When they brought me to kindergarten that first day—“they” as I said being Nurse and Mama—I took one look at the children, while the numerous heads, which I recollect as being absolutely enormous, swiveled in my direction; swiveled, I want to say, like cannons, though of course people’s heads, especially children’s heads, don’t look anything like cannons. I took one look and threw myself down flat on my back on the floor and screamed, and I did that every day until they gave up. They had formed the idea that I ought to associate with children my own age, supposing this to be good for me in some obscure way; they thought of it as socialization, I imagine, though of course they would not have used that word. They probably hoped kindergarten would improve my character, which was execrable. When I was at home I would lie on my stomach to scream, as I would still, I suppose, were I to lie down and scream today, unless I had been hit by a car, as I nearly was again this morning due to wearing earmuffs in the street, and knocked on my back, in which case I probably would not bother rolling onto my stomach—assuming I still could roll onto my stomach after being struck by a car—before starting to scream. I suspect that if I lay flat on my back to scream on the first day of kindergarten it was in order to see the effect I was having on the other children, though now I cannot recall what that was. At the time I had had so little experience with other children that I might have been incapable of even discerning what the effect was exactly, there being, after all, scarcely a whisker’s difference, as bare expressions go, between a laughing child and one that is jeering. The only children I saw in those days, before I went away to school in Connecticut, except for an occasional cousin and the ones I glimpsed fleetingly from the car window when Nurse took me out driving, were the small Irish and Italian boys who ventured up the hill to gawk at our house. Those children all had buzz cuts—because of lice, I was told—and their ears stuck out from their heads in a strikingly perpendicular manner. The iron spears of our fence were spaced in such a way that sometimes they got their heads stuck between them, due to the ears, and would stay that way, at times wailing loudly, at others just whimpering, until the gardener could dislodge them by pressing firmly on the top of their heads with a boot, after which they invariably ran off with their hands to their ears. I used to tell people that Papa had designed the fence in that way in order to trap children, but I don’t think that was strictly true. It is true, I think, that neither of my parents were fond of children. Send us a chapter, Grossman wrote back, and we’ll see. When I read that, I thought, What kind of life has chapters? Clarence sometimes spoke of opening a new chapter. Or maybe it was turning a new leaf.
I would like to go out, get out of this apartment, to the movies or the park. It has been a long time since I have been to the movies, several months, surely, because it was winter. The park is not a green place to stroll about in, as one might think from the fact that they even call it a park—a “pocket park” is how they call it exactly. It is a fenced-in mostly concrete triangle formed where two streets slant together, with a tree, four benches, and flowers in a narrow bed next to the fence on one side; pansies and daffodils now. The locust tree they planted in the fall has not begun to leaf yet. Perhaps it died in the course of the winter. They planted a maple in the same spot two years ago and it died. A honey locust grew by the back gate at my parent’s house. It was covered all over, even on the trunk, with long wicked thorns, while the tree in the park has no thorns at all. The shrike, called the butcherbird, impales its prey on a thorn. It catches insects, lizards, and smaller birds, eats what it can, and leaves the leftovers hanging on a thorn for later. We were looking up at the naked branches of a thorny locust when Clarence told me about the dining habits of the shrike. We were in Missouri. The sidewalk beneath our feet was covered by a thick carpet of tiny yellow leaflets. That was a long time ago. There are no such birds in this park, only sparrows and pigeons. If I go there today I will need to take an umbrella.
Pages and pages ago, when I talked about dragging the typewriter from the closet, I mentioned that the ribbon had dried out—mentioned it and then went on to talk about other things, as I tend to do, and failed to say what I did about it. Not many places still sell typewriter ribbons these days, I discovered; none of the stores in my part of town had a match for my machine, so on the advice of a clerk in one of them I took a bus, two buses in fact, across the river to a district I had never been to before, where there were a lot of low buildings I took to be warehouses, through a part of town entirely inhabited by black people, so that staring out through the rain-blurred windows I thought I was in another country, and then I walked several blocks in the still-drizzling rain to a store the man had said specializes in typewriters. I wondered if he had made a mistake, because when I finally reached the address, I found a little shop that, except for a nineteen-fiftyish looking poster in the display window of a young woman in a pleated skirt and pearl necklace seated at a typewriter, looked from the outside more like an old-fashioned corner grocery than anything else. Beneath the poster a large gray cat was asleep on what appeared to be a folded sweatshirt. I pushed through the door and then just stood there a moment waiting for the man sitting behind the counter to look up from his magazine—an elderly, rather pudgy man, swaddled in a thick sweater. He must have had a shirt on under the sweater with large knobby things in the pockets, as he seemed all lumps and bulges, or else had a terrible disease. When he finally raised his eyes I noticed how tired he looked. He did not have a match for my ribbon, he said after looking at it. The best he could do, he said, was sell me one for a different brand of machine but with the same width as mine, width being all that really matters. I had only to unwind the new ribbon from the spools it came on and rewind it on the spools from my machine, he said. It was not a store, actually, or not a store mainly—mainly it was a typewriter repair shop. A dozen or so machines that people had probably dropped off there to be fixed were lined up on metal shelves against the wall behind the counter, a manila tag at the end of a piece of twisted wire dangling from each. While the man was in back looking for a match for my ribbon, I leaned across the counter, craning, but most of the tags were too high or were facing the wrong way for me to make out the names. I was interested in the names because I don’t know anyone who still has a typewriter—has one, that is, in the sense of using it to type on, as opposed to having it lying around in a garage or basement, which I imagine a great many people still do—and I felt a kinship. I was able to read the names on only two of the tags. One was attached to a huge pale-green IBM electric of the sort that toward the end one saw just about everywhere—just about everywhere in offices, that is, not usually in people’s houses—not ever in people’s houses, in my experience. I was struck by just how huge it was. While I might be able to lift it off the ground just barely, I would not be able to carry it up a flight of stairs if I lived on an upper floor. I do live on an upper floor, and what I mean to say is, if I lived on an upper floor and I were the owner of such a huge typewriter I would never manage to get it up there, in which case I would want to swap it for something smaller, probably. That would not be terribly difficult, I imagine, IBM typewriters being among the very best, being considered among the very best, I should say, since I don’t want to suggest that I have had personal experience with them. I suppose I could always just hire somebody strong to carry it up the stairs, if it came to that, though of course it would mean doing the same thing again every time it needed repairs, though being an IBM Selectric that would not happen often, if ever, though on the other hand it obviously does happen occasionally or why was the typewriter here? It was, according to the tag, the property of someone named Henry Poole. When I say I have not had personal experience with this model typewriter, I mean I have not actually typed on one for some considerable length of time, long enough to find out how reliable they really are, but Brodt had one just like it at work that he used for typing up reports at the end of the day, and on a couple of occasions while he was patrolling the upper floors I walked over and
typed on his. I had assumed it would be a man’s name on the tag, given the magnitude of the machine, though obviously it could just as well have been the name of a strong woman or a woman with a strong, possibly male, friend, or even a friend of just average strength, now that I reflect on it, since they could carry it up the stairs together. Potts and I would be able to carry it up the stairs together, one on each side, as we did the fern, stopping now and then to catch our breath. The other tag I managed to read was attached to a truly ancient machine, a typewriter so obviously antique that I had to wonder if anyone still typed on it, though someone must have now and then, since they had left it to be repaired. The name Underwood was painted across the front in ornate gold script so chipped and worn that if you happened not to remember that this was the name of a once-famous manufacturer of typewriters you would never guess what it said. This machine was the property of someone with a long name that I have now forgotten. It was Poniatowski, I want to say, though that might just be another long name I happen to recall from somewhere. While I was looking at the typewriters and thinking the things I have just mentioned, though obviously not in those exact words, since I was not typing at the time but only thinking vaguely while trying to read the names on the tags, not trying to do that either after a minute or two, just halfheartedly gazing up at them, the man, as I mentioned, was in the back of the store rummaging for a match to my ribbon. I could hear him shifting things around back there. He was not a pleasant-seeming man, but I tried not to dislike him from the outset on account of the typewriters. He was small-eyed and cheeky and had a darting manner that reminded me of a small unpleasant animal, a hamster maybe. He was bald though, which is something one does not expect in a hamster, unless it is a sick one. But he did not look sick, he looked disappointed, which of course many people do, so that is not really a distinguishing trait. A police report, for example, would not bother mentioning it. If you are wanted by the police, how else would you look? Frightened, I suppose.
One would think that just the fact of coming into the store and asking for a typewriter ribbon, an item that scarcely anybody has the slightest use for nowadays, would by itself establish a rapport. I am sure that I for my part was emanating as much warmth as one possibly can emanate during a transaction of that type, even exclaiming “marvelous” several times while he was showing me how to attach the new ribbon to my old spools. I murmured it, actually. I am not an effusive person, just the opposite, and exclaiming “marvelous” exceeds my power. I was, however, because of the typewriters, prepared to become fond of this man, despite the unattractive rodent-like appearance, had he made the least effort in my direction—fond, that is, in the distant way one can become fond of people from whom one buys things on a regular basis. I used to look forward, for example, to buying milk and eggs at my little grocery, because of the large woman at the cash register, whom I have known for years, though I have never in fact said anything to her except sometimes “hello” and “thank you,” so perhaps known is not the word—when it comes to people obviously known is not ever the word. The woman’s name is Elvie, something I learned from hearing other people address her in that way, and she grew up on a dairy farm, I once overheard her tell a customer in front of me in the queue. I was expecting something else when I saw the poster in the window and stepped through the door and saw the typewriters with the old-fashioned manila tags dangling from them and the sign on the wall that said We Repair All Models; I was expecting to meet a typewriter person. I studied the man’s face while he wrote out my receipt, and I failed to detect even a hint of that. The impression I got was of a bitter, crestfallen man, who was, I had to assume, disappointed with his life. That was to be expected, of course, in someone who had devoted his existence to typewriters, a thing that was now vanishing right before his eyes despite all his efforts to stop it, no doubt taking his life savings with it, his sick wife, medical bills, and so forth, and I did my best to feel sympathetic. After all, I have devoted my own life to typewriters, if not in quite the same way. Still, I had not given up on the man. I asked for two ribbons. I said that I imagined those would last me about a year, and added, making an effort, “See you next year then.” I forced a smile. We were typewriter people, after all, how could he fail to see that? I produced, I fear, an ingratiating rictus. “Come here next year, Lady,” the man said, “and you’ll have to get your hair fixed.” He saw my bafflement. I think I reached up and touched my hair, which was straggly due to the wind, straggly and quite gray, with narrow streaks of darker hair still present for some reason. He explained, “It’s gonna be a beauty parlor.” I felt foolish and stuck my hand in my coat pocket. “You’re closing?” I asked. “Closing,” he said emphatically. He sounded angry. “Not much demand, I guess.” I was still trying. “Horse and buggy.” “I beg your pardon?” “Typewriters,” he said, “they’re like the horse and buggy.” I wondered if he had noticed how dirty the windows of his shop had become, though it was only at this point, after I had failed completely in my feeble attempts to like him, that I myself noticed how filthy the whole place was. Even the typewriters on the shelves were coated with dust, as if the people who had left them there were never coming back. I nearly wrote, “Even the typewriters on the shelves were suddenly coated with dust,” as better capturing the feeling of that moment, the way things had changed abruptly between us, but I feared being misunderstood if I said that. One sees a thing while one is feeling a certain way, and then later, when one has a different feeling, it can look quite otherwise. It can change right in front of your eyes, like something in a magic show. On my down days, when I absolutely have to get out of the apartment, and finally do get out of it, I feel that I am stepping out onto a different planet from the planet of my good days; even the leaves on the trees are of another color. On the bad days I don’t say “hello” or “thank you” to the lady in the market, and I cannot look at her either, she seems so hateful. The point I am trying to make is that I really did notice that the typewriters had suddenly become coated with dust. I asked for two more ribbons. I don’t know on what basis I had decided that four were going to be enough. At the time I could not even have said what they would be enough for. I forced all four boxes into my handbag and burst the catch. It had stopped raining, but the wind was cold and blowing straight in my face on the way back to the bus stop. I walked with the handbag clasped in front of my chest. I felt weary, having gone to several stores and ridden two buses already, and I took a taxi home, though I cannot afford to take taxis anymore. In Paris we took taxis everywhere and never thought twice about it. The taxis in those days were mostly old black Citroëns with the passenger door opening forward, making them easy to hop in and out of. If I had to describe my life in Paris in a single phrase it would be “hopping in and out of taxis.” That makes it sound as if I led a glamorous life there, when in fact we stayed in Paris for less than a month and I was frantic the whole time.
I was at the kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle. It was just after nine and the city was still loud outside, but it was quieter in the kitchen, away from the street. I had on my gold-rimmed glasses, the ones with narrow rectangular lenses that I used to think of as my reading glasses and that now, since I have stopped reading, I think of as my crossword glasses. I was bent over the puzzle, from time to time tapping my pencil nervously against the edge of the table, I imagine, that being a habit of mine when working crosswords—an annoying habit of mine Clarence liked to say, if he was trying to write and I would tap—when the door buzzer sounded, causing me to jump. I thought, Surely it is Giamatti this time, and I pictured him at the top of my stairs, overweight and rubicund and breathless, but it was Potts again, dressed in shiny black pajamas, barefoot, and looking on the brink of tears. Penned in the rectangle of light falling from my open doorway, she stood with her arms outstretched, palms up—in supplication, I am sure she intended—she is quite devoutly Catholic—though she looked to me like someone waiting to catch a large beach ball. “Edna,” she said, “Edna, d
ear. I have to ask a huge favor. I feel awful about it. You know how awful I feel, and I would never ever bother you if there was anybody else at all.” I took off my glasses and she came into focus, looking up at me with liquid basset eyes, hoping against hope for the miraculous descent of a candy-red beach ball. She opened her mouth and closed it. “Favor? I echoed. I might have arched my brows. I don’t know. I have a tendency to do that, especially the right brow, but am not always aware that I am doing it. “I cannot imagine a more irritating gesture,” Clarence said once in reference to my eyebrows. I would not call it a gesture, though. The word, I think, is supercilious. Potts noticed and blinked. “He’s not coming for Nigel,” she whimpered. “He said he would, but now he’s not.” She dragged the not out, flattened it to a thin low wail, then suddenly lurched forward and grabbed my hand in both of hers: “Help me, Edna.” I was startled and took a step back, jerking my hand from hers. “It’s O.K.,” I said. I was surprised at how dry and sharp my voice sounded, how supercilious, and I made an effort, softening: “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll think of something.” I dislike scenes, and I could feel the irritation rising, a burning pressure in my chest. Irritation and embarrassment. I felt constricted and ill at ease. She sat in my typing chair, but barely glanced at the typewriter or at the pages on the table and on the floor, some of them. Her pajamas had silver moons on the cuffs. She had painted her toenails pink. I sat in the armchair, head bowed, hands pressed between my knees, and made an effort to listen. It was about forgiveness and betrayal, friendship and debt, and the politics of rat and mouse clubs; the ramifications were myriad and confusing, but the gist was clear: she had no one to take care of her rat. I got up from the chair and paced. She followed me with her eyes, still talking. I crossed the room to the window. I looked down at the street. I watched the cars. I was straining to listen. I made several small noises, expressing agreement, commiseration, interest, whatever she wanted. After a while, though, I could not anymore, and I drifted off, letting the muffs fall over my ears, metaphorically speaking. The voice at my back flattened, droned, became a radio left on, someone on a telephone in another room, becoming none of my business. I turned abruptly: Potts looked up, startled, and stopped talking. I went over next to where she was seated. I towered over her. I told her I was sorry. I told her I was tired and had to go to bed. She told me she was flying out in the morning, it was her grandson’s birthday, her ticket was nonrefundable. I tossed her the ball, and we carried the rat tank up, one at each end. It was not as heavy as the fern, but we had to tilt it going up the stairs, and the rat slid backwards out of its tube. The shavings slid into a heap and buried it. It struggled to get free, kicking off the shavings, which tumbled back over it. It scrambled frantically, climbing up and slipping back down on the glass floor of the tank. Obviously Potts, being shorter, ought to have gone in front. We set the tank down on the floor next to the fern, and the rat scuttled into its tube. Potts lifted the wire lid and smoothed the shavings with her hand, then returned to her place and came back with a pail of food pellets and a garbage bag full of more shavings. She tried to force money on me. I declined, and she left, trailing thanks. I carried the bag and the pail into the kitchen. The rat has emerged from the tube and is standing on its hind legs, forepaws up against the glass, watching me. It is a white-and-black spotted rat. There have been several rats during the decade Potts has lived below me, of various patterns and hues, none of them bright or gay, all in my view faintly repulsive, especially their feet, which are invariably pink and bear an unsettling resemblance to tiny human hands, the hands of tiny humans. They have regularly died after a couple of years, producing copious tears, and a few days later a new rat.