked them up to her colleagues. She persuaded her boss Kent to vote. He was "independent." They notoriously didn't make it to the polls.
I'll go on strike if you don't vote, she said. Vote for anyone.
You're scary, he joked.
She could still recite the intro to the Declaration of Independence if she concentrated. She threatened to recite it to him.
Our father who art in heaven...
No, wait. That was the Lord's Prayer. Catholicism doesn't matter here. It isn't a Kennedy world.
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the consent of the governed..."
Rose and Ben had been voting at the Catholic church for years. They were glad to vote because, if nothing else, they got away from Rose’s sister Megan for a while. Megan didn’t leave the house. Rose felt guilty about leaving her alone. But tonight she and Ben had an excuse to go out and Megan as usual refused to accompany them.
In the darkness one of the nuns hurried past them up the steps and said hello. Startled, Rose started to fall. She muttered that she felt a little dizzy.
Panic attack? Ben asked.
No. Nuns scare me . I still remember kneeling in school, when a nun wanted to see if my skirt hem touched the ground. She made me kneel because my skirt was too short.
They sat on the damp steps of the church until she recovered. She enjoyed going to Mass, but she didn’t want to go into the church. She had to go into the church. Voting. Got to vote. Too many bad things had happened since 2000. The twenty-first century was going down. That’s what it was about. The dollar was worthless, though economists lied and said the economy was in good shape. The U.S.A. was just a country that fought with Iraq. Crazed SUV drivers intimidated people in parking lots. Oil wars, fought even in parking lots. Who can drive the biggest vehicle? Right-wing nuts picketed plays.
Ben said he hated voting in a church.
I believe in separation of church and state. Should we genuflect at the voting booth?
The elderly women at the tables checked their names on a list and gave them voting cards. They went into the booths and voted.
They walked to the restaurant. They were glad to get away from Rose’s sister, Megan, who was having a nervous breakdown in their house. Megan wouldn’t see a doctor. She wore a bathrobe and clogs she had borrowed from Rose. Every day Rose came home to find the mail had been opened by Megan: bills, junk, letters, and packages. Rose didn’t like to scream at someone who had gone nuts, but she said, Are you the CIA or what? and they quarreled. She felt like getting stoned with Megan to get away from worrying about her. But she didn’t. It was against her principles. She had her Prozac. And she didn’t think marijuana was doing Megan any good.
The bed in the spare room was now covered with Look and Life magazines Megan had bought years ago in a store in Cape Cod when her husband was still alive...Rose wondered how the Kennedys felt about this crap being sold near their summer home. Spread out across the bed were biographies of the Kennedys, SOUL ON ICE, Beatles biographies, Edward Gorey books, journalism by Hunter Thompson and Tom Wolfe, novels by Brigid Brophy,William Burroughs, and Ken Kesey. She took notes in Mead marbled composition notebooks in all sizes, filled with writing....some of it quite good. But it was all in note form. Nothing really got done. Megan sat in bed, writing occasionally, stoned, then read POLDARK half the time.
And then there was the Ben problem. Rose waited up late to spend time with Ben. Megan didn’t like Ben much. At a late dinner the night before Megan urged Ben and Rose to vote socialist, just to agitate Ben, though as far as Rose knew Megan always voted Democrat. Ben got very upset.
Ignore her, said Rose to Ben. To Megan she said, Leave him alone. You’re so perverse. Why do you do it?
He’s so despotic. I can’t take it.
Well, take it. Everybody likes Ben.
Oh, then I’m jealous. I don’t have a husband anymore. I miss my husband. He and I voted socialist when we were in our twenties. I was just reminiscing really.
Well...that wasn’t clear, Meg. Now we’re just trying to hold the country together.
With votes? How naive.
What else do you suggest?
Drop out. Have a garden.
They giggled. Megan had actually tried that for a while. In a commune.
Once the door was closed Rose could forget about Megan. That morning it rained and she and Ben walked under an umbrella, holding hands. Under the umbrella. So Little Women. So Jo and Professor Bhaer.
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