The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer Page A
Authors: Andrew Sean Greer
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the appointment book.
“Mrs. Green,” I shouted, running into the nursery. “I’ve changed my mind.”
She was in the midst of pulling a struggling Fee into a pair of woolen knickers. He seemed as forlorn as an animal made to wear human clothing. Mrs. Green stared at me with those eyes, and I nearly crept back, but I was determined. “I’m going to take Fee to the park. You do my errands, and heat the pie; we’ll be back for lunch.”
“I see,” she said plainly. “But are you sure? It isn’t our habit to—”
“I’m sure. Get him dressed, we’ll be off in a minute.”
“I see.”
Then I headed to the bedroom, my ridiculous robe falling in anemone ruffles around me. I glanced at the clock: nine thirty. Just enough time. The open page of the appointment book read, in my own handwriting:
Felix at Hudson Park at ten .
BUY V ICTORY B ONDS
Gone was the prison of 1918, and the desperately ugly el line on Sixth, but war bonds posters still effaced every shop window and the men in uniforms smoking everywhere were hardly different from that other world. “Flowers!” an old Italian lady shouted from the sidewalk, bent over from the weight of her basket of violets and sweet peas. “Flowers! Flowers!” A blond chorus-girl type, in long, red Chinese trousers, was walking her Pekingese and throwing her smile everywhere when she tripped and one of her slippers fell off into a puddle. I retrieved it for her; she flashed me a smile and a wild look: “Geez, now I can’t take these back, can I?” A Pekingese bark of a laugh. She fit her little foot back in and went off, once more, among the hot-blooded sailors, behind twitching.
And then we were west of Seventh Avenue, at Hudson Park, on a block I didn’t recognize; I certainly didn’t recognize the park with its strange sunken garden and memorial to firemen. It didn’t exist in my 1985 world. It looked like a drained fountain, and not particularly made for children; it seemed made more for a Victorian mourning set. I let Fee race into the playground, suddenly unleashed from his love of me, toward some more immediate desire among the boys in short pants and caps.
My mind went back to the house, mentally climbing the stairs, heading to the living room, parting the veil of cigarette smoke to find Mrs. Green still standing there gazing upon me with a look of efficiency and kindness. I wonder—no, I know for sure, that she saw, to the very core of me, the thing that everybody knew. Of course, it had to exist in this world as well as any other. The thing that everybody knew. I thought: Perhaps if I fix this, it all will end; the curtain will fall in a dustheap and life will be restored, and sanity . Perhaps that was my purpose here.
Then something rash and ridiculous occurred to me. I put my purse on my lap—a funny lumpy piece of leather—found the catch, searched through its handkerchiefs and lipsticks, and there it was. A pack of Pall Malls. I pulled one out and lit it with a match, and enjoyed the taste of death that no one here suspected. Oh, I deserved that little pleasure. What a wonderful world I had entered!
My little Fee sat talking with a blond boy, trying to get him to wear his knit cap; he seemed willing but big headed. I made out whom I assumed to be his mother from how she stared at me. Scandinavian, youngish and leggy despite the length of her shadow-plaid coat. I wondered how she did it: managed her life in this strange age. I knew there would be a war, but that we were not in it yet. I knew women would soon go to work by the masses, and man the machinery, and build the nation rivet by rivet while our hems rose to save cloth for uniforms, and our nylons went to parachutes for young men falling into the Pacific. But none of this had happened; it was about to happen; could this woman feel it?
“Hey, bubs, here you are, what’s hoppin’?”
And there he was. Alive, again. In ridiculous shamus hat and coat—another world, another
“Mrs. Green,” I shouted, running into the nursery. “I’ve changed my mind.”
She was in the midst of pulling a struggling Fee into a pair of woolen knickers. He seemed as forlorn as an animal made to wear human clothing. Mrs. Green stared at me with those eyes, and I nearly crept back, but I was determined. “I’m going to take Fee to the park. You do my errands, and heat the pie; we’ll be back for lunch.”
“I see,” she said plainly. “But are you sure? It isn’t our habit to—”
“I’m sure. Get him dressed, we’ll be off in a minute.”
“I see.”
Then I headed to the bedroom, my ridiculous robe falling in anemone ruffles around me. I glanced at the clock: nine thirty. Just enough time. The open page of the appointment book read, in my own handwriting:
Felix at Hudson Park at ten .
BUY V ICTORY B ONDS
Gone was the prison of 1918, and the desperately ugly el line on Sixth, but war bonds posters still effaced every shop window and the men in uniforms smoking everywhere were hardly different from that other world. “Flowers!” an old Italian lady shouted from the sidewalk, bent over from the weight of her basket of violets and sweet peas. “Flowers! Flowers!” A blond chorus-girl type, in long, red Chinese trousers, was walking her Pekingese and throwing her smile everywhere when she tripped and one of her slippers fell off into a puddle. I retrieved it for her; she flashed me a smile and a wild look: “Geez, now I can’t take these back, can I?” A Pekingese bark of a laugh. She fit her little foot back in and went off, once more, among the hot-blooded sailors, behind twitching.
And then we were west of Seventh Avenue, at Hudson Park, on a block I didn’t recognize; I certainly didn’t recognize the park with its strange sunken garden and memorial to firemen. It didn’t exist in my 1985 world. It looked like a drained fountain, and not particularly made for children; it seemed made more for a Victorian mourning set. I let Fee race into the playground, suddenly unleashed from his love of me, toward some more immediate desire among the boys in short pants and caps.
My mind went back to the house, mentally climbing the stairs, heading to the living room, parting the veil of cigarette smoke to find Mrs. Green still standing there gazing upon me with a look of efficiency and kindness. I wonder—no, I know for sure, that she saw, to the very core of me, the thing that everybody knew. Of course, it had to exist in this world as well as any other. The thing that everybody knew. I thought: Perhaps if I fix this, it all will end; the curtain will fall in a dustheap and life will be restored, and sanity . Perhaps that was my purpose here.
Then something rash and ridiculous occurred to me. I put my purse on my lap—a funny lumpy piece of leather—found the catch, searched through its handkerchiefs and lipsticks, and there it was. A pack of Pall Malls. I pulled one out and lit it with a match, and enjoyed the taste of death that no one here suspected. Oh, I deserved that little pleasure. What a wonderful world I had entered!
My little Fee sat talking with a blond boy, trying to get him to wear his knit cap; he seemed willing but big headed. I made out whom I assumed to be his mother from how she stared at me. Scandinavian, youngish and leggy despite the length of her shadow-plaid coat. I wondered how she did it: managed her life in this strange age. I knew there would be a war, but that we were not in it yet. I knew women would soon go to work by the masses, and man the machinery, and build the nation rivet by rivet while our hems rose to save cloth for uniforms, and our nylons went to parachutes for young men falling into the Pacific. But none of this had happened; it was about to happen; could this woman feel it?
“Hey, bubs, here you are, what’s hoppin’?”
And there he was. Alive, again. In ridiculous shamus hat and coat—another world, another
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