this 1941 apartment differed from my own, and from the one I had visited the night before. The hallway, with its silhouettes of strangers and madcap shelves of pottery horses, had to be the doing of my husband, not my forties self; I could not believe I would have chosen each bland little item so carefully, and assembled them like the statues buried with the pharaohs. The bedroom I had already examined. The little nursery, off the hall, was a surprise; in my ordinary life, the wall had been plowed through to expand the master bath, but here was a tiny prefecture that was my son’s own. A trunk in the corner revealed a set of worn tin soldiers (swords bent into plowshares). In a small drawer of the trunk, a crow’s cache: pebbles, scraps of silvered paper, and torn useless dollar bills. Most touching of all were a few baby teeth, tinged with dried blood. A box labeled FROM UNCLE X contained a bottle of talcum powder that had been relabeled INVISIBILITY POWDER .
In the living room: a ghost—no, once the cigarette smoke cleared, I saw a fiftyish woman in a dark green dress putting something into her purse. She had a small face that grew pinker toward the center, an astounding bosom glistening in velvet, and a round topknotted hairdo whose blond had been salted with white. This must be Mrs. Green. “Good morning, Mrs. Michelson, how are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.” Mrs. Michelson!
“Dr. Michelson said you had a bad couple of days.” Her accent was distinctly Swedish. Her manner was old world, friendly; she had the distant helpfulness of a stewardess.
“Yes, yes, but I’ve recovered.”
“Very good, madam.”
As she talked, she pointed with her smoking cigarette. She had a look of efficiency and kindness and I somehow felt very sorry for her. I could not tell if she was regular help or someone brought in just for this emergency, this “accident” that had broken my arm and mind. Mrs. Green and my son would be of no help; I had to find my aunt Ruth.
“I’ve given Fee his breakfast,” she went on, “and was about to take him to the park. I thought maybe you still needed rest.” She told me a few details about my son, which I had trouble understanding, but nodded at anyway, and information about a half-baked chicken pot pie in the icebox that I might want to put in the oven.
“Yes, perhaps that’s best.”
“So I’ll do the groceries and speak to the laundress; do you have any errands?”
“No, no I—,” I began, glancing at the bedroom. And yet there, in fact, just at my bedside table sat an appointment book such as a doctor’s wife would keep.
“Madam?”
“Yes, I’ll rest. I’m still dizzy and forgetful, you’ll forgive me.”
“I understand, you’ve been under strain. Leave it all to me. What would you like me to get for dinner?”
“Whatever you think best.”
“I was thinking lamb chops, potatoes, and a jellied salad.”
“Very good.”
“And is your son dressed?” she asked.
“No, no. In fact, he’s hiding somewhere.”
“Hiding?”
“We were playing hide-and-seek.”
At last she allowed an expression to play over her face, and instantly I felt I had done everything wrong. She said nothing, perhaps because it was beyond her imagining that a mother would play hide-and-seek in the hour when a child should be dressed for the cold and the park. Perhaps the earth might now split in two.
“I’ll find him,” I told her. She smiled as if I had accidentally rung her “call” button, nodded her head, and went to the kitchen. I could not tell if I admired or hated her.
I found my son in the bathroom, shrieking with real terror when I pulled back the shower curtain to find him squatting there, then collapsing in hilarity at his own cleverness. I delivered him to Mrs. Green, who had brought out the pie herself, and whose gray eyes took in first his soiled clothing, and then his delinquent mother. She led him away to change him. It was then that I crept over to
In the living room: a ghost—no, once the cigarette smoke cleared, I saw a fiftyish woman in a dark green dress putting something into her purse. She had a small face that grew pinker toward the center, an astounding bosom glistening in velvet, and a round topknotted hairdo whose blond had been salted with white. This must be Mrs. Green. “Good morning, Mrs. Michelson, how are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.” Mrs. Michelson!
“Dr. Michelson said you had a bad couple of days.” Her accent was distinctly Swedish. Her manner was old world, friendly; she had the distant helpfulness of a stewardess.
“Yes, yes, but I’ve recovered.”
“Very good, madam.”
As she talked, she pointed with her smoking cigarette. She had a look of efficiency and kindness and I somehow felt very sorry for her. I could not tell if she was regular help or someone brought in just for this emergency, this “accident” that had broken my arm and mind. Mrs. Green and my son would be of no help; I had to find my aunt Ruth.
“I’ve given Fee his breakfast,” she went on, “and was about to take him to the park. I thought maybe you still needed rest.” She told me a few details about my son, which I had trouble understanding, but nodded at anyway, and information about a half-baked chicken pot pie in the icebox that I might want to put in the oven.
“Yes, perhaps that’s best.”
“So I’ll do the groceries and speak to the laundress; do you have any errands?”
“No, no I—,” I began, glancing at the bedroom. And yet there, in fact, just at my bedside table sat an appointment book such as a doctor’s wife would keep.
“Madam?”
“Yes, I’ll rest. I’m still dizzy and forgetful, you’ll forgive me.”
“I understand, you’ve been under strain. Leave it all to me. What would you like me to get for dinner?”
“Whatever you think best.”
“I was thinking lamb chops, potatoes, and a jellied salad.”
“Very good.”
“And is your son dressed?” she asked.
“No, no. In fact, he’s hiding somewhere.”
“Hiding?”
“We were playing hide-and-seek.”
At last she allowed an expression to play over her face, and instantly I felt I had done everything wrong. She said nothing, perhaps because it was beyond her imagining that a mother would play hide-and-seek in the hour when a child should be dressed for the cold and the park. Perhaps the earth might now split in two.
“I’ll find him,” I told her. She smiled as if I had accidentally rung her “call” button, nodded her head, and went to the kitchen. I could not tell if I admired or hated her.
I found my son in the bathroom, shrieking with real terror when I pulled back the shower curtain to find him squatting there, then collapsing in hilarity at his own cleverness. I delivered him to Mrs. Green, who had brought out the pie herself, and whose gray eyes took in first his soiled clothing, and then his delinquent mother. She led him away to change him. It was then that I crept over to
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