She actually had some appetite for supper. Suzanne brought home Chinese takeout. Beverly remembered how she used to eat proficiently with chopsticks. Back in ’68, she had a Chinese boyfriend, a Maoist and nutty, but she liked him anyhow. He had beautiful eyes, great bones, and an erection that never died. She sighed, remembering. He had married a Chinese woman who managed a television repair shop. For months, he continued to visit Beverly, but she wasn’t comfortable with that. Soon he had a baby boy and they moved to Atlanta, where his wife’s family sent him to graduate school.
Now she had to eat with a special fork that could be managed easily. She got so weary sometimes of all the things she could no longer handle, ordinary silverware and cups, ordinary clothes she could no longer fasten. Ordinary stairs. Ordinary public transportation she had used all her life.
But tonight she would not dwell on that. “Letter…Rachel?”
She had seen it in the hall when Sylvia was helping her go for her walk. When they had finished supper, Suzanne read it to her. It was full of tourist stuff, this road, that shuk, going to Sarah’s Tomb. She and Michael were living in a dormitory near Hebrew University. “We each have a roommate. Mine is from Cincinnati. She is two years older than I am and much prettier, with blond hair halfway down her back. Michael is rooming with a Brit from Coventry. Every day we walk and walk and walk. When we don’t walk, we take buses. We are memorizing all the bus routes. You have to know before you get on, because it’s push and shove and chaos. I always expect the walls to buckle.” Beverly wanted to know what Rachel thought about Israel politically, if she had met any Palestinians yet, how she was getting on with her boyfriend: the real stuff. “Yesterday we visited the Old City again. When we went out the Damascus Gate where there’s a row of some kind of palms (I can’t tell the different kinds yet) that look like upright feather dusters, we saw this fountain, nothing fancy, and in the basin, already kids were splashing around. It made me feel like joining them, but we’re on our best behavior—although nobody else is! I’ll have E-mail by the time you get this. Here’s my address.”
Suzanne gave her Rachel’s E-mail address. Now she could ask her all the questions she wanted to. Beverly felt as if she went around grinning now, maybe crookedly, but with honest joy.
A couple of nights a week when Suzanne was actually home all evening, after supper, Suzanne would clear and load the dishwasher while Beverly lay down to nap. Then Beverly would wake in an hour or so, and they would go together to her computer. Suzanne logged her into the New York Times on-line. Then AP. Then ABC news. Then the Washington Post. Beverly’s heart was beating hard. She would keep up with news after all. There must be liberal and radical sites. She would find them. Now every morning and noon and night she would dip into some news site and pick up the breaking news. She also discovered there was a huge amount of stroke information on-line. A couple of days later, she stumbled onto a listserv of old radicals, and Suzanne showed her how to subscribe. Now every day she got messages from people all around the country who were politically savvy and experienced. She could get into wonderful arguments and discussions. There was also a stroke support group she joined, although it was sometimes depressing.
She wished she did not tire so quickly. But on-line communication was easy compared to writing a real letter. The phone was her bugaboo. She hated the rare times when she had to answer. She had been hung up on numerous times, because she could not force out a reply quickly enough. But with E-mail, she could take her time reading and comprehending what people wrote and composing and laboriously typing an answer with one hand. Nobody got impatient except her server, who dumped her occasionally, and then she had to reconnect.
She began doing her hand and arm exercises with the same fervent concentration she brought to her speech exercises. Her clumsy left hand was her link to the world. However dimly, she was reconnected. Her old friend Lucy wrote back. Almost every day they E-mailed short or longer notes about their lives. Lucy had broken her hip when she was knocked down by a Rollerblader and had trouble getting around. She had undergone a hip replacement, but it was painful, and she would never walk easily again. Then she heard from her friend Rose, who had written five books on labor history. Lucy had given Rose Beverly’s E-mail address. Now she had two friends as well as her correspondence with all the politicians she felt like advising, berating, occasionally praising, and all the old lefties on the listserv with their monikers. Hers was West Side Rosa, for she had always identified with Rosa Luxemburg, and the West Side was her spiritual home.
She was sorry when her eyes got tired or when her back hurt too much for her to continue. She would have loved to get on-line when she woke up and to stay connected all day. It was exciting. It felt right. She was no longer alone in this pale green room when Sylvia went home but was still vitally in the world. She kept finding new subjects to explore: UFOs, archaeology, specific writers.
Her hand and her eyes betrayed her, particularly her hand. She had to stop after around an hour, although she had got much better at making full use of that hour of connection. She lay resting then, sometimes dozing, sometimes just listening to the house around her. She had identified the steps and voices of Elena and Jim. Two or three times a week, Elena sneaked upstairs or they came back from work together. They were going to bed, of course. She smiled slightly. Elena was still her favorite. Beverly liked Jim. He was an attractive man, and Marta didn’t pay enough attention to him. Besides, they had only one kid, in college. Lots of men went off on their own then, found someone new. It was human nature. Often enough in her life, what they had found had been her. She could not judge Elena.
Elena knew she knew. Elena came in and sat down one afternoon. “I love him,” she said without preamble. “I can’t help it.”
Beverly nodded. She understood.
“I knew you’d see it my way,” Elena said. “Now I have to go back to work. It’s a pretty easy job. I’ll look in on you tonight.”
From then on, Elena took some time each day to sit with her. Beverly had felt bad that Elena did not want to be with her. Now she understood. It wasn’t because of her stroke or her distorted face, no, it was just that Elena was having an affair and had to cover it up. Now that Elena knew that Beverly was not going to make a fuss or be judgmental, they were close again. Beverly thought, I am slowly, slowly coming back to life. It isn’t the life I had, but it’s a great improvement on last month and infinitely superior to the month before that.
Besides, Beverly rather enjoyed knowing something that Suzanne didn’t. Suzanne was worrying about something, Beverly could feel it, probably a case. Suzanne might know a lot about the law, but she was no observer of people. Beverly smiled inwardly. She had Elena’s confidence, and Suzanne didn’t.
24
Elena
Monday morning, Elena lay in bed in the room she finally had to herself again, listening to the sounds from upstairs. That was his tread crossing. Then Marta slogged across the floor. It should be herself up there, not that woman who did not adore him, who did not even know him any longer. Elena had intended to move out and had gone as far as answering ads, before changing her mind. It was too convenient to be living in the same house. She could keep an eye on Marta’s van and know when she had left. It made arrangements pitifully simple.
She would move when he moved with her, not before. They would leave together. Neither of them belonged here. Nobody really loved her except him, and of course Beverly. The first time Elena had seen her after her stroke, she had to turn away from what looked like the Halloween mask of a witch. Now Beverly just looked a little lopsided, like a candle that had begun to soften before it ran down in wax. Beverly could talk, if a person had patience. Elena had patience, unlike her mother, who was really being a bitch, half the time finishing Beverly’s sentences for her. Elena didn’t feel she was so damned important she couldn’t wait for Beverly to say what she wanted to. Grandma was on her side. She had had plenty of affairs, and sometimes told her stories about men
she had known over the years. That was more interesting than when she got into talking about old strikes and bygone demonstrations. It took Beverly about three times longer than normal to tell a story, but often it was a pretty good story when she spat it out. Elena truly enjoyed hearing Beverly’s adventures. Too bad those guys were dead and gone or doddering, because some of them sounded cool. Beverly had been way ahead of her time, having a baby by herself without bothering to get married or lie about it; she just wasn’t into marriage and never bothered to marry anybody.
Finally she heard Marta leaving at eight. Now Elena waited for Suzanne to clear out. She was teaching, and then she would be off to Framingham to talk to the woman who’d fooled around with the kids. At eight-thirty, Sylvia came up the walk and Suzanne met her at the door for last-minute instructions. Then she was gone.
Elena gave herself another ten minutes, in case Suzanne had forgotten something—although Suzanne never forgot anything unless her hard disk crashed. Her mother kept all her little memos about the world on her computer, so she never forgot a birthday or an anniversary or a holiday. Elena surreptitiously checked her mother’s schedule on her computer regularly, so she wouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes having a mother who was so well organized had its advantages. There wasn’t a spontaneous moment in Suzanne’s day.
Then Elena put on her bathrobe and passed quietly through the kitchen. Sylvia was helping Beverly shower. Elena ran up the stairway to the second floor. He had left the kitchen door unlocked and was waiting in the kitchen. She let her robe fall. He pulled her into his arms wordlessly, caressing her through the thin cotton of the brief gown. Then he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. She fell with a gasp on top of the bedspread and he threw himself on top of her. They were both excited and barely kissed before he thrust into her. He was driving hard. It almost hurt. She liked it. Nothing existed but his weight on her, his hard slender body under her hands, his prick inside her banging and knocking on her womb. She could not stand it. She could not stand for it to end. She could not stand for it to continue. It was too much, too much. When she came, it was as if she’d broken open and molten blood spilled out.
He cried out, almost a scream, when he came. After they had recovered, they lay and talked. She knew much more about him now, about how his father had died of a heart attack when he was way too young, about how his mother had married again to a man he couldn’t stand, and moved to Tucson. She knew he was exactly forty-four—two years younger than Marta. Of course he was younger. She should have known that.
She hated weekends now. Suzanne and Marta had been around all day Saturday and Sunday. At least some Saturdays, the two women went shooting at a range, keeping them out of the house for a couple of hours. When Marta went out Saturday night, Jim had to go with her, to some judge’s house. They were starved for each other. She had to figure out some way they could meet on weekends. Maybe in the car in the garage? Nothing sounded feasible. She told him he should start having Saturday morning office hours. They had sex at the office sometimes, but it wasn’t comfortable. The damned bowling alley made rumbling noises and booms, and they could hear people talking and the drill going in the dentist’s office next door. She wondered why anyone would go to such a cheap dingy place. It was a low-rent building with paper-thin walls and an odd smell to it, half musty, half chemical. He deserved a better office. She was sure that potential patients took one look, caught the odor, and fled.
“I know it,” he said, “but it’s all I can afford. If Marta would only stake me to a better rental, I know I could get more patients.”
They showered together and then had a leisurely breakfast. “I don’t feel like you’re older than me,” she was saying over her coffee. “I know you are, but it just doesn’t feel that way.”
“I don’t belong to my wife’s generation. I don’t have those baby boomer goals,” he said, eating cereal with sliced peaches. “I think feminists like my wife are actually a couple of generations behind. They’re acting like men did in the fifties. They believe in the corporate dream. They believe in the gray flannel suit. They think happiness lies in achievement.”
“I’m not interested in success,” she said. “I don’t want to be a success, I don’t need to be with a success.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” He laughed shortly, his mouth twisting. He had such a mobile mouth, long, full, and dangerous. When she stared at his lips, she felt herself growing wet again. She could look at his mouth and feel it on her. He was saying, “She’s defending a murderer now, this guy who shot his parents. It’s very Oedipal. No wonder she’s become hard through and through. She’s turning into a suit of armor with no one inside.”
“You think my mother’s that way?”
“I think they’re both so success oriented, they have no inner life. No spiritual values. No sense of their energy or their larger direction. But teaching is different from being a full-time litigator. Suzanne isn’t on the battlefield so much, but she’s used to a level of adoration from her students no man can ever give her.”
“What do you think of her boyfriend?”
“Same type. Ram it through. Get it done. Move on. Search and destroy.”
“They never just sit like this talking.”
“We’re wasting time. That’s what they’d say. I’d say we’re spending it—spending it very well. Actually I don’t like to think of time as something I waste or spend. I think of it as something I experience.”
He took off her nightgown again as they sat on the couch in his study. He put his prick into her but they didn’t fuck. They just sat there joined. He sucked her nipples. “This feels so real,” she said. “I haven’t been this alive since…you know.”
“Say it.”
“I haven’t been so alive since Chad and Evan died.”
“Did they ever fuck you at the same time?”
“No. One did or the other. But once Evan was fucking Chad while he was fucking me. It was awkward. They were way heavy. I didn’t like it.” She had felt smothered, squashed. It was not a good memory and she shook her head.
“Marta has a gun. I’m not a violent man, Elena. I’ve found the gentleness in myself.”
“I hate guns.” She shuddered.
“Poor baby. My baby.” Reaching down, he began to play with her clit.
“I never really understood how my mother justifies shooting for pleasure. It seems like something she’d object to in somebody else.”
“Marta represents battered women and sometimes she gets threatened. But it’s part of her macho image. She says shooting’s her sport.” He was rubbing her harder now. The energy was gathering in her, upwelling. It felt so strong, him inside her and his hand pushing against her hard. She came with a little shriek. He liked her to make noise. He said it was liberating. This time he had her get on her knees on the floor and he entered from behind.
They dressed for work around ten-thirty, since his first client of the day was due at eleven. She drove in first and he arrived five minutes later. At twelve they had lunch down the block in a place that had light California-type food, big gorgeous salads and sandwiches with avocado and lots of sprouts. “You should go back to school and train as a therapist. It wouldn’t take you long. You have a lot of psych credits.”
“I have a lot of everything credits. Why get another degree?”
“So we can practice together,” he said patiently. “It would be better for both of us. You’d be good at it, I know you would.”
She liked the idea of them both being therapists. It felt like a good way to live. To be together at home and together in the office. They could get off a quick one in between clients. Last Thursday, they’d had sex on his couch. It sagged and hurt her back. When they were both therapists, they’d have a nice big clean office, tastefully furnished with a new couch. “Maybe in the fall. I could go back to school part-time and still work for you.” She didn’t want another woman in her place in the office.
“Unless we th
row it all up and run off together…” He grinned.
She wished he would not treat it as a joke. Making a change would be difficult for him, but it was what he needed. He was suffocating in his life, he had said that, and she absolutely agreed. She began to think about California again. Once, years ago with Chad and Evan, she had set out for California. Now she was in love again, once again joined utterly with someone she cared for passionately, someone with whom she formed an intense private world of two. Maybe this time they would really go. In a sense, she was still stuck way back there in the middle of the Nevada desert at dawn, where half of her body and soul had been gunned down to lie bleeding in the gray light. Now perhaps after all these years, she could leave that broken body on the ground and move on toward the West and finally cross the last wall of mountains.
“I want to be with you,” she said, putting her hands on either side of his face and looking into his pale pale eyes. “I want to be with you today and tomorrow and next week and next year.”
“You’re my girl,” he said. “We belong together. We work.”
Nobody else had ever cared so much about her feelings, ever. She could explain how she felt about things, and he’d actually listen and try to help her sort it out, instead of telling her she didn’t really feel that way, or shouldn’t.
When she came home on Wednesday, Suzanne was waiting for her. Now what? Suzanne got right to the point. She crossed her arms and stood, somehow impressive in spite of the fact that she was five inches shorter than Elena. “Are you having an affair with Jim?”
“No, I’m working for him. What are you talking about?”
“I had to come back during the day. You two were upstairs.”
“Is this your best courtroom cross-examination manner?”
“I take it not answering my question is a yes.”
Elena shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re driving at. We came back here to have lunch and to look at some files of his. He wants me to go back to school to become a therapist. He thinks I’d be good at it. I don’t know. What do you think?” Distract her. Usually the idea of Elena going back to school could excite her mother for up to a week.