The New Yorker Stories Part 49

"Several days days of thought," she said. "I decided that it would be a good idea, because we're very compatible." of thought," she said. "I decided that it would be a good idea, because we're very compatible."

"Mom," I said, "you're joking, right?"

"You'll like him when you get to know him," she said.

"Wait a minute," I said. "This is someone you hardly know-or am I being naive?"

"Oh, Ann, at my age you don't necessarily want to know someone extremely well. You want to be compatible, but you can't let yourself get all involved in the dramas that have already played out-all those accounts of everyone's youth. You just want to be-you want to come to the point where you're compatible."

I was sitting in my father's chair. The doilies on the armrests that slid around and drove him crazy were gone. I looked at the darker fabric, where they had been. Give me a sign, Dad, I was thinking, looking at the s.h.i.+ny fabric as if it were a crystal ball. I was clutching my gla.s.s, which was sweating. "Mom-you can't be serious," I said.

She winked.

"Mom-"

"I'm going to live in his house, which is on the street perpendicular to Palm Avenue. You know, one of the big houses they built at first, before the zoning people got after them and they put up these little cookie-cutter numbers."

"You're moving in with him?" I said, incredulous. "But you've got to keep this house. You are keeping it, aren't you? If it doesn't work out."

"Your father thought he was a fine man," she said. "They used to be in a Wednesday-night poker game, I guess you know. If your father had lived, Drake was going to teach him how to e-mail."

"With a, with-you don't have a computer," I said stupidly.

"Oh, Ann, I wonder about you sometimes. As if your father and I couldn't have driven to Circuit City, bought a computer-and he could have e-mailed you! He was excited about it."

"Well, I don't-" I seemed unable to finish any thought. I started again. "This could be a big mistake," I said. "He only lives one block away. Is it really necessary to move in with him?"

"Was it necessary for you to live with Richard Klingham in Vermont?"

I had no idea what to say. I had been staring at her. I dropped my eyes a bit and saw the blue eyes of the lion. I dropped them to the floor. New rug. When had she bought a new rug? Before or after she made her plans?

"When did he ask you about this?" I said.

"About a week ago," she said.

"He did this by mail? He just wrote you a note?"

"If we'd had a computer, he could have e-mailed!" she said.

"Mom, are you being entirely serious about this?" I said. "What, exactly-"

"What, exactly exactly, what one single thing one single thing, what absolutely absolutely compelling reason did you have for living with Richard Klingham?" compelling reason did you have for living with Richard Klingham?"

"Why do you keep saying his last name?" I said.

"Most of the old ladies I know, their daughters would be delighted if their mothers remembered a boyfriend's first name, let alone a last name," she said. "Senile old biddies. Really. I get sick of them myself. I see why it drives the children crazy. But I don't want to get off on that. I want to tell you that we're going to live in his house for a while, but are thinking seriously of moving to Tucson. He's very close to his son, who's a builder there. They speak every single day every single day on the phone, on the phone, and and they e-mail," she said. She was never reproachful; I decided that she was just being emphatic. they e-mail," she said. She was never reproachful; I decided that she was just being emphatic.

Just a short time before, I had relaxed, counting trois, deux, un trois, deux, un. Singing with Mick Jagger. Inching slowly toward my mother's house.

"But this shouldn't intrude on a day meant to respect the memory of your father," she said, almost whispering. "I want you to know, though, and I really mean it: I feel that your father would be pleased that I'm compatible with Drake. I feel it deep in my heart." She thumped the lion's face. "He would give this his blessing, if he could," she said.

"Is he around?" I said.

"Listen to you, disrespecting the memory of your father by joking about his not being among us!" she said. "That is in the poorest taste, Ann."

I said, "I meant Drake."

"Oh," she said. "I see. Yes. Yes, he is. But right now he's at a matinee. We thought that you and I should talk about this privately."

"I a.s.sume he'll be joining us for dinner tonight?"

"Actually, he's meeting some old friends in Sarasota. A dinner that was set up before he knew you were coming. You know, it's a wonderful testament to a person when they retain old friends. Drake has an active social life with old friends."

"Well, it's just perfect for him, then. He can have his social life, and you and he can be compatible."

"You've got a sarcastic streak-you always had it," my mother said. "You might ask yourself why you've had fallings-out with so many friends."

"So this is an occasion to criticize me? I understand, by the way, that you were also criticizing me when you implied that you didn't understand my relations.h.i.+p with Richard-or perhaps the reason I ended it? The reason I ended it was because he and an eighteen-year-old student of his became Scientologists and asked me if I wanted to come in the van with them to Santa Monica. He dropped his cat off at the animal shelter before they set out, so I guess I wasn't the only one to get shafted."

"Oh!" she said. "I didn't know!"

"You didn't know because I never told you."

"Oh, was it horrible horrible for you? Did you have any for you? Did you have any idea idea?"

She was right, of course: I had left too many friends behind. I told myself it was because I traveled so much, because my life was so chaotic. But, really, maybe I should have sent a few more cards myself. Also, maybe I should have picked up on Richard's philandering. Everybody else in town knew.

"I thought we could have some Paul Newman's and then maybe when we had dessert we could light those little devotional lights and have a moment's silence, remembering your father."

"Fine," I said.

"We'll need to go to the drugstore to get candles," she said. "They burned out the night Drake and I had champagne and toasted our future." She stood. She put on her hat. "I can drive," she said.

I straggled behind her like a little kid in a cartoon. I could imagine myself kicking dirt. Some man she hardly knew. It was the last thing I'd expected. "So give me the scenario," I said. "He wrote you a note and you wrote back, and then he came for champagne?"

"Oh, all right, so it hasn't been a great romance," my mother said. "But a person gets tired of all the highs and lows. You get to the point where you need things to be a little easier. In fact, I didn't write him a note. I thought about it for three days, then I just knocked on his door."

The candles were cinnamon-scented and made my throat feel constricted. She lit them at the beginning of the meal, and by the end she seemed to have forgotten about talking about my father. She mentioned a book she'd been reading about Arizona. She offered to show me some pictures, but they, too, were forgotten. We watched a movie on TV about a dying ballerina. As she died, she imagined herself doing a pas de deux with an obviously gay actor. We ate M&M's, which my mother has always maintained are not really candy, and went to bed early. I slept on the foldout sofa. She made me wear one of her nightgowns, saying that Drake might knock on the door in the morning. I traveled light: toothbrush, but nothing to sleep in. Drake did not knock the next morning, but he did put a note under the door saying that he had car problems and would be at the repair shop. My mother seemed very sad. "Maybe you'd want to write him a teeny little note before you go?" she said.

"What could I possibly say?"

"Well, you think up dialogue for characters, don't you? What would you imagine yourself saying?" She put her hands to her lips. "Never mind," she said. "If you do write, I'd appreciate it if you'd at least give me a sense of what you said."

"Mom," I said, "please give him my best wishes. I don't want to write him a note."

She said, "He's , if you want to e-mail."

I nodded. Best just to nod. I thought that I might have reached the point she'd talked about, where you have an overwhelming desire for things to be simple.

We hugged, and I kissed her well-moisturized cheek. She came out to the front lawn to wave as I pulled away.

On the way back to the airport, there was a sudden, brief shower that forced me to the shoulder of the road, during which time I thought that there were obvious advantages in having a priest to call on. I felt that my mother needed someone halfway between a lawyer and a psychiatrist, and that a priest would be perfect. I conjured up a poker-faced Robert De Niro in clerical garb as Cyndi Lauper sang about girls who just wanted to have fun.

But I wasn't getting away as fast as I hoped. Back at the car-rental lot, my credit card was declined. "It might be my handheld," the young man said to me, to cover either my embarra.s.sment or his. "Do you have another card, or would you please try inside?"

I didn't know why there was trouble with the card. It was AmEx, which I always pay immediately, not wanting to forfeit Members.h.i.+p Rewards points by paying late. I was slightly worried. Only one woman was in front of me in line, and after two people behind the counter got out of their huddle, both turned to me. I chose the young man.

"There was some problem processing my credit card outside," I said.

The man took the card and swiped it. "No problem now," he said. "It is my pleasure to inform you that today we can offer you an upgrade to a Ford Mustang for only an additional seven dollars a day."

"I'm returning a car," I said. "The machine outside wouldn't process my card."

"Thank you for bringing that to my attention," the young man said. He was wearing a badge that said "Trainee" above his name. His name, written smaller, was Jim Brown. He had a kind face and a bad haircut. "Your charges stay on American Express, then?"

An older man walked over to him. "What's up?" he said.

"The lady's card was declined, but I ran it through and it was fine," he said.

The older man looked at me. It was cooler inside, but still, I felt as if I were melting. "She's returning, not renting?" the man said, as if I weren't there.

"Yes, sir," Jim Brown said.

This was getting tedious. I reached for the receipt.

"What was that about the Mustang?" the man said.

"I mistakenly thought-"

"I mentioned to him how much I like Mustangs," I said.

Jim Brown frowned.

"In fact, how tempted I am to rent one right now."

Both the older man and Jim Brown looked at me suspiciously.

"Ma'am, you're returning your Mazda, right?" Jim Brown said, examining the receipt.

"I am, but now I think I'd like to rent a Mustang."

"Write up a Mustang, nine dollars extra," the older man said.

"I quoted her seven," Jim Brown said.

"Let me see." The man punched a few keys on the keyboard. "Seven," he said, and walked away.

Jim Brown and I both watched him go. Jim Brown leaned a little forward, and said in a low voice, "Were you trying to help me out?"

"No, not at all. Just thought having a Mustang for a day might be fun. Maybe a convertible."

"The special only applies to the regular Mustang," he said.

"It's only money," I said.

He hit a key, looked at the monitor.

"One day, returning tomorrow?" he said.

"Right," I said. "Do I have a choice about the color?"

He had a crooked front tooth. That and the bad haircut were distracting. He had lovely eyes, and his hair was a nice color, like a fawn's, but the tooth and the jagged bangs got your attention instead of his attributes.

"There's a red and two white," he said. "You don't have a job you've got to get back to?"

I said, "I'll take the red."

He looked at me.

"I'm freelance," I said.

He smiled. "Impulsive, too," he said.

I nodded. "The perks of being self-employed."

"At what?" he said. "Not that it's any of my business."

"Jim, any help needed?" the older man said, coming up behind him.

In response, Jim looked down and began to hit keys. It increased his school-boyish quality: he bit his bottom lip, concentrating. The printer began to print out.

"I used to get in trouble for being impulsive," he said. "Then I got diagnosed with ADD. My grandmother said, 'See, I told you he couldn't help it.' That was what she kept saying to my mom: 'Couldn't help it.' " He nodded vigorously. His bangs flopped on his forehead. Outside, they would have stuck to his skin, but inside it was air-conditioned.

His mentioning ADD reminded me of the ALS patient-the man I'd never met. I had a clearer image of a big-footed, bulbous-nosed clown. If I breathed deeply, I could still detect the taste of cinnamon in my throat. I declined every option of coverage, initialing beside every X X. He looked at my scribbled initials. "What kind of writing?" he said. "Mysteries?"

"No. Stuff that really happens."

"Don't people get mad?" he said.

The older man was looming over the woman at the far end of the counter. They were trying not to be too obvious about watching us. Their heads were close together as they whispered.

"People don't recognize themselves. And, in case they might, you just program the computer to replace one name with another. So, in the final version, every time the word Mom Mom comes up it's replaced with comes up it's replaced with Aunt Begonia Aunt Begonia or something." or something."

He creased the papers, putting them in a folder. "A-eight," he said. "Out the door, right, all the way down against the fence."

"Thanks," I said. "And thanks for the good suggestion."

"No problem," he said. He seemed to be waiting for something. At the exit, I looked over my shoulder; sure enough, he was looking at me. So was the older man, and so was the woman he'd been talking to. I ignored them. "You wouldn't program your computer to replace Mustang convertible Mustang convertible with one of those creepy Geo Metros, would you?" with one of those creepy Geo Metros, would you?"