drank. Now she was speedy and loud, a little overeager to share her miseries, turning to the biggest, her mother, Clive’s first wife, Margaret, called Meg. Meg had been a drinker, which explained why, a few years earlier, on a simple midday errand, the poor woman had been stalled, arrested as by air, confused—which way headed? Westport, Connecticut, August 1999. First stroke. Just before the millennium and the destruction of the towers.
Sally exhaled—to heck with the diet—and she took up her fork and so came the story of the mean and practiced child moving fast as a rat along a wall doing damage. “Yesterday Wisia told me she wanted to staple my mouth shut. Do I sound desperate? ‘Go live with your other mother,’ I tell her. ‘You can rip up things together.’”
Clive put out his hand, saying, “Sally.”
“That scares the kid. That shuts her up!” Sally said, “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“That’s not true,” Clive said.
“It’s always true. So much happens and you’re out of touch. We kept Mom for a while, you know. I thought I didn’t want her in a nursing home, but in the house she was a banshee.” Naked—enough to sear the eyes!—Mom had wandered naked into the kitchen and slipped and fell. “Wisia was in the kitchen with me at the time and she threw herself onto her grandmother as if the woman were a sandpile, which was how she looked, like a sandpile of flesh.”
“Please,” Clive said, “don’t tell me these things.”
“Does this mean you won’t visit her?”
“Calm down,” Clive said.
“Am I right, you won’t?”
He said. “You’re right.”
“I’m right about it being a long time since we talked, too.” And when he didn’t answer, she asked, “You’re staying on, aren’t you? You’re not going back right away?”
“Calm down, Sally,” he said. “I leave Thursday. We could take a walk tomorrow in the park if you like.”
“Meet at Bethesda Terrace?” she asked.
“Okay,” he said. “Now isn’t that worth a smile?” But Sally didn’t smile right away, thinking of her mother, no doubt, of Meg. “I’ve been thinking,” but Clive didn’t tell her of what. “Poor Sally,” he said. “What would you like to do for the next hour?”
“Skip town. Buy a ticket to some warm island. Otherwise, shopping.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Buy Dinah a post card,” he said.
“Find something for Wisia, too,” he said.
Something soft, Sally thought, and childish. And Dinah? A card she had seen once would be perfect: King Kong with Fay Wray in his grip.
*
Clive, at the top of the stairs to the terrace, saw Sally walking toward the angel in a large coat that looked like something her mother might have worn. (He should give Sally the money he knew she needed.) Sally’s mother, a long unbuttoned girl swinging bell-like and wide, had once walked willingly, smilingly toward him—for an entire roll of film, she moved agreeably among the pigeons. Ah, acqua alta in the Piazza San Marco, all awash yet staunchly swept, and the coffeehouse, famous. He saw in his daughter his once-cheerful wife, Meg, in the piazza, winter, a happy winter for them both despite a year of crepe and tears. That first Christmas after Clive’s father’s death when his mother had asked him please, couldn’t we all do something other than New York, far away but family?
Italy then.
On a colder afternoon, Clive and Meg shut their shared umbrella and shook themselves out at the araby that was the entrance to the Caffè Florian. Here we are! Sorry! Hardly sorry, but bed-warm beneath their coats. “We were happy,” Clive said to Sally now. “Your mother and I, and we made my mother happy, too, at a time when, I think, she didn’t expect to feel much of anything.” Across a room, distantly tinseled—bar pin, bracelet, ring—his mother once at the Hotel Gritti on the Grand Canal, New Year’s Eve, a widow in a loose sheath,
Sally exhaled—to heck with the diet—and she took up her fork and so came the story of the mean and practiced child moving fast as a rat along a wall doing damage. “Yesterday Wisia told me she wanted to staple my mouth shut. Do I sound desperate? ‘Go live with your other mother,’ I tell her. ‘You can rip up things together.’”
Clive put out his hand, saying, “Sally.”
“That scares the kid. That shuts her up!” Sally said, “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“That’s not true,” Clive said.
“It’s always true. So much happens and you’re out of touch. We kept Mom for a while, you know. I thought I didn’t want her in a nursing home, but in the house she was a banshee.” Naked—enough to sear the eyes!—Mom had wandered naked into the kitchen and slipped and fell. “Wisia was in the kitchen with me at the time and she threw herself onto her grandmother as if the woman were a sandpile, which was how she looked, like a sandpile of flesh.”
“Please,” Clive said, “don’t tell me these things.”
“Does this mean you won’t visit her?”
“Calm down,” Clive said.
“Am I right, you won’t?”
He said. “You’re right.”
“I’m right about it being a long time since we talked, too.” And when he didn’t answer, she asked, “You’re staying on, aren’t you? You’re not going back right away?”
“Calm down, Sally,” he said. “I leave Thursday. We could take a walk tomorrow in the park if you like.”
“Meet at Bethesda Terrace?” she asked.
“Okay,” he said. “Now isn’t that worth a smile?” But Sally didn’t smile right away, thinking of her mother, no doubt, of Meg. “I’ve been thinking,” but Clive didn’t tell her of what. “Poor Sally,” he said. “What would you like to do for the next hour?”
“Skip town. Buy a ticket to some warm island. Otherwise, shopping.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Buy Dinah a post card,” he said.
“Find something for Wisia, too,” he said.
Something soft, Sally thought, and childish. And Dinah? A card she had seen once would be perfect: King Kong with Fay Wray in his grip.
*
Clive, at the top of the stairs to the terrace, saw Sally walking toward the angel in a large coat that looked like something her mother might have worn. (He should give Sally the money he knew she needed.) Sally’s mother, a long unbuttoned girl swinging bell-like and wide, had once walked willingly, smilingly toward him—for an entire roll of film, she moved agreeably among the pigeons. Ah, acqua alta in the Piazza San Marco, all awash yet staunchly swept, and the coffeehouse, famous. He saw in his daughter his once-cheerful wife, Meg, in the piazza, winter, a happy winter for them both despite a year of crepe and tears. That first Christmas after Clive’s father’s death when his mother had asked him please, couldn’t we all do something other than New York, far away but family?
Italy then.
On a colder afternoon, Clive and Meg shut their shared umbrella and shook themselves out at the araby that was the entrance to the Caffè Florian. Here we are! Sorry! Hardly sorry, but bed-warm beneath their coats. “We were happy,” Clive said to Sally now. “Your mother and I, and we made my mother happy, too, at a time when, I think, she didn’t expect to feel much of anything.” Across a room, distantly tinseled—bar pin, bracelet, ring—his mother once at the Hotel Gritti on the Grand Canal, New Year’s Eve, a widow in a loose sheath,
Similar Books
