Erasure (29 page)

The woman laughed. She was tall, as tall as me, and she stepped off the porch and looked at the house with me. Her square face was framed by near blonde dreadlocks. “Professor Tilman was my uncle,” she said. “We called him Uncle Professor.”

She was funny. I smiled at her. “I didn’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay.”

“How is the Professor?” I asked.

“He died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I inherited the house. Some of the house. My brother and I own it, but he lives in Las Vegas and never comes east.” She said
Las Vegas
as if it were not to be believed.

“I’ve driven through there,” I said. “My name is Thelonious Ellison. Everybody calls me Monk.”

“Dr. Ellison’s family?” I nodded and she said, “My uncle mentioned your father often.”

“How about that.”

“Marilyn Tilman.” She shook my hand. “Are you down for the summer? What’s left of it?”

“Just a couple of weeks. I’m here with my mother and her housekeeper. Speaking of which, I’d better get back there. I know they’ll have a shopping list waiting for me. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I took a couple steps away. “Would you like me to pick up anything for you?”

“Why don’t I ride with you?” she asked.

“It’s the two story with the green shutters.”

“I’ll be over in a couple,” she said.

“Good.” I watched her take the porch steps two at a time and enter the house.

Back at the house, I discovered that Mother and Lorraine had gotten on each other’s nerves. The outward manifestation of this nerve-pinching was an awkward silence. Mother told me she felt the need for a nap and Lorraine told me, aside, that Mother needed a nap. Lorraine had compiled the shopping list, at the end of which were a couple of things added by my mother’s shaking hand. This was no doubt the source of trouble between them, especially as one of the items had already been listed by Lorraine.

“She’s tired,” Lorraine said again, this time loud enough for Mother to hear.

“It’s no wonder,” Mother said softly, looking around as if for a place to lie down.

“Lorraine,” I said, “take Mother up and get her to bed, will you? I’ll be back in an hour or so. And I’ll pick up some food so no one cooks tonight.”

“Yes, Mr. Monk.”

Lorraine followed Mother up the stairs.

“I don’t need your help,” Mother snapped.

“I have to make up your bed,” Lorraine said.

“Well, get to it, Lorraine. You’re such a slow girl sometimes.”

I stepped outside to find Marilyn approaching. She was wearing a straw hat that shaded her face, but still her youthfulness shone on her cheeks and in her eyes. It was a glow that I believed I recalled, but was faded from me. My eyes felt tired as I watched her confident gait, her cloth knapsack swinging by her side.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said.

We sat in the car and I fumbled a bit with the keys. The scene was strikingly and alarmingly unfamiliar to me. A woman less than seventy was seated beside me, a woman whom I found attractive, a woman whose short-term memory was at least as good as mine. I felt like a spinster and fought appearing too self-conscious.

Ten days drifted by. I walked alone, walked with Marilyn, once walked with mother. Marilyn met Mother and Lorraine. Maynard, the gate guard, paid a call on Lorraine. Mother told me she liked Marilyn. I told Marilyn I liked Marilyn. Marilyn told me she liked me. The four of us ate together. I ate with Marilyn. I rowed out onto the pond and smoked cigars. Mother and Lorraine got on each other’s nerves. Lorraine muttered under her breath. Mother took naps. Mother spoke alone with Marilyn while I was at the market.

“Your mother tells me you have a new book coming out soon,” Marilyn said.

My first thought was to say that Mother was mistaken and I nearly followed that thought, but considered how unfair it was to attribute a delusion to someone who was frequently suffering from real ones. I said, “Well, the book’s not done yet, but I hope to have it out by the spring.”

“What’s the title?”

“I don’t really have one yet. It’s a retelling of
The Satyricon.”
I laughed. “Another highly commercial venture for me.”

“I’d love to read some of it.”

“So would I.” I said.

She offered a puzzled look.

“I’d love to see it too when done.”

“I actually read
The Second Failure
when it came out. I liked it.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I don’t have many readers, I’m afraid.”

We were sitting on the dock looking at the pond. We had a bottle of merlot, but the flavor had been badly affected by the citronella candles we were forced to burn. I had learned much about Marilyn and I guess she about me, but other people’s information always seems more important or interesting or simply more like information. She had grown up outside Boston with her brother and physician parents, gone to Vassar, then Columbia and now worked as a federal defender for the Sentencing Guidelines Group. She traveled through the states explaining sentencing legislation to public defenders. She took her work seriously, thought of it as important, and so did I, and, in that way, Marilyn was very much like my sister. She liked some of her co-workers, but not the workplace, cared passionately about the rights of those she represented, but disliked them as people.

The mosquitoes were busy around our ankles. “Do you mind if I light this?” I asked, pulling a cigar from my shirt pocket.

“No, go ahead.”

I lit it and blew smoke down over her legs. “This will help keep the mosquitoes away,” I said.

“That’s sexy.”

I leaned back and looked at her eyes. She was not beautiful in that stupid movie kind of way, but her face was interesting, full of experience, full of thought and so, she was beautiful. I hoped that my face carried enough of that stuff to make me attractive. Our heads drifted toward a common point in space the way heads do when a first kiss is anticipated. And we kissed, softly, but resolutely, decisively. We came away from the kiss without anything to say. I was terrified, wondering if I would eventually alienate her and fuck up everything.

Then, on the pond we heard the dipping of oars, soft laughter. Under the moon, Lorraine and Maynard floated by in a little skiff. It was sweet. But as much as I wanted to be happy for Lorraine, I could only feel sad for my mother in the house with a loneliness that I was sure was killing her.

I could never talk the talk, so I didn’t try and being myself has served me well enough. But when I was a teenager, I wanted badly to fit in. I watched my friends, who didn’t sound so different from me, step into scenes and change completely.

“Yo, man, what it is?” they would say.

“You’re what it is,” someone would respond.

It didn’t make sense to me, but it sounded casual, comfortable and, most importantly, cool. I remember the words, the expressions.

Solid

What’s happenin’.

What’s up?

Chillin’.

Dig.

Yo.
(that should have been easy enough)

What it be like?

What it is?

You better step back.

That’s some shit.

Say what?

It’s hotter than a motherfucker out here.

Gots to be crazy.

I’d try, but it never sounded comfortable, never sounded real. In fact, to my ear, it never sounded real coming from anyone, but I could tell that other people talked the talk much better than I ever could. I never knew when to slap five or high five, which handshake to use. Of course, no one cared about my awkwardness but me, I came to learn later, but at the time I was convinced that it was the defining feature of my personality. “You know, Thelonious Ellison, he’s the awkward one.”
Talks like he’s stuck up? Sounds white? Can’t even play basketball.

It was a cool morning and I was happy to have to reach for the blanket at the foot of my bed. Day was just breaking. From deep in those sweet half-waking minutes of sleep I heard Lorraine calling to me.

“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!”

I swung my legs around, pulled on my sweat pants and stepped into my slippers. “What is it?” I called down the stairs as I hit the doorway.

“It’s your mother.”

I hurried down the stairs and saw Lorraine in the kitchen. She was staring out the window. I looked around for Mother. “What’s wrong? Lorraine, where’s Mother?”

Lorraine said nothing, but pointed out the window at the pond. Out on the still, mirror-flat surface of the water, standing in the light blue skiff was Mother. Her arms were by her sides and she didn’t seem the least bit excited.

“What’s she doing out there?” I asked, realizing what a stupid question it was as it left my lips. To Lorraine’s credit, she offered no response. “I guess I’d better go get her.” But how? I wondered. Mother was in our boat. I looked at the neighbors’ yards for something to commandeer. Nothing. “I guess I’m going for a swim.”

The water was cold, very cold. Never a strong swimmer, I was at least confident I could reach the boat. I stopped halfway to get my bearings. I looked back to see not only Lorraine standing on the dock, but the neighbors, whom I didn’t know, collecting in little clumps along the edge. I swam on. In an odd way, the exercise felt good. Mother hated the water, so I knew she was having an episode. It was always a huge deal when Father was able to talk her into a boat and now, here she was, having floated out on her own. I could have no idea just how far away she had drifted until I got there.

I stopped and looked, found I was just feet from the boat. I sidestroked to it and reached out of the water, then drew back my hand as Mother cracked it with an oar.

“Mother, it’s me,” I said, treading water and trying to find her eyes. The rising sun was slightly behind her and so I circled the boat. When I could see her eyes, there was nothing to see. She was not Mother, but of course she was my mother. I could tell her who I was for hours and it would mean nothing. I noticed the tie rope floating in the water and so I grabbed it, began sidestroking my way back to the dock. I could see her the whole time, standing, the oar raised to swing on me again if I approached. “It’s okay, Mother,” I kept saying. “It’s okay, Mother.” Finally, I said, in a stern voice, “Mrs. Ellison, there’s no standing allowed in the boat.” She sat. I could feel my movements in the water become immediately more relaxed.