Young Jane Young(46)

“El Meté help. El Meté help.”

“You can’t help,” Embeth said. “You can help by going away. You can help by letting me get some effing rest.”

The parrot flew over to Aaron’s nightstand, where he began grooming his feathers. The process was a reasonably quiet one, but it was too late. Embeth was awake. To pretend to sleep was more tiring than to resign herself to the day.

Embeth got out of bed, and she washed her hair in the shower, and when she got out of the shower, the parrot was perched on the towel rack.

“I’d love it if you gave me a little personal space,” Embeth said.

El Meté flew onto her head and pecked her with his pink beak. “Moisturize! Moisturize!”



She went to the kitchen to pour herself some coffee. She was meant to have given up coffee, but what was the point of living without coffee? Living, it seemed to her, was the acquiring of bad habits. Dying, the process of rescinding them. Death was the land without habits. Without coffee.

El Meté alit on her shoulder. “I don’t want you to come with me today,” Embeth said.

“El Meté come. El Meté come.”

“Seriously, I have to go to the doctor, the salon, the dry cleaner, the florist, the seamstress, the jeweler, and I have to speak at that stupid lunch, and there’s the party —”

“Party! Party!”

“I don’t even like parties —”

“Party! Party!”

“You cannot come to the party,” Embeth said.

“Party! Party!”

“You can be incredibly thick, El Meté. And repetitive. And also, you think you’re light but you’re enormously heavy on my shoulder. I think you’re gaining weight. Your claws dig into me now. You’re worse than a bra strap. You’re worse than a Birkin bag. I’m going to need to get a chiropractor.”

Margarita the part-time housekeeper came into the kitchen, carrying a large box. “Ms. Levin, good morning! Happy anniversary! This was on the steps.” Margarita set the box on the counter.

Embeth looked at the return address. It was from her most faithful friend, Shipment Fulfillment Center. Embeth got a chef’s knife and opened it. Inside the box, entombed in an infinity of bubble wrap, was a tacky-looking statue. The statue was about the size of a large penis and made from resin and garishly hued like a black-and-white movie that had been colorized. A winged, rosy man wore a pink toga and carried a bronze Star of David, like a shield. He must have been some kind of Jewish angel. Were there Jewish angels? Yes, of course there were. There were angels in the Old Testament, so there must be Jewish angels. Wasn’t everyone in the Old Testament Jewish? She turned the base over. An accompanying certificate of authenticity indicated that this was Mattatron, which sounded like the name of a robot. Who would have sent her such an object? Embeth was not the type of woman to whom anyone would send an angel.

“Oh, very nice,” Margarita said. Margarita appreciated kitsch. Her look was a bit kitsch, too. She wore her glossy black hair like a burlesque queen. She paraded around the kitchen in shoes with cherries on them, her young breasts pushed up to her chin. Jorge, who was Aaron’s right hand, had taken one look at Margarita and said, “Are you sure you want this in your house?”

“What do you mean?” Embeth had asked.

“I mean, she looks like T-R-O-U-B-L-E.”

“Aaron’s old. I’m old,” Embeth had said. “I’m home more than he is, and it’s sexist not to hire someone because she’s cute. She’s very smart, too. She’s getting an MFA in sculpture.”

“Trouble,” Jorge had repeated.

“Would you like it?” Embeth said now to Margarita as she dug through the bubble wrap for a note. She supposed people sent her this kind of crap because they thought the cancer had made her soft.

“I couldn’t,” Margarita said. “The angel is meant for you.”

“Or perhaps it was meant for me to give to you,” Embeth suggested.

“It is bad luck to take another woman’s angel,” Margarita said.

“If you don’t give him a home, he’s going in the trash,” Embeth said.

“It is bad luck to throw your angel in the trash.”

“What isn’t bad luck?” Embeth said. She picked the angel up by the head. “I don’t believe in bad luck.” She opened the trash can and then paused. “Is he recyclable, do you think?”

“Don’t do that,” Margarita said. “Maybe he’ll grow on you?”

“He won’t.”

“Maybe the congressman?”

“Aaron would loathe this.”

“Fine,” Margarita said. “Give him to me.” She took the angel and set him by her purse.

“Are you going to be able to come to the party tonight?” Embeth asked.

“Yes,” Margarita said. “Of course I am, Ms. Levin. I would not miss it! I sewed my dress myself. It is a red corset on top and a black hoop skirt on the bottom, and I will wear small black lace gloves without fingertips, and my hair up, pulled back tight, and a small veil over my face. It will be so dramatic.”

“Sounds it,” Embeth said. “You can wear it again to my funeral.”