Innocents and Others (24 page)

All of Meadow's life she had prided herself on her rigorous self-interrogations. None of this saved her from becoming a destructive person, a person who not only didn't make the world better, but a person who made some lives worse. She spent her last few days in bed taking inventory—wasn't this how it worked in those recovery programs? She made herself write in a notebook about her transgressions big and small, as if the precision about the small ones might let her sneak up on the bigger ones.

Notes:

My Transgressions

I flirted, drunkenly and outrageously, with a friend's husband. I remember touching his tie and looking into his eyes. The memory makes me flinch, though nothing came of it.

I did not return the letters of my aunt, who wrote in fine, even script of her admiration for my films. I meant to, but no.

I did not write to any of my teachers—not even Jay Hosney—to thank them for what they had taught me. Not once, though I think about it often. Gratitude unexpressed is no gratitude at all.

I cheated on the three serious boyfriends I have had, including Kyle. Some of it was discovered, but most of it wasn't. I would sleep with men the way I have driven lately: not intentionally, veering into a sloppy collision, finding some way to inhabit myself as I lied and omitted and cheated. It meant nothing, yet I had to admit it meant a lot because I went to lengths to do it. Finding myself away from home, going out to a party where I knew no one, fixing my attention on one receptive person and not wavering
until they were in a cab or an elevator. A hotel room was ideal: no one belonged there and it existed in a space separate from both our lives.

Not watching all of Carrie's films, even though Carrie deserved better. Even though Carrie saw all of mine. Wishing, sometimes, that Carrie would not have success after success. Wanting, sometimes, people to fail. Not just people, but my friend.

Jelly in that fucking movie. That was the worst. I knew that Jelly would be humiliated. I put it in motion, and what for?

I lie all the time. To my parents, to my lovers, to my subjects, to myself.

I spend money. I have money from my parents, and I spend it on my art, my vanity. I gave a pittance to various causes related to my films, but that was all self-serving. All to show what a good person I am. All to mitigate the narcissism that was in evidence in everything I made.

I made

Meadow gave up. Her litany of self-recrimination was absurd. It did no one any good. Even her guilt and inventory were an exercise in narcissism. A way of proving that she was a certain kind of person. Part of her already saying, “Everyone behaves badly, but I am special because I admit it.” Meadow hurled the notebook off the bed and pushed her face into the pillow, which made her wince from the scab on her chin. She finally slept, and when sleep came it fell on her all at once, dreamless, long, and deep.

Meadow's mother brought her juice and a white pill. Meadow took the tablet, put it on her tongue, and then the swallow of the juice. She looked up at her mother. Her mother said, “You need to eat something. Try some toast.” And Meadow picked up the piece of
dry toast and bit into it. She chewed, looking at her mother and not speaking. She swallowed, which hurt a little.

“Good,” her mother said. Meadow took another bite and slowly chewed. She ate the toast.

“I think you need to take a shower. I will help you walk to the bathroom.”

Meadow swung her legs over the side. She was stiff and sore, and she needed her mother to keep her steady. She lasted only a few minutes in the shower before the hot water made her feel faint. Her mother held a towel around her and then helped her into a robe.

“Put your arm in here. Good,” she said. “Let's brush our teeth before we go back to bed.”

Meadow brushed her teeth and looked expectantly at her mother.

“Back to bed and rest,” she said, and her mother helped Meadow walk back to bed. She helped swing her legs up one at a time and lie down. She pulled the sheet up and then the blanket. She turned out the light, kissed Meadow on the forehead. Meadow didn't make lists or cry or throw anything. She thought of nothing at all except her mother saying, “Try to rest now.” And she did what she was told to do.

* * *

After her body healed and her mother had left, Meadow hoped she was different. She ate, she slept, she read the paper, she exercised. She had no idea what to do next. She moved through her old life with both deliberation and detachment, as though she were waiting for something to happen.

DAMASCENE

II

Money was complicated for everyone, but for Meadow it seemed that the older she got, the more uneasy her wealth made her feel. It had been Meadow's habit—her whole life—to give money to people who asked her for money. People on street corners, a hand with paper cup held out or just a hand. The men standing by the streetlight or highway entrance ramp holding a piece of cardboard with a message written in Magic Marker: “I am a vet. Please help me. I have no place to live.” Sometimes a grubby teenage girl with piercings and a vacant look in her eye. “Excuse me, ma'am, can you help me get bus fare home?” A man on the subway or the bus with a ready-made speech that made everyone look away, or stare at the ground or the paper with steely absorption. The speech was always impossible, the weariness in the voice already making it seem rehearsed and insincere. She wanted them to stop, didn't want them to perform their need. What difference did the speech make? You gave or you didn't for whatever reasons, but not the speech. She pulled out some money as soon as they began.

Tiny, meaningless amounts of money, for which the person was always grateful and Meadow was always sheepish and embarrassed. The moment was always the same: she holds out the money and knows that she does not want to touch the person asking for money. So she forces herself to press it into the person's hand, forces herself
to make eye contact, smile, however fleetingly, lets her fingers brush the dirty rough fingers of the person. And in this moment she gets a glimpse of living on the streets, of dirty layers of clothes, of what skin must feel like unwashed for days and weeks at a time. And always Meadow feels shame. A shame that she must force herself to touch and see them, ashamed of how grateful they are, but mostly ashamed about how measly and self-gratifying the gesture is. She hates to do it: it is sentimental and self-serving and a sop to her guilt. To use another person's need to make you feel as if you are good, even to use another person to remind you of your own luck and privilege—this is shameful.

But here is what is also true:

Meadow feels momentarily good despite the shame. It feels good to lose her indifference, to move outside her own experience for an instant, however complicated it is. At least there is a glimmer of truth in admitting that she has had great good luck in this life. Admitting that, confronting that.

And:

As problematic as the giving could be, she cannot abide the alternative. Ignoring the person. Looking away and hurrying by. Saying no (in a barely audible voice as if the conversation hasn't actually happened or shaking a head slightly, also not wanting to give it full engagement or open up any avenue of discussion). So awful does it make her feel that on the occasions she has ignored someone (because the light was changing, because her hands were full, because—oh god—she was in a rush, perhaps a bit late), she has ruminated and felt the sting of her
own selfishness so acutely that she has even circled back to find the person (driven around the block, walked back to the corner, put her bags down and located her wallet), apologized as if they have even noticed her passing them (what do they want with her apology, she is forever making it more awkward, more undignified, her apology only to repair her vanity about her own generosity, her own porousness), given them five dollars or ten dollars and hurried away before the thank-yous, which are too much, much more than she deserves. (Sometimes she feels that it is entirely transactional: she pays them so they will thank her. She is buying a feeling of gratitude from them.)

But of course there is also this:

They want the money and need the money. About the want and need there cannot be any doubt. They have asked for it because they desperately need it. They want the help, even if futile. It serves them as well. She knew they would buy food or drugs or drink or all of those things. Maybe some cigarettes or a thick sweet cup of coffee somewhere indoors. Maybe some Handi Wipes, toothpaste, a room with a shower. Whatever can be bought that is needed to endure the day. And so it cannot be refused. All of that came to her if she thought about it, which she did. Yet she also, like most people, soon moved on to whatever else occupied her. But then came this particular incident, with this particular woman, and Meadow saw that she was changing in ways she was still discovering.

* * *

Meadow had pulled into the post office parking lot. The line would be long. The lot was nearly full. She reached over to the passenger side and grabbed the package off the seat. Why would 10 a.m. be
a crowded time at the post office? She felt her coat pockets as she locked the car: phone, wallet, cigarettes.

A tall woman with stiff dark brown curls reached the glass door just as Meadow did. The woman stopped as Meadow rushed forward (always in a rush!), and then there was a slight hesitation between them before the woman stopped and held the door open for her. Meadow said, “Thank you.” The woman looked at her, large brown eyes, wide gleaming smile, and then looked at the ground. She looked very something. She looked young. Meadow passed her and then worried about being ahead of the woman in line. The woman—a girl, really—had almost deferred to her. Apologetic or something. Did she have a mental disability? Meadow stopped at the doorway to the main room, held the second door open, and waited for the tall girl to pass her. The girl again hesitated, and Meadow gestured with her hand toward the line. The girl flashed a smile, eyes open and bright. She took her place ahead of Meadow in the long line.

It was a muddy, salty, cold day. The girl undid her scarf and unbuttoned her gray overcoat, and then she took off her coat. She was slim and tall in polyester navy slacks and a sweater. A plastic bag of clothes hung from her wrist. Meadow watched her carefully roll her coat into a bundle and then walk out of the line and place the bundled coat in the corner of the post office's main room. She neatly tucked it there, placed her stuffed plastic bag on top after removing a small zipper pouch. She then walked back to the spot in front of Meadow. The bottom cuffs of her pants were crusted with mud. Could be homeless. But she looked so clean otherwise. And would a homeless person trustingly put her coat and bag in the corner and leave it? She was young, pretty, clean. Not living on the street. But she walked a long way in the street to get here. With no boots and her stuff in a plastic bag.

The line moved slowly. By the time the tall girl was at the front of the line, Meadow had her wallet out. Meadow looked at the package in her hands and read the name she had written, checked that the package was sealed. Checked in her wallet, checked the time on her phone. She waited. Two service windows opened at the same time. The tall girl with the muddy pant hems went to one, and Meadow went to the one next to it. The postal clerk in front of her was taping her package and then weighing it. The clerk at the next window, helping the tall girl, spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“Hello! Good news. I called the refugee center, and they said you can stay there and receive mail while you sort out your visa issues.”

Meadow stole a side glance at the girl. Of course. She was foreign, not American. She held a green passport in her hand. Meadow handed the clerk her credit card. She did not turn toward the girl, but she could hear the other clerk speak to her.

“What you need to do is send this passport by express mail to the embassy in DC and they will return it overnight. But it costs twenty dollars each way, so forty dollars to send it.” There was a long pause. “Sorry,” the clerk said, “but that is what you need to do to be sure it gets there and back.”

The postal clerk sounded kind. Meadow admired her. She could feel the line restless behind them. Meadow waited for the clerk at her window to give her a receipt.

“Four dollars?” the tall girl said with a British accent. Meadow looked sideways and saw the girl's zipper wallet open in her hands.

“No, four-tee dollars. Four zero.” The clerk wrote the number on a piece of paper.

The tall girl smiled and shook her head at her wallet.

“I know, I am sorry,” the clerk said. “That is what it costs. There is nothing I can do about that. You can go to the center and see what
they say. And then come back here . . .” The tall girl stood there, saying nothing. Meadow shoved her receipt into her own wallet, and saw two twenties in the cash section. She had exactly forty dollars in cash in her wallet. Exactly. She pulled them out of her wallet, and felt her heart start to pound a little, like she was going onstage.

Meadow walked toward the tall girl at the window and as she passed she looked down and placed the two twenties on the counter next to the girl's hand.

“Do it. You should send it express,” Meadow said, not looking, not stopping really. But Meadow turned her head and looked back at them for a second as the money registered, as they understood. The tall girl looked up and said, “Thank you,” in a high voice. She smiled, so broadly her mouth opened, and the clerk laughed. “Welcome to Albany, young lady!” the clerk exclaimed. The line was behind Meadow, but she could feel them watching. Meadow walked faster and did not look back again. She was in the parking lot, rushing toward her car.

She got in, flushed, heart pounding in her ears. She sat there. The tall girl looked so surprised and happy. It was no big deal, the money meant nothing to Meadow. Forty dollars was spent without blinking. Hardly an act of generosity or charity. Her heart continued to make its beats felt in her ears. She could hear her own excited breaths. How small and easy a gesture. How satisfying. Meadow sat in the driver's seat, holding her keys. She put her hand to her forehead, lowered her chin, and let out a soft sob as she began to cry. She felt the tears blur her eyes and slide down her cheeks. She opened her palm across her forehead and let her head rest for a second. It calmed you, a palm, even your own. She let herself keep crying, and the sounds vibrated in her ears. Meadow took her hand off her forehead and sat up. She found a tissue in the glove box and held it to her nose, which had began to run. It felt, she thought as she inhaled and sniffed, so calm
ing. She pressed the tissue to her nose. The crying, the gesture, the action, the moment, the smile. It was stunning how good it felt.

She should leave. She didn't want to be lurking around there when the woman came out. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key. She felt so giddy—almost high. She breathed in deeply. Wow. But leave now.

Meadow turned the key and started the car, felt the blast of the heat and the radio. She lowered the volume. She felt different now than she had before. Ridiculous, as if she could change. She clipped her safety belt. She felt for her wallet, her gum, and her phone. She backed out.

Meadow remembered an article she had cut out of the paper about Zell Kravinsky. When she got to her studio, she went through her files until she found it. “An Organ Donor's Generosity Raises Question of How Much Is too Much.” Zell was a millionaire who one day began to give away all his money except for a modest house. Why should he have extra when others didn't have enough? That was a very simple question. Then he went even further, why should he have two kidneys when some people were waiting for transplants? So he gave one away to a stranger. The article speculated that his generosity was some kind of pathology, a mental illness. His generosity was so extreme that it was almost grotesque to the writer, and presumably to a reasonable reader. But what Meadow admired was that it wasn't emotional—it was moral logic, duty, a deliberateness on Zell's part about doing good rather than harm.

How to be good? Maybe she would never be a good person. But she could do good things. Meadow would not give away a kidney, but she could change her life. It was quite clear. Rearrange it until it was a net good.

Money, for starters. She always had more than most people, but what good was it?

She talked to her father, and with the trust fund he had given her, she arranged to buy a tiny house on a small piece of property in the green hills between Gloversville and Albany. It was a perfectly intact nineteenth-century saltbox, with a fireplace and only eight hundred square feet of living space. All she would have to pay were the taxes. She got rid of her place in Washington Heights. She got rid of the warehouse studio. All of the remaining money from the trust would go to causes she identified. One of the biggest donations was given to the Justice Campaign.

She felt liberated. The further she went, the simpler it became. Slowly she sold off her belongings so she could give away more money. She wore thrift store clothes; she stopped eating meat. She got her expenses down to a minuscule amount. She liked how this felt, but she didn't let it go too far. She did not starve herself or swear off all bodily pleasures. She kept her DVDs and her books. She took measure of herself. She would not become like Kateri Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawks. She wouldn't let herself go to an extreme in which deprivation became its own excess.

Carrie occasionally called, and Meadow was cryptic about her life. But eventually Meadow told her what she had been up to.

Without hesitation, Carrie said, “Sell the house. Sell the car. Sell the kids. Find someone else. Forget it. I'm never coming back. Forget it!” This from
Apocalypse Now.
They both laughed. “You have pulled a Kurtz.”

“Kurtz doesn't say that, you know,” Meadow said. “It is a recording of Lieutenant Colby.”

“I know, I know,” Carrie said. “But everyone remembers it as Kurtz.” There was a pause. “But you are okay, right?”

“I'm trying,” Meadow said.

Was it possible to be truly humble? No, but she could tread lightly, quietly.

What did she have to give? What was hers to give?

She adopted two dogs from an animal shelter. She volunteered her time. At a women's clinic for underserved communities. At a literacy center for adults. At a group for environmental advocacy. She didn't have any particularly useful skills, so she mostly made phone calls and asked people for money. She knew that for things to get truly better, systematic change was needed, not charity and gestures. But she urged herself to do whatever small good she could think of, right now. It made her life tolerable, and she could sleep at night.