He had never rid himself of an abiding dislike for all Asians.
And women who looked at him with fear.
“Here’s an idea.” Charlie stood up. “Let’s go.”
She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and waited. She did not look at him with fear. She did not look at him at all.
The hangers in the closet twanged against one another as he got his coat, metal hangers whose tops wrapped completely around the pole so they could not be stolen. “All set?” he asked in a cheerful voice, slipping on his coat, and he stood back to let her go through the door before him. There was the same familiar oddness of watching himself. The bewilderment of how much he loved her—yet that was more knowledge now than feeling—when not on any conceivable level did it make sense, except for the only one that mattered: She had saved him, given him the space within which he could breathe. Or he had, through her, given this to himself, because watching her he saw nothing—not one thing—that could have caused him to feel as he did; still desiring her, he found the sight of her puzzling. But it was over, praise God; there was still that open space of relief.
“Follow me in your car,” he said.
He headed back toward the center of this town about which he knew almost nothing except for his forays to this motel. He knew the department store on Main Street and the Victorian-looking bed-and-breakfast that always had a VACANCY sign out front, yet always looked welcoming wearing its fresh color of pale blue like a shy child who had kindness within. He did not know where a branch of his bank might be, but he drove as though it would appear, only glancing once in the rearview mirror to see her following him; she was biting on her lip, a gesture so familiar to him he knew not to look in the mirror again. He drove with the fully set sun off to his right, and he noted once more that he felt okay. Passing an old church he thought that if she had not been following, he might have pulled over just to look at it from the road.
He had sometimes felt a need to pray. This need was as abhorrent to him as was the sight of his wife. He had been brought up in a Methodist church that had done nothing for him at all, except that he associated the experience with carsickness. He had attended some services at the Congregational church with Marilyn because she wanted to, but that experience of duty had attenuated as soon as the children reached early adolescence; he could not stand it, he told her, and she did not argue with him, they simply stopped going. And no one in the church pursued them. Except for the baptism of his grandchildren, and the funeral of Patty Nicely’s husband, Charlie had not been in a church for years.
But these days, sometimes, he just wanted to go into a church and pray. He wanted to fall on his knees, and what would he pray for? Forgiveness. There was nothing else to pray for, not if you were Charlie Macauley. Charles Macauley did not have the luxury, the foolery, to pray for health for his children or the ability to better love his wife—no no no no no—Charlie Macauley could only pray, beg on his knees, Dear God, forgive me if you can stand to.
But how sickening. It made him sick.
Off to the right, past one more traffic light, he saw the sign for a branch of his bank. Pulling in to the parking lot he saw that the bank was still open and experienced a sense of strange accomplishment. He watched as she pulled in behind him; he signaled with one hand that she should stay where she was, and she nodded once. In about ten minutes he carried out two envelopes of cash—they had the bulky softness of flesh—and handed them to her through her partly open driver’s side window. She opened the window more, as though she were about to thank him, but he shook his head to stop her. “If I hear from you again, I’ll track you down and kill you myself,” he said calmly. “Whether your name is Tracy or Lacy or Shitty or Pretty. Get it? Because you will need more.”
She started her car and drove away.
—
Now the shaking began, first his hands, then his arms, and then his thighs. He had stolen from Marilyn, and wasn’t that different? It seemed to him that that was different from anything else he had done. He was no longer earning money, nor was she. It really shook him up—he had stolen money from his wife. He sat in his car until he felt he could drive.
Only the faintest afterglow was in the sky now; it was a dangerous time, because it was essentially dark, not even dusk anymore; quickly, quietly, night had descended. And yet it was not nighttime. There were hours before one could sleep; his pills at best gave him five hours of sleep.
—
The bed-and-breakfast was a larger house than it appeared to be from the street. He parked in the lot behind it and walked back around—the air was crisp against his face like the witch hazel aftershave he’d used many years ago—and he went up the front steps, which slightly creaked, and that sound slightly pleased him. His instinct told him that this was a good place to be when the real blow arrived; he could be safe here, it could allow a man like him. In fact, the woman who answered the door was as old as he was, perhaps older, a tiny prim woman with good skin. Immediately he thought: She’ll be afraid of me. But she did not seem to be. She looked him in the eye, asked if a room without a television would be all right. If he wanted to watch television, he could watch it here in the living room, the other guests seemed to have already turned in.
At first he told her no, he did not need a television, but when he saw his room, he understood that he could not sit in there and wait, and so he came back into the hall and she said, “Of course,” and gave him the remote, and said, “Do you mind if I join you once I’m done in the kitchen?” He said he wouldn’t mind. “I don’t care what we watch,” she added. In a distant way he understood that she had her own echoes of pain—at their age, he supposed, who did not? Then he supposed that many did not. It occurred to him often that many did not have echoes of pain from the silent noises he carried in his head.
He sat on the couch and heard her in the kitchen. He crossed his arms, and watched a British comedy because British comedies were ridiculous, so removed from anything real—safe, those British comedies: the accents, the clackety teacups. And so he waited. It would come: the wave upon wave of raw pain after a blow like this, oh yes, it would come.
Quietly, the proprietress slipped into the room. From the edge of his eye he saw that she took the big chair in the corner. “Oh, perfect,” she murmured, he assumed meaning the choice of show.
He wanted to ask her: If you made your name up and chose it to be Tracy, what do you think your real name would be?
And so it was coming closer, yes siree bob. He knew what it was, he had been there before, and then it would be over. And yet: It was taking longer than he thought it would.
You never get used to pain, no matter what anyone says about it. But now, for the first time, it occurred to him—could it really be the first time this had occurred to him?—that there was something far more frightening: people who no longer felt pain at all. He had seen it in other men—the blankness behind the eyes, the lack that then defined them.
So Charlie, a tiny bit, sat up straighter, and he stared pretty hard at that television set. He waited, hope like a crocus bulb inside him now. He waited and he hoped, he practically prayed. O sweet Jesus, let it come. Dear God, please, could you? Could you please let it come?
Mississippi Mary
“Tell your father I miss him,” Mary said, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue her daughter handed her. “Can you tell him that, please? Tell him I’m sorry.”
Her daughter looked up at the ceiling—such high ceilings in these Italian apartments—and turned to look briefly toward the window through which the ocean could be seen, then looked back at her mother. Angelina could not stop thinking how old her mother seemed, and small. And weirdly brown. She said, “Mom. Please stop this. Please stop it, Mom. It took my whole year’s savings to fly over here, and I find you in this awful—I’m sorry, but it is—this squalid two-room flat with this guy, your husband, oh God. And he’s almost my age, and we’ve just ignored that fact, what else could we do but ignore that fact? And
now you’re eighty years old, Mom.”
“Seventy-eight.” Mary had stopped weeping. “And he’s not your age at all. He’s sixty-two. Come on, honey.”
Angelina said, “Okay, so you’re seventy-eight. But you’ve had a stroke and a heart attack.”
“Oh now please. That was years ago.”
“And now you’re telling me to tell Dad you miss him.”
“I do miss him, honey. I imagine there must be days he misses me too.” Mary’s elbow rested on the arm of the chair; her hand waved the tissue listlessly.
“Mom. You don’t get it, do you? Oh my God, you just don’t get it.” Angelina sat back on the sofa, brought both hands to her head, and pulled her fingers through her hair.
“Please don’t yell, honey. Were you brought up to yell at people?” Her mother tucked the tissue into her large yellow leather pocketbook. “I never felt like I did get anything. No, there were lots of things I didn’t get, I’ll agree with you on that. Please don’t yell at me though, Angelina. Did I just say that?” Mary’s daughter, the youngest of five girls and Mary’s (secret) favorite, was named Angelina because Mary knew during her pregnancy that she was carrying a little angel. Mary sat up straight and looked at the girl, who had been a middle-aged woman for years. Angelina did not look back. From where she sat in the corner chair, Mary could see the sun hitting the steeple of the church, and she let her eyes rest on that.
“Daddy yelled all the time,” Angelina said, looking down at the upholstery of the couch. “You can’t yell at me for yelling, and say I wasn’t brought up that way, when I was—I was brought up with quite a yeller. Daddy was a yeller.”
“Old yeller.” Mary put a hand to her chest. “Honestly, what a sad movie that was. Why, we took you kids to see it, and I think Tammy didn’t sleep for a month. Do you remember they took that poor dog out to the pasture and killed him?”
“They had to, Mom. He was rabid.”
“A rabbit?”
“Rabid. Oh, Mommy, I don’t want you to be making me sad like this.” Angelina closed her eyes briefly, bouncing her hand gently on the couch.
“Of course you don’t,” her mother agreed. “Did you really spend all your savings to get here? Didn’t your father help you at all? Honey, I wasn’t yelling at you for yelling. Let’s go do something fun.”
Angelina said, “Everything in a foreign country seems so hard. And the Italians seem proud of not speaking English. Did you think that when you first came here? That everything seemed so hard?”
Mary nodded. “I did. But a person gets used to things. You know, for weeks if Paolo wasn’t with me I didn’t even try and get my coffee at that place on the corner. They thought I was his mother at first. And then they found out I was his wife and I think they were sort of laughing at us. But Paolo taught me how to pay with my coins on the plate.”
“Mom.”
“What, honey?”
“Oh, Mommy, it makes me sad. That’s all.”
“Not knowing how to put the right coins on a plate?”
“No, Mom. Thinking you were his mother.”
Mary considered this. “Except why would they think I was his mother? I’m American, he’s Italian. They probably didn’t think that.”
“You’re my mother!” Angelina burst out, and this caused Mary to almost weep again, because she had a searing glimpse then of all the damage she must have done, and she, Mary Mumford, had never in her life planned on doing, or wanted to do, any damage to anyone.
They sat by the window in the café past the church; the café was built on rocks that looked out over the water. The late August sun sparkled crazily on everything. In four years, Mary had never stopped being banged on the head with the beauty of this village. But Mary was very anxious; her eldest daughter, Tammy, had emailed her that Angelina was having trouble in her marriage, and Mary had thought she would ask Angelina about this as soon as they were alone; yet she could not seem to do so. She would have to wait for Angelina to bring it up. Mary pointed to a large cruise ship on its way to Genoa, and Angelina nodded. The window they sat by was open, and the door was open. Mary ate her apricot cornetto, then put her hand on Angelina’s arm; she started singing quietly “You Were Always on My Mind,” but Angelina frowned and said, “Are you still wacky about Elvis?”
“I am.” Mary sat up straight, putting her hands in her lap. “Paolo downloaded all his songs for me onto my phone.”
Angelina opened her mouth, then closed it.
From the corner of her eye, Mary noticed once again that age had touched her baby; Angelina’s face had creases by her mouth and by her eyes that Mary had not remembered. Her hair, still pale brown, and still worn below her shoulders, was thinner than Mary had thought it was. And the jeans she wore were so tight! Mary had noticed this right away. “Look, honey,” Mary said, waving a hand toward the sea, “I just love how things are lived outside more in Italy. This open door, the open window.”
Angelina said, “I’m cold.”
“Take this.” Mary handed her the scarf she always wore. “Unfold it,” she directed, “and it will open enough to wrap right around your skinny little shoulder bones.”
Her youngest child did this.
“Tell me about your life,” Mary said. “The tiniest stuff, if you want.”
Angelina rummaged through her blue straw handbag and brought out her phone, which she placed on the table between them. “Well, the twins and I went to a crafts fair, and you wouldn’t believe what we got. Wait, I think I have a picture on my phone.” Mary pulled her chair closer and peered at the phone, and she was able to see the pretty pink sweater that one of the twins had bought for Tammy’s birthday.
“Tell me more,” Mary said. Her desire seemed suddenly as large as the heavens. Show me, show me, cried her heart. “Show me all the pictures,” she said.
“I have six hundred and thirty-two pics,” Angelina reported, after squinting at her phone.
“Show me each one.” Mary beamed at her sweet youngest girl.
“No crying,” Angelina warned.
“Not a drop.”
“One drop and we stop.”
“My goodness,” Mary said, thinking: Who was it that raised this girl?
The sun went behind a cloud as they walked back to the caseggiato, and this changed the light dramatically. The day seemed suddenly autumnal, yet the palm trees and brightly painted buildings were at odds with this, even for Mary, who—presumably—should have been used to it. But Mary felt bewildered at all she had seen on her daughter’s phone, all the life that was going on in Illinois without her. She said, “I was thinking of the Pretty Nicely Girls the other day. The Club, I guess I was remembering The Club and the dances there.”
“The Pretty Nicely Girls were sluts.” Angelina said this over her shoulder.
“No they were not. Angelina. Don’t be silly.”
“Mom.” Angelina stopped walking and turned to her mother. “They were sluts. At least the oldest two were. They totally slept with everyone.”
Mary stopped walking as well. She took her sunglasses off and looked at her daughter. “Are you serious?”
“Mom, I thought you knew that.”
“How in the world would I know that?”
“Mom, everyone knew it. And I told you at the time. My God.” Angelina added after a moment, “Patty wasn’t, though. I think she wasn’t.”
“Patty?”
“The youngest Nicely girl. She and I are friends now.” Angelina pushed her sunglasses up on her nose.
“Well, that’s nice,” Mary said. “That’s nicely. How long have you been friends?”
“Four years. She works with me.”
Four years, thought Mary. Four years, I have not seen my dearest little angel. Glancing at her daughter, Mary thought again that the girl’s jeans were too tight across her little bottom. She was a middle-aged woman, Angelina. Was Angelina having an affair? Mary shook her head slowly. “Well, I was thinking of them when they were little girls, t
he Pretty Nicely Girls. Your father and I went to the wedding of one of them. They had the reception at The Club.”
Angelina had started walking again. “Do you ever miss it?” She asked this over her shoulder. “The Club?”
“Oh, honey.” Mary felt winded. “No, I can’t say I miss The Club. It was never my thing, you know.”
“But you guys went there a lot.” A small gust of wind raised Angelina’s hair so that the ends rose above her shoulder, straight up.
“We did.” Mary followed her daughter up the street, and after a moment Angelina turned to wait for her. “That one wall they had, filled with Indian arrowheads under glass, I don’t know,” Mary said.
“I didn’t know you didn’t like it,” her daughter said. “Mom, my wedding reception was held there.”
“Honey, I said it wasn’t my thing, and it wasn’t. I wasn’t raised that way and I never got used to it, all the showing off of new dresses and the women so silly.” Oh dear, Mary thought. Uh-oh.
“Mom, don’t you remember Mrs. Nicely? You know, what happened to her?” Angelina, her eyes blocked by her sunglasses, looked at her mother.
“No. What happened to her?” Mary asked; trepidation came and nestled on her chest.
“Nothing. Come on, let’s go.”
“Hold on a minute,” Mary said. She stepped into a tiny shop and Angelina squeezed in behind her. The man behind the counter said, “Ah, buongiorno, buongiorno.” Mary answered in Italian, pointing to Angelina. The man placed a pack of cigarettes onto the tiny counter before him. Mary said, “Si, grazie,” and then something more that Angelina did not understand, and the man opened his mouth in a huge smile, showing teeth that were stained, some missing. He answered her mother quickly. Her mother turned, her huge yellow leather pocketbook bumping into Angelina. “Honey, he says you’re beautiful. Bellissima!” Her mother spoke to the man again, and they went back onto the street. “He says you look like me. Oh, I haven’t heard that in ages. People always used to say, She looks like her mother.”