They May Not Mean To, But They Do(75)

The girls sometimes sat on her lap, smelling of dirt and childhood, and she would say, “I’m so lucky to be able to spend so much time with you.”

“Yes, you belong here with us, Mom,” Danny would say, benevolent, as if the house were his and Joy were his guest.

And Joy would think, I don’t belong anywhere. Then: Joy! Are you such a delicate flower? Get a grip.

“Mom!” Danny said, pushing the screen door open, still in his pajamas.

He was angry, Joy realized with surprise. He was so rarely angry about anything that did not have to do with climate change. Maybe another glacier had melted.

“We have to talk,” he said. “Right now.”

“Don’t come out here barefoot, Danny. The deer ticks…”

“Come in, then.” He gestured impatiently.

As she sat at the kitchen table, Joy allowed herself to feel just how tired she was. Then she sat up straight and smiled at her son. “We’ll sell it, that’s all,” she said.

“Sell what?”

“The house. This. The house, the house.”

“No. Karl. We have to talk about this Karl guy.”

“This Karl guy? Is that how you think of your father’s friend?”

“Oh come on, Mom, let’s cut the ‘Daddy’s friend’ crap.”

Joy was stunned. Danny never spoke to her like that.

“What is the matter with you?” she said. “Good lord.”

Joy went outside again. It was raining now. Good. She would catch pneumonia and die and everyone would have to stop lecturing her.

The raindrops were enormous. She could almost hear them as they hit the ground. They were cold on her arms, on her face, a shock in the steaming heat of the day. Her clothes were soaked through immediately, her pants sticking to her legs.

“Mom, come inside. What are you doing?” It was Molly. She ran outside.

“You’re barefoot! You’ll get a tick!” Joy said.

Molly pulled her inside and threw a beach towel around her.

“It’s only water,” Joy said. Her teeth were chattering. She let Molly rub the towel on her hair, her back, her arms. She obediently went into her room and put on dry clothes. When she came out, Molly handed her a mug of coffee.

“I can’t drink coffee. My digestion…”

Molly snatched it back. “Fine.”

“Where’s Danny?”

“Sulking in his bedroom.”

“He was very rude to me. I’m eighty-six years old and I deserve some respect.” Joy felt the tears and willed them back.

Molly sat across from her at the table, bedraggled, her hair wet and matted, dark circles under her eyes. “Yes, let’s talk about respect,” she was saying. “Respect for your husband, my father, Daniel’s father. Let’s talk about that. Since we’re talking about respect.”

“Why did you make such a fuss about the rain? It’s about a hundred degrees out.”

“Mom, it’s disrespectful to Daddy to invite Karl to Ruby’s bat mitzvah. That’s what Daniel is upset about. And so am I.”

“That’s ridiculous. Karl was your father’s friend.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Am I not allowed to have friends now? What is wrong with you two?”

Molly offered her mother a cup of tea, which Joy accepted. She did not want tea. It would make her have to pee. And the kitchen was humid and hot. But she could see Molly trying to be civil. It was important to be civil. She had tried to teach her children that.

“Look, Mom, you can’t bring him to the bat mitzvah, okay? You just can’t. It wouldn’t look right. I mean, it’s only been a few months. It might, you know, embarrass Ruby.”

“Ruby? You mean it will embarrass you two, although god knows why.”

“You think he can take Dad’s place?” Molly said, all pretense at civility gone. “Well, he can’t. Ever.”

She was shouting now, and Daniel stomped down the stairs to join in: “The body is not even cold. How can you do this to us?”

Joy looked away from them, her two beloved children, yelling and stamping their feet like toddlers. Graying toddlers. She tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling and wondered if it might fall in and shut them up.

“What has Karl ever done to you?” she said softly.

There was silence, just the thunder, closer now, and the rain on the roof.

“Did you know that Karl asked me to live with him?”

“See?” Daniel said to Molly. “See? I told you.”

“Mommy! You can’t. You’ll turn into a caretaker.”

“Your father liked Karl. Your father would have wanted me to have some companionship. Your father would be ashamed of you both.”

They shifted uneasily.

“Yeah, well, still, it’s just…” Daniel’s words trailed off.

“And whether I choose to live with Karl or not,” Joy continued, “one thing I can see clearly now. I cannot stay in this house one day longer. I am not welcome. I do not belong.”

And she marched out, slammed her door, and began packing.





52

Duncan smiled and smiled, but he did not say much. If he was overwhelmed, he could hardly be blamed. His family had gathered around him from the four corners of the earth, as Gordon put it. There were grandchildren, too, Gordon’s kids, now quite grown up: one of them, the daughter, in college; the son engaged and holding the hand of his fiancée. Freddie was overwhelmed, so why shouldn’t her father be? None of it seemed quite real. Laurel and Pamela wore colorful sundresses, not identical in pattern, but complementary, and identical enough: four spaghetti straps cutting into four plump white shoulders. Freddie, who was wiry and always had been, who wore gray and always had, knew she looked a little dreary beside them, a caterpillar beside two butterflies. Her brothers were somewhat more soberly attired, but still in vacation costumes—and they did seem like costumes to Freddie, the golf shirt and white pleated Bermuda shorts of her brother Gordon, a similar golf outfit on his wife; the jeans and big silver belt buckle, the chestnut-colored cowboy boots Alan wore. But they probably thought she was in costume, the same costume she’d worn since the age of six. Jeans and a T-shirt. Only the grandchild generation looked right. Perhaps because they were at the Third Street Promenade in a pedestrian mall filled with other young people.