Distortions (34 page)

She feels better later and says she doesn’t remember discussing the kitten’s name. Where is the piece of paper on which we agreed? The pieces of paper are piled next to the Xerox paper in boxes I bring back from the food store. Of course I can’t produce the evidence. She wins her point and goes to bed.

The weather forecast is for snow.

Thursday

Bernie came in the afternoon, brought her a pumpkin pie Mary Louise made and a package of the new paper for me.

Bad news, but Bernie says they won’t know how bad until more tests are made.

No snow yet. No decision about name.

Friday

She couldn’t see the small illustrations in
Man Meets
Dog, so I copied them on large sheets of paper. Copied four of them. We’ve enjoyed the book more than
The Red and the Black
. Secret vote revealed that neither was sorry we had a kitten instead of a puppy.

The news has gotten around. She can’t blame me because I didn’t go out yesterday or today. She had two phone calls, both of them from women offering encouragement. She was polite and didn’t talk long, but long enough to find out that it was Mary Louise who told them.

She won’t eat the pie Bernie brought. She looked through her cookbooks today and found the recipe for apple, and has made an early store list, including the ingredients she’ll need. She doesn’t criticize Mary Louise for telling people what the doctor said, but she talks about Mary Louise’s Catholicism and complains that she’s more narrow-minded than the Pope. How foolish she is to think she’ll go to purgatory because she’s sterile!

She asks me if I remember the night she tried to talk Bernie out of marrying Mary Louise. I do. We talk about it, careful not to overestimate the extent to which Bernie lost his temper. Bernie never would listen to advice.

An uncomfortable moment when Mary Louise cried on the phone and said she had been to church to pray.

Two new violets have taken root.

Watched the sunset. Sky was very bright before the storm began. The colors disappeared in a second and were replaced by fast-rolling clouds and then the snow. Tried to take a picture with the Polaroid, but the sky darkened too fast. Very windy. Didn’t stay out long because of the flu epidemic. She watched me from inside the house—face looked like a ghost’s because of the fluorescent light shining around her. Used to read ghost stories to each other. For years she hasn’t wanted to hear them. She used to get frightened and dive for cover, under the afghan, into the pillows, even though the plots were familiar. Finally cleaned, got rid of the old books last summer. She laughed when she found
The Lives of the Angels
that Mary Louise gave her for Christmas: a whole book filled with drawings of the angelic hierarchy, faint
lines made with a thin pen point, pastel colors swirling behind them like the sky before the snow.

Trying not to think about it.

I do all the reading now because the years have proved that I’m the better reader. I cook better too, although she still fixes a few specialties. I’m not responsible for the flourishing violets—only do what she tells me. Keep track of what was done when by making notes on a calendar hanging above the plants, with pictures of specimen violets on it—a bonus from her violet association for subscribing for ten years.

Trivia.

Kitten’s ripped up pieces of wool all over the rug.

Maybe it would cheer her up if I told her about the toothpaste.

Glanced at
The Charterhouse of Parma
and am thinking of putting it in the pile to be returned, pretending we’ve finished the week’s reading.

A television special tonight on the astronauts.

Who’s supposed to arrange for the tests?

Saturday

When I got back, Bernie’s car was parked outside. They were standing in the doorway in their coats, ready to drive her for the tests. Mary Louise must have seen the pie in the kitchen, untouched. I had arrived home either a minute too soon or a minute too late. Had a nervous conversation with Bernie about paper and the flu epidemic. She left without a word to me. Don’t know if she gave them trouble or not. Fat Mary Louise helped her down the walk. Bernie kept looking back at them, pretending to look at me, waving twice.

Wish I had started keeping this book long ago, so I wouldn’t look back through it and read only about familiar routines.

Could do something different today, talk to neighbors, take a bus to the zoo, but that would seem disrespectful while Mrs. Edway is being tested.

Could get rid of the book and all the Xerox paper inserts, but I’d miss it, and she’d miss having cause to dislike me because I’m always writing in secret, refusing to show it to her. Would she be disappointed? She probably remembers what the last few years
have been like. There aren’t any fantasies. I could go back and write endearments in the margins, or at the end of the pages. Ink wouldn’t match. She couldn’t read the small writing anyway. Calling her Mrs. Edway is a form of endearment, I suppose.

Afternoon: rolled pastry crust for the meat pies. Almost forgot book delivery. The messenger came in spite of the snow, carrying two history books and three novels. She stopped long enough to stroke the kitten. Kitten won’t use its box, uses the corners of the dining room. House smells a little bad. Went for some air, dressed very warmly. Nobody at the pond today. Sign still up at the inn. One two three four. We used to keep track of the number of steps it was from one place to another: between the pond and inn, for instance, or from the house to the field on top of the hill. She’d try to confuse me by counting out loud, and she took two steps for every one of mine.

When she was pregnant I stuffed a pillow under my shirt and walked around, colliding with her. Maybe that’s why Bernie got dizzy when he was a child.

Evening: mealybug discovered on “Victor Blue” during a routine check. Leave it there? Let all the plants be contaminated? Go out in the snowstorm and catch the flu? Stop answering the door when the messenger comes? Get no grocery list Tuesday night? Do no shopping Wednesday? Take the kitten to the Humane Society? Feeling sorry for myself. Mrs. Edway tells me to spray the plant with malathion. She wants to save “Victor Blue” even though she says she will d-.

Night: bad television reception because of the storm. A secret vote to see if we want to listen to the radio, if possible. Two No’s. She calls for a vote about what she said earlier. Hers, Yes, mine, No.

Sunday

Discovered some of her old samplers: “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall/Jesus Loves Us One and All.” Another: “In Heaven There Is Work and Play/Half of Each Makes Up Our Day.”

A notice in the mail this morning, signed “Suzie Duncan, Your Girl Scout Representative,” informing us that cookies had been
reordered, but there would be a two-to-three-week delay. A depressing thought: the posthumous delivery of Girl Scout mints.

Mystery of
Romeo and Juliet
solved. Book found in old box of signed agreements that had been carried upstairs. Called the messenger, apologized. Mrs. Edway got the number for me. Still don’t know the messenger’s name. Good she answered and not her parents.

She calls for another vote. Still a tie, of course. Now I have an advantage on my side, though. She came right out and asked if she could read the book I’d been keeping before k—herself. I told her I’d discovered the old samplers. She was angry and accused me of spying on her because I know she can’t climb stairs. I think she wants to read this to find out whether I’ve secretly loved or hated her all these years. It wouldn’t be fair for her to get all this when I’d only have three incidents or facts imparted to me, written on sheets of Xerox paper not large enough to hold much information. It’s the best she can do, she says. We take a secret vote on whether we should keep arguing: one Yes, one No. More talk about d—later in the afternoon. She asks if I resist the idea because I want to see her suffer, smug in her assumption that that’s what the book says.

Night.
Petite marmite
.

A phone call from Mary Louise’s priest, who identifies himself as Father Donnelly and explains that he knows we are not Catholic, but that Mary Louise has been very upset and he felt he might offer words of consolation. The words he offers are references to books of the Bible: numbers, suggested Psalms. Told him that “In Heaven There Is Work and Play/Half of Each Makes Up Our Day.” He had no ready answer.

Keep thinking of what I’d do. Wouldn’t want to stay in the house—not just because I’d have bad memories, but because I’m tired of the house. Violets are too much trouble. I complain to her about the problem it would create, and she suggests we d-together.

Tea and bed.

Monday

Took care of violets. A little worried about “Pledge of Pink,”
but no signs of mealybugs. Mrs. Edway inspected with a magnifying glass to prove me wrong, but after careful examination no argument resulted.

On the phone, she refused both further testing and interim treatment. Her doctor or Bernie?

Finished
petite marmite
.

Gave her the book when she went to bed. She flipped through, held it close to read passages but was too drowsy to concentrate. Bottle of sedatives three-quarters empty.

Just got the book back. Put the light out over the violets and have been watching the sky change color, from pale to dark. Radio says more snow, but there’s a ring around the moon. Does that only mean rain?

*  *  *

One officer to another officer: “The old man says he killed a Mrs. Edway. Waited to come in because Tuesday is his day for a stroll.”

The authorities are such young people.

Phone call: Bernie and Mary Louise come to the police station. Mary Louise cries and says I’m innocent. Just like his mother, Bernie is wild to get his hands on the book, but two policemen are reading it in another room. I am allowed to go into the room with Bernie and Mary Louise because they hope I’ll talk more. Mary Louise does most of the talking, explaining that her mother-in-law had a terminal illness. Bernie hears a report from another policeman who’s just arrived. Suicide. The policemen in the room doubt it and pore over the book. Bernie looks with them. Mary Louise looks all around, crying. They want to find something written down.

“What does this mean?” an officer asks, looking at a page near the end of the book.

Another officer looks over his shoulder, brings the book to me.

I won’t do anything more, including talk.

An officer makes a phone call, spells the words to someone on the other end. “It’s French,” he says. “A vegetable soup cooked with a turkey carcass.”

Mary Louise’s fat hand patting my shoulder. Remember the
day Bernie first brought her home. He was going to marry her. Mary Louise sensed Mrs. Edway’s depression, told Mrs. Edway she wasn’t losing a son but gaining a daughter. When they left, Mrs. Edway said it looked like she’d be losing twice.

When Bernie was a little boy, we hid Easter eggs and Mrs. Edway directed him: “Warm, warmer, cooler …” Bernie loved it. Days later we had to turn the living room inside out, looking for an unfound Easter egg. Turned out to be the one Mrs. Edway had spent the most time decorating. She was upset, said she wished she was d—.

Don’t cry, Mary Louise. Accidents happen. A ring around the moon last night, and today no rain, no snow.

“
W
hen was the last time your eyes were checked?”

“They’ve never been checked. They’ve always been blue.”

*

When David Warner was five or six years old there was an ant war one day, on the sidewalk outside his house. His mother boiled a pan of water and poured it on the ants. But it wasn’t enough water—there were so many ants. So she boiled another pan of water, and that was enough to kill them—kill them and wash them away, so you couldn’t really tell they had been killed. David stayed on the sidewalk, looking at the ripples of black washed to the edge of the sidewalk. “Why do you keep staring?” his mother scolded. “I got rid of them.” Her attention had been drawn to the ant war by David, who had squatted on the sidewalk for a long time. And then the next summer there was another ant war—he was six or seven then, or maybe he was five—and she killed them again, with two separate pots of boiling water. A cloud of steam and whoosh. That was what David told them at the induction center. It was spring, and he was thinking of the ant wars, and although he had rehearsed another story, the story about the ants just came out. “What of it?” the psychiatrist said when David finally got to see him. “I might do that. Just turn on the men and do the same thing.” “Kill them, do you mean?” “Yes, of course, kill them, that’s what I’m saying.” “What do you suggest I write in this space about the ant wars?” the psychiatrist asked. “I have to explain this, you know. Why don’t you tell me what you think it would be good to put down.” Fearing a trap, David said nothing—went into a crouch, part of the original plan. “I’m giving you a break. Why don’t you give me one?” the psychiatrist asked. David, knowing it was a trap, crouched and rocked back and forth.