The country of the dead. Many people, these days, have never gone to those gates. People are old before they learn to deal with death. Not that Hugh has learned.
Conrad’s in the hall, his hand on Mimi’s door. He turns to Hugh with serious eyes. “Any time,” he says. “Could be tonight, tomorrow. Early next week.”
Hugh nods. He nods and nods.
“I’m sorry,” Conrad says. He is good at saying that. Empathy without sympathy. We have work to do, you and I, he means.
“I am too,” Hugh says.
Conrad looks at his eyes, and asks, “How’s that head? Taking care of it? No intellectual effort, right?”
Hugh laughs, almost. “None.”
“Pain?”
Oh, pain. What is pain? “None to speak of,” Hugh says, and goes into the room.
Mimi is still. Then not quite still. A twitching in her hand. He takes her hand. The pain is easier now, is it? She’s so far gone. Her skin loose, her bones revealed, her shadow shrunken. Not his mother now but a dying woman, a mystery, almost separated from us on earth.
Ruth is there on the far side of the bed, pink-eyed with weeping. Her old twisted hand holds Mimi’s knee. The sheets are yellow today, pale lemon curd, pale yolk. How can he go back to dinner, that foolish feast? He smiles at Ruth although he hates her for being here. She lifts her lids, gives him back a watery smile, and tilts her head slightly in warning.
A sound, a sigh. He cricks his neck, turning. What’s Ann doing here? Sitting on the sill, notebook in hand, making tickmarks on a list: at least she’s not writing on the wall.
He should apologize. “Sorry I couldn’t talk to Jason about the magazines.”
“Stewart says they’re actually worth a mint, vintage issues.”
“Truly, you don’t need to worry about Jason.”
Her face is calm, close as she ever gets to happy. “I know. L stayed over last night. They’re an item, they posted it on Facebook!”
Okay, with her there the room is too full. He’ll come back later. After dinner, he’ll come.
As he goes past Ann she puts out a long hand to hold him back. “Hugh, stay … I was the same, I couldn’t take watching her suffer—but she was so important to me, you know, to my work. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you leave, if you miss her passing.”
The sentimentality of that passing revolts him. Her cool, predatory uninvolvement. Her manufactured connection, now that stuff will be up for grabs. Mimi is not hers.
No point in hating her. He tells himself that, and some calm descends.
He turns away and talks to Ruth, only. “You want to stay, okay. I’m going home to look after my friends, to celebrate Della and Ken’s long solid-sterling marriage and their recent reconciliation.”
Ruth is crying again, tears all over her face, giant bug eyes staring up, wanting him to fix the ordinary physics of the world.
“I wish you’d come for dinner,” Hugh says to her, and to Ann too. “You’re not doing any good here.”
Conrad’s still standing outside Mimi’s room, writing on a chart held against the wall. “Hugh,” he begins, turning his head.
Hugh walks on.
Go be with the living, who you might be able to help. Probably not, because everybody he knows is screwed up. It’s insufferable. Hugh lopes along the sidewalk, too fast for the state of his skull. In his head he makes a list of what everybody needs:
Nothing can help what ails Burton.
Okay, nobody needs a trompe l’oeil anniversary dinner. Clearly. But that’s what they’re all going to get.
Then a nice thing occurs to him: Ivy is not on his list. That’s because all she needs is you, is Hugh. And she’s got you already.
Up the back porch steps, in, up the stairs: everyone’s eyes turn as he rises above the rail. There’s Ivy. He kisses her in front of them, and she kisses him back.
He tells her, “I went to see—” No, never mind. Death can’t enter here tonight. That’s the penance for leaving Mimi: he can’t bring her with him.
“I saw Burton—Newell’s on it,” he says instead.
“Right,” she says. “Good. I was there when Burton kicked him out.”
“Fucking Burton, man,” Jason says, bursting, and L says, “Fucking Burton.”
Hugh surveys the rooms. Kitchen cleaned, living room good, table set, all the leaves in. “Okay—table ready too? Beautiful, you guys! Better than I could have done! Okay, red currant sauce, put the crêpe cake together, believe it or not, we’re done,” Hugh says. “L, cut and plate the cake salé; Jason, shoot those mushroom caps under the broiler, and Ivy—”
The world is so fucked. He kisses her again.
At Hugh’s back door
we don’t want to go in we must
a call from the street—what? no no no no
push Ken up the stairs
You take the wine up, I need to talk to Ruth—
Ruth trotting along up to the porch curious bird with red eyes
Well, don’t you look just lovely. I left Mimi for an hour,
couldn’t miss the party!
humiliation
say it now
Ruth, that was me this morning, in the shower.
None of my business!
bright bird eyes
make her believe you
But we— there is no explanation
rough hand clasp warm skin
No, no, I didn’t think so!
I wanted to tell you—
panic / Ken / Jenny
money / ugliness
nothing that can be told
another confiding squeeze
scratchy overworked hand
It’s spic and span for selling now, hope it goes fast. Doesn’t
need it anymore, does he? I’m just running to get the macaroons
or what-not Hugh left in Jasper’s freezer. Happy anniversary to the both of you.
oh Ruth
Aunt Truth