If it’s at all possible, we would like very much to have you drop off your cinnamon grinder, wooden ladle, applesauce cruncher and bread-making bucket at the library on January 14th.
Thank you,
DEAR BETTY,
Please drop off your apple corer, cabbage cutter, long spoon, copper dipper and olive wood bowl at the library on January 14th.
Thank you,
DEAR MRS. FRASETTI,
Please drop off your mortar and pestle and French onion print at the library on January 14th.
DEAR MRS. NELSON,
Would you please drop off your handsome loaf baker and match striker at the library on January 14th?
DEAR CONNIE,
Would you please drop off your old doughnut cutter, your pewter kettle and your Swedish cooky things at the library on January 14th?
“Did you say phony or funny?” Amanda asked.
“Both.”
“I think it’s a wonderful exhibit and exactly what women would like to see. You’re a man. How would you know?”
“I think it’s phony as hell in a day and age when everyone’s kitchen has mechanical devices that can do everything but change the baby’s diaper.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Amanda said, and she shrugged.
“Yes, and my opinion is that Talmadge, Connecticut, is the fakest town in the Eastern United States. And that takes in some pretty fancy fake towns like Darien and Scarsdale and New Hope and—”
“Oh, Matthew, what makes a town fake?”
“I know what makes this town fake.”
“Yes, people like you,” Amanda said accusingly.
“The first thing that makes Talmadge a fake is that university backdrop hanging in the hills over there. It creates an illusion of higher education when I’ll bet half the morons who live here haven’t even been through the sixth grade.”
“That’s not true, Matthew. You know it isn’t true.”
“All right, maybe it isn’t. They got to junior high school, some of them.”
“They’re some of the brightest people in New York!” Amanda said.
“Then why didn’t they stay in New York? That’s just my point!”
“What’s your point, Matthew?” she asked. “Would you please make your point, Matthew?” She had used his first name twice in as many sentences, a sure sign that she was getting angry.
“My point is this. Talmadge is a fake because only the scenery is real, the rest is all imported like those crumby Japanese toys you can buy in the five-and-ten and which break under the slightest pressure. These people are New Yorkers, honey. The sidewalk sings in their blood. Every time they talk about how much they hate the filthy city, their eyes gleam with nostalgia. You can’t become a small-towner, Amanda. You either are, or you aren’t, and they aren’t, and the whole damn setup here is rotten and phony.”
“Wow,” Amanda said.
“You said it,” he answered.
He did not tell her the rest.
He did not tell her what else he had observed about this phony town, because he felt she was a little too naïve to appreciate it, and besides he didn’t know quite what her reactions would be now that she was pregnant. He watched her moving about the house and wondered anew about her, wondered if this girl-woman he saw every day of the week was the real Amanda, the true Amanda. Something had happened to her suddenly, and whereas he had been a party to the abrupt prenatal change, he felt excluded now that it was a fact. He watched her from a seemingly great distance, and wondered how he felt about the coming baby. July. Not so very far away. July, and there would be a child in the house. Not simply the two of them any more. A child. To share with. To love.
He wanted Amanda to be the way she was.
He wanted Amanda to be the innocent college girl who had lain unconscious on the big brass bed.
The eyes are looking at her.
The eyes are looking at the girl with the claws.
Penny-ellow, Penny-ellow, Penny-ellow-penno-pee.
Claws.
Tear out the eyes with the rush of the wind on a wintry summer day in summer sky, on fairy feet, oh maiden fly, Penny-ellow-pee, Penelope.
Dead sea and ironbottom sound aloud a crowd of chowder eaters I love you and I will be home soon you are probably as fat as a house now the things I will do to you I love you my penelope your husband Frank Robert Randolph SM 2/c USS Barton DD 599 c/o F.P.O. San Francisco, California, born her of claws.
Sea wash squash the dead sea hero squad the dears the lovely dears of dd squadron number squash the sea.
Lulu had a baby his name was Sonny Jim.
They are looking at the girl with claw eyes the murderers.
It was the beginning of March.
She had been in the hospital for almost a year when they decided to perform the operation. Priscilla went to Sandstone, and they explained very patiently to her, told her all about this thing called a prefrontal lobotomy. The operation would be performed by a neurosurgeon, they told her, a consultant on the hospital’s staff. A sharp instrument would be pushed into a portion of her brain, severing certain connections between the brain and the autonomic nervous system. The patient...
“No!” Priscilla said immediately.
The patient would experience no pain. There was no great danger in the operation, little more than what one could expect from an appendectomy. But if the operation were successful...
“No!” Priscilla said again.
If the operation were successful, they might have their daughter back, Penny might be able to go home again. They understood it was a difficult decision for parents to make, but they had been unable to reach Penny at all, and the operation might help her. They did not mean to imply there would be no changes. Penny might tend to be a little silly at times, passive, vague. She would not be like her previous self, not like the person they once had known. But she would be quieter, and calmer, and perhaps they could take her home. It was a difficult decision to make, yes, but perhaps they could take her home. She would not be the same, no, but perhaps they could take her home.
“And if the operation fails?” Priscilla asked.
“She’ll be no worse off than she is now, Mrs. Soames.” The doctor paused. “Nothing else has worked. We’ve tried everything.”
“If... if it works, will she know us again?”
“Yes. If it’s successful, she’ll recognize you, talk to you.”
“Does it often work?”
“We’ve had good results. Of course, you must understand...”
“Yes?”
“This would not be a cure, Mrs. Soames. Your daughter won’t be the same. I can’t mislead you into thinking she’d be the way she was before her illness.”
“I understand.” Priscilla nodded. “How can I let you put a knife into her brain?” she asked, not looking at the doctor, staring at her clenched hands in her lap.
“Mrs. Soames,” the doctor said gently, “your daughter is suffering. I can’t begin to tell you how much she is suffering. If there’s a chance that we can relieve her of her pain, her total sadness, if there’s only the slightest chance that we can bring her at least a small measure of peace...” The doctor shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Priscilla was silent for a long time. Then she sighed deeply and looked at her husband and said, “We must, Martin.” She turned to the doctor. “Yes,” she said. “If there is a chance, yes, do it. God forgive me, do it.”
Penny seemed much better after the operation. When Priscilla and Martin went to see her, she smiled blankly and said, “Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad.” She seemed so much better. A little slow perhaps, a little vague sometimes, and occasionally she would laugh or giggle unexplainably, but she seemed at least to have found that small promised measure of peace.