A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (23 page)

“
And the beret. The purple beret.
”

“
That
’
s not the reason you
’
ll give her.
”

“
Fine, but that
’
ll be justified. Please. For obvious reasons. It
’
s incredibly hard, hearing those sounds, smelling the smells, watching the kissing of that paper, the sucking from those tubes—
“

“
Yes, but it
’
s the way you
’
ll tell her, the way you
’
ll sort of shame her, mentioning that not only did your parents die of cancer, your father of lung cancer, but that you don
’
t want the smoke around your little brother, blah blah, and it
’
s the way you
’
ll say it, you
’
ll want to make this poor woman feel like a leper, particularly because she rolls her own cigarettes, which even I admit is kind of doubly sad, but see, you want her to feel like a pariah, like a lower form of life, because that
’
s what, deep down, you feel she is, what you feel anyone tethered to any addiction is. And now you feel that you have the moral authority to pass judgment on these people, that because of your recent experiences, you
can expound on anything, you can play the conquering victim, a role that gives you power drawn from sympathy and disadvantage—you can now play the dual role of product of privilege and disenfranchised Job. Because we get Social Security and live in a messy house with ants and holes in the floorboards you like to think of us as lower class, that now you know the struggles of the poor—how dare you!—but you like that stance, that underdog stance, because it increases your leverage with other people. You can shoot from behind bulletproof glass.
”

“
All this energy from you! Were you drinking soda before bed?
”

“
And poor Dad. Why not just leave him alone? I mean—
“

“
God. Please. So I
’
m not allowed to talk about—
“

“
I don
’
t know. I guess so. If you feel you have to.
”

“
I do.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
I can
’
t see past it.
”

“
Fine. So you
’
re going to stay up tonight, most of the night, like every night, staring at your screen—remember when you were a senior in college? You were in that creative writing class, and you were writing about these deaths, not two months afterward; you were writing about Mom
’
s last breaths even, one paragraph describing your mother
’
s last breaths, and the whole class kind of not knowing what the hell to do with you, they were like,
‘
We-hell now...,
’
didn
’
t know whether to talk about the story, all of them sitting there nervously with their Xerox copies of it, or to send you to counseling. But that did not deter you. You have been determined, then and since, to get this down, to render this time, to take that terrible winter and write with it what you hope will be some heartbreaking thing.
”

“
Listen, I
’
m tired.
”

“
Now you
’
re tired. You were the one who started talking. I
’
ve been ready to sleep for half an hour.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
Night.
”

I kiss him on his smooth, tanned forehead. The smell of urine. He has a tan line, a U of pale skin where the fastener of his hat, worn backward, covers his forehead.

“
Do the thing,
”
he says.

I do the thing where I rub his back quickly, through the comforter, to make the bed warm.

“
Thanks.
”

“
Night.
”

I leave the light on, close his door halfway, and walk out to the family room. I straighten the rug, a frayed oriental we inherited. This rug, so faded and sorry, and the long thin one in the kitchen, are unraveling, thread by thread. Toph and I run on them, and when we do the threads grow, ooze out like tendrils. I don
’
t know what to do to keep them intact. I wonder about protecting them, having them restored, and know that I will not bother. I tuck a wormlike blue thread, seven or eight inches of it, underneath.

I fix the cover on the couch. That couch was perfect and white in our living room in Chicago, but got so filthy so quickly here, streaked with black at the corners where we lean our bikes, the pillows yellowed and stained with grape juice, chocolate. We had rented an upholstery cleaner, but its effect was laughable. The couch will continue its decline, as will all the things we
’
ve been given. Maintenance is impossible. There is a pile of shoes near the door that I should straighten. The floor needs to be swept, but I
’
m discouraged before I begin—the dirt is intrinsic to this house, is in the molding and the grouting, in the nooks and the carpet and the flaws in the structure. There are holes in the floorboards, and the baseboards are crooked. I had tried a vacuum, borrowed one from the neighbors, and it had worked well, but the place was dusty, the floor covered with stuff the next day. Now I only sweep.

I get one of Toph
’
s popsicles out of the freezer. There is noise next door. I step out onto the back porch. Robert and Benna, the neighbors to our left, are having a thing, maybe ten of them out there on the deck.

“
Hey there,
”
Robert says. He
’
s always friendly, always cheerful, thoughtful, caring. It
’
s unnerving.

He
’
s a few years older and lives with Benna, who
’
s about thirty and runs a battered-women
’
s shelter. Their friends look like Berkeley grad students.

“
Hi,
”
I say.

“
Come on over!
”
he says.

“
Yeah, come and have a drink,
”
says Benna.

“
No, I can
’
t,
”
I say. It
’
s warm, the moon is out.

I talk about the work I have to do, Toph being in bed, etc. I lie about a phone call I
’
m waiting for because I don
’
t want to have to come over, meet their friends, explain our story, why we live here, the whole thing.

“
C
’
mon, just a drink,
”
says Robert. He
’
s always asking me to come over. As friendly as he and Benna are, radiating
welcome,
I feel more affinity with the black man/blond woman couple to our right, with their unmoving white curtains, their snugly closed door, the two Dobermans. They rarely talk to anyone, usually stay out of sight—it
’
s so much easier.

I thank Robert and step back inside.

I retreat into the living room, the room I have painted burgundy. The walls are cluttered with ancient pictures of our parents, grandparents, their parents, and their various diplomas, notices, portraits, needlepoints, etchings. I sit on the couch I found in the shed in back, a velvety thing, maroon, its springs broken, wood chipped. Most of the antiques we kept are here—the chairs, the end table, that beautiful cherry desk. It
’
s dark. I need to cut the bushes in front, because they
’
ve grown so high that almost no light
comes through the front window, even during the day, making it so dim here, always, rubiate, the walls blood red. I haven
’
t found a lamp yet that will fit the room.

So much suffered in the moves, from Chicago to the hills, from the hills down here. Picture frames broken, glass rattling in all the boxes. We
’
ve lost things. I
’
m almost sure there
’
s a rug missing, a whole rug. And so many books, our grandmother
’
s. I had been keeping them in the shed in back, in the boxes we packed them in, until I went in there, after four months or so, and found a leak in the roof; most of them were soaked, mildewed. I try not to think of the antiques—the mahogany bookshelf, scratched, or the circular end table with the nicks in it, the needlepoint-covered chair with the cracked leg. I want to save everything and preserve all this but also want it all gone—can
’
t decide what
’
s more romantic, preservation or decay. Wouldn
’
t it be something just to burn it all? Throw it all in the street? I resent having to be the one—why not Bill? Beth?—who has to lug all this stuff from place to place, all the boxes, the dozens of photo albums, the dishes and linens and furniture, our narrow closets and leaky shed overflowing with it all. I know I offered to keep it, insisted on it, wanted Toph to be able to live among it all, be reminded— Maybe we could store it until we have a real house. Or sell it and start over.

“
Hey,
”
he yells from his room.

“
What?
”

“
Did you lock the front door?
”

He usually locks the front door.

“
I will.
”

I walk to the front door and turn the bolt.

V.(WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER?)

Outside it
’
s blue-black and getting darker. There is a man walking up the steps. He is unshaven and is wearing sandals and a poncho made from, one can be almost sure, hemp. I do not want to talk to this man. I have talked to the man from the California Public Interest Research Group (CalPIRG). I have donated to the couple from the women
’
s shelter, and to that little boy from the youth group, to the woman from the Green Party, the kids from the Boys Club, the pair of solemn teenagers from SANE/FREEZE. The Berkeley-ness of Berkeley, so charming at first, is getting old.

The bell rings.

“
You get it,
”
I say.
“
I
’
m not here.
”

“
You
’
re right next to it.
”

“
So?
”

“
So?
”

“
Topber.
”

He gets up, sock-footed. I am given a look.

“
Tell them you
’
re home alone,
”
I say.
“
You
’
re an orphan.
”

He opens the door and says something to the man and suddenly the man is in our living room.
What did I just say
—

Oh. The baby-sitter. Stephen.

Stephen is a grad student at Berkeley, from England or Scotland. Or Ireland. He is quiet, bores Toph to tears, and rides a bicycle with a huge wicker basket attached to the front. Beth found him at school; he had posted a flyer.

“
Hey,
”
I say.

“
Hello,
”
he says.

He brings his bicycle into the living room.

I go to my room to change. I come out, tell him that I
’
ll be back by midnight—

“
Actually, can you stay until one?
”

“
I don
’
t see why not.
”

“
Good. Then let
’
s say one.
”

“
Fine.
”

“
But I might be early.
”

“
Okay then.
”

“
Depends on what happens.
”