“The Iranians.”
“Oh yes, so you said…but the Iranians don’t have the Bomb.”
Silence.
Lillian said, “Did you talk to your mom about this?”
“She said she wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Lillian. “That is just like Andy.”
“She said I used to have nightmares about nuclear war.”
“I never knew that.”
“I didn’t have them at your house.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
There was a pause. Janet said, in a lighter tone, “She thought it was a sign that I was precocious.”
They both chuckled.
Lillian said, “In 1961, you were right to be worried. Not so much anymore.”
“But I can’t get it out of my mind. I look at Emily walking around, and I am just terrified something will happen.”
Lillian thought of giving her a list of terrible things that were more likely to happen, but refrained. Instead, she said, “Ask your dad about the time he went to Iran.” Lillian had gotten to the point in her life where she would talk about almost anything.
Janet said, “What?”
“Arthur sent him. There was disagreement about…” She should not have started this. “I think you were three? Anyway—”
“When I was three was when the U.S. reinstalled the Shah and overthrew the democratic election of Mossadegh.”
Of course, Lillian thought, Janet would know this. Not Debbie or Dean or Tina or 90 percent of the American population. Ninety-five, maybe. She adjusted her bra again, then said, “Mossadegh was courting the Soviets. We really couldn’t take the chance. I could see it at the time. When Frank first came home from the war, he said that the Russians defied the law of probabilities — anything was possible. Arthur seemed to…” Her words trailed off.
“What did my dad do there?”
Lillian thought, Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “He accompanied some money, some bags of money.”
“Bribery.”
“You need to get over your idealism about how the world works.” Lillian hadn’t meant to sound so sharp.
“Okay,” said Janet. “Okay. So we get what we deserve.”
“Oh, honey,” said Lillian. Then she said, “We do, but only if we’re lucky.” She held the phone to her ear for a long time, even though neither of them said anything. Finally, Janet seemed to turn away from the receiver, because her voice got distant. She said, “There’s Emily. I have to go get her.”
Lillian said, “I love you, Janny.”
Janet didn’t reciprocate, just said, “Bye, Aunt Lillian.”
Lillian hoisted herself off the bed and went back to vacuuming, but her heart was no longer in it. After five minutes, she turned off the Kirby and rolled it down the hall to the closet where it was ensconced with all its many unused accessories. She could not get comfortable. She went back into her room and rummaged in the underwear drawer for a more forgiving bra. It was when she was putting it on that she felt the swelling, low and to the outside of her right breast, not quite painful but unmistakably present. She went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror, something she, a formerly vain young woman, now did as little as possible (and when she did, she made a practice of smiling at herself, so as not to seem judgmental). But there was no smiling now. The swelling was firm and visible, and it was evident that she was not destined to be alive one day and dead the next, Arthur’s ideal.
—
FOR HER PART, Emily Inez Nelson did the best she could with the materials she was given. She did not hold hands if she could help it, and she screamed when Mom put the harness around her. She found it easier to run without a diaper on, or any clothes, for that matter, and she cared nothing about whether she was cold or not, but when her diaper was heavy and her shoes were tight, she ran anyway. She could not yet climb over the side of her crib, or the end panel, but when she awakened at daylight, she got up immediately, gripped the railing, and lifted her feet as best she could, first the one and then the other; some mornings, she managed to hook her big toe, the one that went to market, over the top. She knew she was making progress. It was also important to make marks on flat surfaces. If she had to put her hand in her diaper to get something to mark with, so be it. However, color was better — she liked blue, red, orange, and yellow; she knew the names of all four of them, and could say “boo.” Her favorite things could only be done when Mom wasn’t in the room.
She knew what a book was, and that pages were for turning. She preferred books she wasn’t allowed to touch, with many pages for turning. She put her finger very carefully on the corner of the page, pressed it down, and pushed it back — then it would turn. She liked a certain tub with water in it, and cups. She liked to fill the cups and pour the water out, and she never poured it on the floor — she preferred to see it go into the other water and smooth itself out.
The only things that tasted good to her were breast milk and hard scrambled eggs. She did not like anything that slid through her fingers when she squeezed it; if it could be squeezed, she refused to eat it. She did not care to remain covered up in her crib or to keep a hat on outside or to be strapped into the seat of the grocery cart. She did not like it that Mom was everywhere, all the time. She never had a moment’s peace. Mom’s face leaned toward her and said, “Are you all right, honey?” Mom picked her up and carried her places when she was right in the middle of something. Mom set her in the high chair, in front of food, when the last thing in the world that she wanted to do was eat. Mom leaned over the bathtub the entire time she was in the bath; Mom held her one arm tightly while washing her, and this happened every day. Every time she said something, no matter to whom, Mom answered her, as if she were talking to Mom. Even when she was lying quietly in her crib, Mom leaned over her and listened to her. Emily tried the doors every single day, more than once. She knew some other people — most notably “Dad,” “Grandy,” “Eva,” who was like herself, Emily, but did nothing but stand and stare, and Eva’s “Jackie,” but none of them were like Mom. Emily did not know what to make of it all.
—
BETWEEN THE TIME Lillian made her appointment with the doctor and the appointment itself, she went through all of the five stages of grief, but she went through them on her own — there was nothing in the book about the stage of “telling your worried husband,” and so she did not address it. “Denial” was as easy as could be — she got Arthur to take her to see American Gigolo; afterward, they went for ice cream, and Arthur had her laughing until her sides hurt every time he mimicked Richard Gere saying, “Helloo, Judy, you are a virry sexi leddy. Verri good lookn woman. Yu lak mi. Ah giv plejeur.” Then she would say, “How do you do it, Arthur, how do you seduce all those women? I think you’re guilty as sin.” Then he would stare at her very seriously and wiggle his head. It was harder when they got home, and she had to steer his hand subtly away from her right breast, but she was good at it, and even as they fell asleep, they were still giggling.
“Anger” happened the next day, when she chanced to see a woman she knew at the supermarket, a woman who made a point of gossiping equally about everyone they knew. She was friendly to Lillian in the canned-goods aisle, and happened to remark that she had seen “Mary Jo Canton’s new hairdo. Well, darling, hair don’t.” In the parking lot, when Lillian was pulling out and this woman was walking behind the boy pushing her very full cart to her very ample Mercedes-Benz (and who had one of those? Lillian would like to know), Lillian could not help reflecting that this woman was six years older than she, drank heavily, and was poisoned by malice. Surely she should be the one having a lump in her breast?