She stared at me for a couple of seconds, then said, with an attitude, “No.”
“Have you ever known anybody who talks like they do in that book?” I could hear the edge on my voice and though I didn’t want it there, I knew that once detected, it could never be erased.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Answer the question.”
“No, but so what? I just read through that dialect shit. I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling genuinely bad for having sounded like I was attacking. “It’s just that I find that book an idiotic, exploitive piece of crap and I can’t see how an intelligent person can take it seriously.” So much for changing my tack.
Marilyn pulled the nearest pillow to her chest and rested her chin on it. “I think you should leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Just go.”
As I left the room and approached the front door I could hear her crying. But there was nothing to say.
12
Since Lorraine spent the night and the morning at Maynard’s getting ready for her wedding, I was left alone to care for Mother. I had not known the extent to which I depended on the servant, and I learned that reality knows neither subtlety nor kindness when it decides to “get in your face,” as it were. Mother was having a particularly difficult morning. She knew who I was and who she was and that there was a wedding to attend, but had forgotten how to dress. And so I dressed her. My maleness meant nothing to her as she asked me to help her with her bra and her slip and her hose. I felt as if I were stranded in some surreal, poorly dubbed, Italian film, but finally it was all too real.
“This bra cuts into me,” she said. “Find me another one.”
I imagined this was the way she had come to talk to Lorraine. I brought her another and helped her on with it, having to adjust her sagging breasts in the cups.
“That’s better.” She looked around. “My shoes. The black ones with the straps. And my pearls. The double strand.”
“I can’t find the black shoes,” I said from her closet.
“They’re there, Lorraine. You simply have to look.”
“Mother, I don’t think you packed them.”
“They’re right in front of you,” she snapped. She stepped over in her stocking feet, lowered herself to a knee and grabbed a pair of ox-blood pumps. “Right here.”
“You look nice, Mother,” I said, standing behind her as she sat facing her vanity mirror.
Father had returned from a dinner, the pre-departure discussion of which aroused my curiosity. He kissed Mother at the door and then walked up to his study. I followed in his wake and plopped down on the leather sofa across from his desk.
“And how was your dinner?” he asked.
“Standard,” I said, using a term I’d gotten from him. “Lorraine put too much salt in the vegetables. As usual.”
Father laughed.
“How was your dinner?” I asked.
“It was very good. But I’m afraid I’ll pay for it later.” He sat at his desk and began to sift through his stack of mail. “We had oysters and lemon pie for dessert.”
“I like oysters.”
“I know you do. Perhaps we’ll all go to Crissfield’s later in the week.”
“Lisa will like that,” I said. “What was the dinner like? What did you talk about?”
He looked at me for a couple of seconds. “Well, it was a group of my old friends. A couple of them have been away for years. They’re all gray now. We talked about the days when we were not gray, about the things we used to do and how we used to laugh.” He paused. “It was the talk of the dead, Monk.”
I just looked at him.
He studied my ten-year-old face, then smiled. “I’m not as old as it sounds, I believe.” He opened another letter, read it and tossed it. “It would of course be a shame to get too old. There’s no virtue in living too long. Living shouldn’t become a habit.” By now he was talking more to himself than to me. “Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, we’ll go out and get you some oysters.”
We are told that the subject of the statement should not be taken as synonymous with the author of the formulation—either in substance, or in function. This is, my theoretical friends have told me, a characteristic of the enunciative function. The statement with which I was concerning myself was the box containing the letters of my father. Was it something my mother was attempting to tell me about my father? Or rather, was it more ingenious, as brother Bill would have had me believe, a message from my father, his knowing that Mother would not in fact burn the box and would somehow get it to me? As I got Mother ready to go to Lorraine’s wedding I went over and over again the contents of that box, wondering what if anything I was supposed to do and at whose behest. Knowing Father, perhaps I was only supposed to learn some lesson about life, not take literally any concern about tracking down some lost half-sibling. Indeed, I knew him to be short-patienced when it came to, as he put it, “vulgar, common and simple-minded devotion to rudimentary biological relationships.”
“So, Mother, what do you think of Lorraine getting married?” I asked as we walked to the car.
“A bit sudden.”
“She seems happy.”
“I don’t think she knows what she’s doing. What does she know about relationships? She’s never had one. And this boy.”
“He’s almost seventy, Mother.”
“Oh, well, he looks young. I don’t know, Monksie. I guess it’s a good thing. I won’t be around forever to care for Lorraine.”
“Let’s not talk like that,” I said as I closed her door.
I was putting the key in the ignition. We were taking the car even though Maynard’s house was just a quarter mile away, just outside the community.
“I think they’re having sex,” Mother said.
I said nothing.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s their business.”
“Hmmmph.”
Wittgenstein: Why did Bach have to sell his organ?Derrida: I don’t know. Why?Wittgenstein: Because he was baroque.Derrida: You mean because he composed music marked by elaborate and even grotesque ornamentation?Wittgenstein: Well, no that’s not exactly what I was getting at. It was a play on words.Derrida: Oh, I get it.
When we arrived at Maynard’s house, Lorraine was standing in the yard and yelling back at her husband-to-be who was standing on the porch. “How dare you call me old, you fossil!” is what she yelled.
Nothing’s easy. Least of all being confronted with one’s own questionable agenda, however unworked out or articulated. In a flash, I was washed with guilt as I considered that on some level, this was all my plan, that I wanted to marry off Lorraine and commit Mother and get on with my life. Indeed, I did want to marry off Lorraine and indeed I wanted to do so, so that I would not have to look after her in her remaining years. But I truly did not want to commit Mother. That was a lie to myself. On some level, given her condition, I wanted very much to commit her and for as much my sake as hers. I was also troubled by the word commit. One commits murder or suicide, permanent things. The finality of my admitting her to the retreat in Columbia loomed large in my thinking and feeling.
Mother remained seated in the car while I approached Lorraine, asking the stupid but appropriate question, “Is there something wrong?”
“Yes,” she cried. “That old coot called me old.”