Winter Birds (15 page)

He goes on to declare the superiority of pumpkin pie made “from a real pumpkin,” expressing scorn for “that stuff from a can.” He lifts a forkful and examines it appreciatively before opening his mouth. He likes a pumpkin pie with some substance to it, he says, a little bit of pulp, something to bite down on.

In a tone of disrespect he speaks of the pumpkin pie Teri made a couple of weeks ago, the one she served when she issued Patrick and Rachel a reciprocal invitation to come across the street for dessert a few days after Thanksgiving. “Way too smooth and bland,” he says. “Rachel’s recipe calls for six different spices, I think it is.” He begins trying to name them all.

Rachel’s crust isn’t always perfect, but tonight it is. Lard gives the flakiest texture, but Rachel’s crust, made with plain shortening, is nevertheless light and delicate. Piecrusts are one of the few kitchen arts I mastered in our boardinghouse. Because Mother disliked making them and because the boarders complained about Regina’s, the task fell to me. My mother had an aversion to measuring cups and spoons, preferring to use a method she referred to as “eyeballing it.” Regina followed my mother’s example but had the added disadvantage of inexperience, so her eyeballing produced one failure after another.

I tried a method rarely used by my mother in the kitchen: I read the instructions in a cookbook. Though it took several tries, I eventually turned out beautiful piecrusts, my success due to precision and patience. I measured the flour and salt carefully and took my time cutting in the lard. I added the cold water one tablespoon at a time, stirring with a fork until the dough cleaned the sides of the porcelain bowl. I gathered the dough into a ball and then rolled it out on a flour-coated surface instead of simply flattening it with my hands and mashing it directly into the pie tin the way I had seen Mother and Regina do it.

I followed the instructions in the cookbook to turn the empty pie tin upside down on top of the circle of dough and neatly cut a larger circle around it, then peel away the surplus dough, fold the piecrust over, and ease it into the tin. I experimented with various edgings pictured in the cookbook under the heading Handsome Pastry Rims: fork press, spoon scallop, circle cutouts, ruffle, rope twist, zigzag pinch, and pretty petal. I developed no great skill in filling the piecrusts, but the crusts themselves were things to be admired.

Patrick has stopped talking and is now holding his dessert saucer in one hand and his fork in the other to decrease the distance between the pie and his mouth. As he eats, he looks around my apartment, his eyes settling on the television, which is on but muted. Vanna White is touching blank panels that light up into letters. It is the final jackpot challenge, and the contestant is a pudgy woman with two short stiff wings of blond hair flaring out on either side of her cheerful, round face and another ragged tuft standing erect above her forehead. I think of birds in my bird book with similar crests: certain woodpeckers and jays, the snowy egret, the ruffed grouse. I think of MacGyver’s hairstyle and of Rachel’s, both of them sporting the same crown.

The category is “living thing,” and Vanna has revealed only two letters for the woman:—A———N. Pat Sajak looks sympathetic, but I can imagine what he is saying: “Not much to go on, but, hey, talk it out and see what happens.”

Patrick attempts to guess the word, coming up with
jargon, gallon
, and
happen
, none of which qualifies as a living thing. My mind still on my bird book, I can think only of
martin
and
falcon
. The answer, however, is
baboon
. The woman has not won the jackpot prize, but she looks comforted by the reminder that she is taking home all the cash she has earned. The total that flashes onto the screen is $14,600. Members of the woman’s family come forward to give her hugs, all of them as pudgy and merry as she is.

I finish the last bite of my pie and leave the table. I sit in my recliner and turn up the volume of the television. There was no clause in my agreement with Patrick when I came to live here that I would socialize with him over dessert. He has begun talking again as if he has not noticed my absence from the table. He shouts that he hopes I’m comfortable here, that he’s afraid he has a “little bad news to pass along”—the furnace is “playing out” and will need to be replaced soon, maybe before the end of winter. If I had the energy to carry on a conversation with my nephew, I would like to ask him if the furnace hadn’t given signs of age last winter, if a prudent homeowner wouldn’t have taken steps to remedy the problem during the spring or summer, long before the next winter arrived.

I say nothing but switch to the Nature Channel. As if the programming directors of
Wheel of Fortune
and
Animal Wonders
have gotten together, tonight’s feature is about a chimpanzee named Oliver, who became a minor celebrity in his day, proclaimed by some to be the “missing link” between man and ape. It was reported that Oliver had forty-seven chromosomes, compared to the forty-six of humans and the forty-eight of common chimpanzees.

At this Patrick snorts dismissively and asks if I have any Christmas shopping to do. If so, he says that Rachel can take me to the mall, or if I’d rather, she can buy whatever I ask her to and get it in the mail for me. I can’t help wondering to whom Patrick thinks I would send a gift. Perhaps he thinks I want to give tokens of consolation to Adrienne and the others who entered the contest to provide shelter and food for me while awaiting my death. Perhaps he is hinting for me to buy gifts for Rachel and him since they were the chosen ones.

The truth is I have not bought gifts for many years. It was one of the themes in my mother’s frequent harangues during the short time between Eliot’s death and her own: “You need to quit thinking about yourself! Lots of other women have lost their husbands! You need to snap out of your depression! Go out and do something for somebody else! Buy somebody a present and write them a nice note of appreciation!”

The somebody to whom she was referring was herself. After Mother’s Day, Christmas, or her birthday, she would say to me, “Well, I heard from Regina and Virginia both—right on time, too.” The weighty pause that followed completed the meaning: “But you, my ungrateful self-absorbed middle daughter, couldn’t spare the little bit of time it would take to buy me a gift and write a few words on a card.”

She continued such speeches even after coming to live with me during her last few months of life. “Regina called me twice yesterday,” she might say, or “Look at all these cards Virginia has sent me.” Evidently the fact that I was caring for her—feeding her with a spoon, dressing her, washing her soiled underwear—escaped her. I was the dutiful daughter. In her way of thinking, phone calls and cards were acts of love; bathing her and changing her sheets did not qualify.

And my mother was right. After Eliot’s death I had become self-absorbed. I couldn’t spare the time for anyone else. It took all of my emotional and rational resources merely to make it through a day. I began doing whatever seemed necessary for survival, dispensing with the niceties of social interaction. Whereas I had once been friendly and courteous, I was now glum, even gruff. Don’t tell me such a change cannot happen overnight. It can and it did. I know the kinds of things others must have been saying behind my back: “She just walked away right in the middle of something I was saying! She didn’t even answer when I called to her, just kept walking!”

But people love sentimental explanations for bad behavior. I was thought to be emotionally prostrate over the loss of my husband. I was an object of pity. I was excused by virtue of my great love and of the great empty hole in my heart. I let the assumption stand. I learned that silence is the best refuge from responsibility. No need to tell lies. Say nothing and let the merciful and the ignorant think what they will.

The act of teaching, which in earlier years had been my purpose for living, was now only a framework to hold my days together. Though I taught for almost ten more years after Eliot’s death, my students were like walk-ons in a play—necessary for the illusion of reality but not memorable. I could have been a cardboard cutout standing at the front of the classroom for all the warmth that passed between us.

I think of how many worthy institutions become nothing more than props for mankind: education, art, religion, law, marriage. “So strong a prop to support so weak a burden.” These words from the dedication of Shakespeare’s poem
Venus and Adonis
come to mind. The prop in this case was the Earl of Southampton, to whom the poem was dedicated, and the burden was the poem itself. A self-deprecating declaration by the bard. But again, my logic fails. The Earl of Southampton would still have existed without the poem. Without humans, however, the institutions of man could not exist. It is men, weak though they are, who create the props on which they lean. In their ideal form, institutions may possess a strength that is almost holy. Ideal forms are an extinct breed, however, if indeed they ever existed at all.

The television describes the “holiday atmosphere” that surrounded Oliver and his owner during the three weeks of their Japanese tour in 1976. I am reminded that the word
holiday
was originally “holy day.” Pictures are shown of Oliver wearing a tuxedo at a banquet, drinking beer, smoking a cigar, dressed for bed in a kimono. I am reminded of the many ways man corrupts the institutions that support him, that give his life meaning.

I tell Patrick that I have no Christmas gifts to buy, that holidays are nothing more than props. He is momentarily silenced. I hear him scraping his plate with his fork.

Oliver displays extraordinary behavior for a chimpanzee, the television reports. Though he is now old by chimp standards—in his midforties—he once distinguished himself by walking on two legs all the time, by doing simple house chores for his trainer, by pouring himself a drink and watching television at night. Shunned by other chimps, he has always preferred the company of humans, especially women.

Patrick gets up from the table. He takes a few steps toward my recliner, then clears his throat. “Well, Aunt Sophie, I guess I’ll go now,” he says, and I nod but don’t look at him. If I had the energy, I might remind him that I never invited him to stay in the first place. But I say nothing. Rudeness often requires energy. On the television screen Oliver is hugging people and shaking hands. He is in a large crowd. In another shot he is eating a jelly sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee.

“I see the book there beside you,” Patrick says, taking another sip of his own coffee. “Do you ever look at it?”

I nod again. I have never thanked him for the bird book, but neither has he ever thanked me for the wealth that is to be his upon my death. Nor is he likely to. When it is his, I will be beyond thanking. Thanking is another of man’s conventions worn out from overuse. I recall reading in my book about certain birds that show no gratitude, that fall upon their food cruelly, sometimes impaling it on a spike until they feel like eating it.

Patrick takes another slurp of coffee, then moves toward the door, stopping first to stack his dessert saucer on top of mine. He drops one of the forks on his way out and bends to retrieve it. He then returns to get my glass and the used napkins from the table. When he finally closes the door, he has not thought to wipe off the round table. I want to call after him, to tell him to check on Rachel and bring me a report, but I say nothing. His checking would include too much talking, first to Rachel and then to me.

I wonder what Patrick’s Christmas gift to Rachel will be. I wonder if he buys her things that he wants. One of the English teachers at South Wesleyan used to tell us about the gifts her husband bought for her: fishing rods, circular saws, hunting knives. She started playing his game by buying him pearl necklaces, leather purses, and silk lingerie. The arrangement worked quite well, she said. Once opened, the gift was simply handed over to the buyer. Each looked forward to the other one’s birthday more than his own. On anniversaries and at Christmas, they were always assured of receiving gifts they knew they would like and use.

I wonder what Rachel would request from Patrick if asked for a gift list. Would she ask for clothing? I can’t imagine that she spends time wishing for a new pair of denim jeans or a new flannel shirt. She wears a dress only on Sunday. One dress worn once a week would last a long time. Her only jewelry is a wedding band and an engagement ring with a diamond not much bigger than a sesame seed.

Perhaps Rachel would put books and bath powder on her gift list. While staying in the back bedroom during the rewiring project, I went into Patrick and Rachel’s bedroom one day while Rachel was out grocery shopping. I saw two books on the table beside their bed: a Bible and a book titled
Old-Fashioned Grace for Modern Times
. In their bathroom I saw a pair of men’s pajamas on a hook. Something told me they were Rachel’s, not Patrick’s. I saw bath powder in a round pink box beside the sink and another book, titled
Looking to Heaven
, on top of the commode.

Folded inside my book of
Easy to Read Stories
is an old letter written in my own hand in the year 1936. I was ten years old and still believed in Santa Claus, to whom the letter was addressed. “Dear Santa Claus,” the letter reads, “I am going to write you and tell you what I want. I want a blackboard that has a seat to it, and it has a felt eraser. One side is black and the other side is white. You can use it as a desk. There are three pieces of chalk for the black side and four colored pieces for the white side. I want a yo-yo in my stocking. I want a house set. I want six Shirley Temple books. I want a watch that costs $1.98. It is in the Sears Roebuck book. And ten pounds of hard candy and all kind of nuts and fruit. The candy is not stick candy. Your friend, Sophia Langham.”

I am quite certain that I didn’t receive any of these items that Christmas, except perhaps the candy and fruit. I keep the letter, however, as a relic of hope and innocence, as well as a reminder of broken promises. My mother had told me she would mail my letter to Santa Claus. I found it in her drawer, folded inside her box of handkerchiefs, the next summer.