want.”
Helen waited.
“Therapists don’t,” Dorothy said, still looking straight ahead. “I told the family therapist I pitied Jessie’s boyfriend, and I do—she’s completely controlling—and the therapist looked at me like I was the worst mother in the world. I thought, Jesus, if you can’t speak the truth in a shrink’s office, where can you? In New York, raising children is a horrendously competitive sport. Really fierce and bloody.” Dorothy took a long drink from her plastic cup of water and said, “What do they have you reading this month?”
Helen brushed her hand over the book. “It’s about a woman who used to clean houses, and now she’s written a book about everything she found when she snooped.” In the heat, Helen flushed. The writer had found handcuffs, whips, nipple clamps—and things Helen hadn’t known existed.
“Don’t read such a silly thing,” Dorothy said. “That’s what I mean—women telling women to read stupid books when there’s a whole world out there. Here, read this article. It’s related to your sister-in-law’s crisis that Jim was talking about last night.” She stretched out her long arm and handed Helen a section of newspaper from where it lay on the plastic table beside her, adding, “Though, as you know with Jim, he thinks any crisis is all his.”
Helen rummaged through her straw bag. “Well, it’s like this.” She glanced up from her bag and held up a finger. “Jim left Maine.” She held up two fingers. “Bob left Maine.” Three fingers. “Susan’s husband left her and Maine.” Helen returned to her bag and found her lip balm. “So Jim feels responsible. Jim has a keen sense of responsibility.” Helen touched her lips with lip balm.
“Or guilt.”
Helen thought about it. “No,” she said. “Responsibility.”
Dorothy turned the page of her magazine and did not answer. So Helen—who would have liked to talk, she felt the bubbles of chattiness rising inside her—felt compelled to pick up the newspaper and read the article assigned to her. The sun grew hotter, and perspiration formed in a line above her upper lip no matter how many times Helen wiped her finger over it. “Goodness, Dorothy,” she finally said, because the article was really disturbing. And yet she felt that if she put it down, Dorothy would see her as a (stupid) superficial woman who had no concern for the world beyond her own. She read on.
The article was about refugee camps in Kenya. Who was in those camps? Somalis. And who knew? Not Helen. Well, now she knew. Now she knew that some of those people living in Shirley Falls, Maine, had first lived for years in dreadful conditions, hardly believable. Helen, squinting, read how the women, in order to gather firewood, had to wander away from the camp, where bandits might rape them; some of these women had been raped several times. Many of their children died of starvation right in their arms. The children who lived did not go to school. There were no schools. The men sat around chewing leaves— khat —which kept them high, and their wives, of which they could have up to four, had to try to keep the family alive with the little bit of rice and drops of cooking oil they received from the authorities every six weeks. There were photographs, of course. Skinny tall African women balancing wood and huge plastic water jugs on their heads, ripped tarps and mud huts, a sick child with flies near his face. “This is terrible,” she said. Dorothy, nodding, kept reading her magazine.
And it was terrible, and Helen knew she was supposed to feel terrible. But she did not understand why these people, who had walked for days to get out of their violent country, should make it to Kenya and end up in such hellacious distress. Why wasn’t someone taking care of this? Helen did wonder that. But mostly she didn’t want to read it, and that made her feel she was a bad person, and here she was on a lovely (expensive) vacation and she did
Helen waited.
“Therapists don’t,” Dorothy said, still looking straight ahead. “I told the family therapist I pitied Jessie’s boyfriend, and I do—she’s completely controlling—and the therapist looked at me like I was the worst mother in the world. I thought, Jesus, if you can’t speak the truth in a shrink’s office, where can you? In New York, raising children is a horrendously competitive sport. Really fierce and bloody.” Dorothy took a long drink from her plastic cup of water and said, “What do they have you reading this month?”
Helen brushed her hand over the book. “It’s about a woman who used to clean houses, and now she’s written a book about everything she found when she snooped.” In the heat, Helen flushed. The writer had found handcuffs, whips, nipple clamps—and things Helen hadn’t known existed.
“Don’t read such a silly thing,” Dorothy said. “That’s what I mean—women telling women to read stupid books when there’s a whole world out there. Here, read this article. It’s related to your sister-in-law’s crisis that Jim was talking about last night.” She stretched out her long arm and handed Helen a section of newspaper from where it lay on the plastic table beside her, adding, “Though, as you know with Jim, he thinks any crisis is all his.”
Helen rummaged through her straw bag. “Well, it’s like this.” She glanced up from her bag and held up a finger. “Jim left Maine.” She held up two fingers. “Bob left Maine.” Three fingers. “Susan’s husband left her and Maine.” Helen returned to her bag and found her lip balm. “So Jim feels responsible. Jim has a keen sense of responsibility.” Helen touched her lips with lip balm.
“Or guilt.”
Helen thought about it. “No,” she said. “Responsibility.”
Dorothy turned the page of her magazine and did not answer. So Helen—who would have liked to talk, she felt the bubbles of chattiness rising inside her—felt compelled to pick up the newspaper and read the article assigned to her. The sun grew hotter, and perspiration formed in a line above her upper lip no matter how many times Helen wiped her finger over it. “Goodness, Dorothy,” she finally said, because the article was really disturbing. And yet she felt that if she put it down, Dorothy would see her as a (stupid) superficial woman who had no concern for the world beyond her own. She read on.
The article was about refugee camps in Kenya. Who was in those camps? Somalis. And who knew? Not Helen. Well, now she knew. Now she knew that some of those people living in Shirley Falls, Maine, had first lived for years in dreadful conditions, hardly believable. Helen, squinting, read how the women, in order to gather firewood, had to wander away from the camp, where bandits might rape them; some of these women had been raped several times. Many of their children died of starvation right in their arms. The children who lived did not go to school. There were no schools. The men sat around chewing leaves— khat —which kept them high, and their wives, of which they could have up to four, had to try to keep the family alive with the little bit of rice and drops of cooking oil they received from the authorities every six weeks. There were photographs, of course. Skinny tall African women balancing wood and huge plastic water jugs on their heads, ripped tarps and mud huts, a sick child with flies near his face. “This is terrible,” she said. Dorothy, nodding, kept reading her magazine.
And it was terrible, and Helen knew she was supposed to feel terrible. But she did not understand why these people, who had walked for days to get out of their violent country, should make it to Kenya and end up in such hellacious distress. Why wasn’t someone taking care of this? Helen did wonder that. But mostly she didn’t want to read it, and that made her feel she was a bad person, and here she was on a lovely (expensive) vacation and she did
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