But his voice choked when he repeated it: “I’m so sorry. She loved you very much.”
“Do you want me to tell Byron?” he asked later.
“We have to tell him!” Diane had shouted.
“I know. But do you want to — or me?”
She cried at that. She saw Byron, sandy hair askew, run in the door — right now; there he was, arms out, belly forward, face stretched: “Grandma! Grandma!”
Lily’s fat arms opened for him, hands greedy for him, at last a male she had made, on whom Lily could lavish all her vanity and indulgence. “I have a present for you,” Lily always said.
“Where?” Byron cried out, squirming in her arms, in ecstasy.
It was as though they had both died, not just Lily, but also the Byron that existed because of Lily.
And Lily’s Diane — she too was dead. Diane was pretend, a gift for Lily: a strong young woman, independent, determined, and efficient. That Diane lived in Lily’s mind and, with its death, must also die.
Later she walked into her mother’s room to look for clothes to bury Lily in and got stuck there weeping in front of the closet.
Do it right, Diane. You weren’t there to help her die; at least bury her right.
But she couldn’t stay in that house.
Finally, she gave up the vigil, walked out of the house of her childhood, out to her dead mother’s car, put on the sixties music — music of love and betrayal, of idiotic hope, music without any notes for death — and drove away.
Orphans wander. In Philadelphia she was an orphan.
Diane decided to drive to New York.
Mom died alone, she kept thinking.
Diane looked through the skimming cars and could see Lily, desperate, writhing in the pool of light from her hospital reading lamp, could see Lily now, on the highway, reach for Diane as her heart contracted, wringing life out of her. “Diane! Help me!”
Over and over, on the turnpike, car lights floating ahead— behind — hovering over the gray river, Diane could feel Lily’s horror: Where are you, Diane?
Why wasn’t I there? To hold her through it, to say good-bye, to kiss her away …
She pushed the car, pushed it up, faster and faster, away from the mistakes, from the pictures:
Lily, hand frozen in terror, reaching for Diane:
Lily, seated beside Byron, watching her grandson eat with the miracle of it reflected in her face; Lily in bloom, amazement at the presence of Byron’s life smoothing her jowls, easing her mouth into a smile: “Do you like it?”
“Un-huh!” Byron nodded at his grandma. “I love it!”
“He’s so delicious,” Lily had said that just yesterday when Diane told her Peter’s report of Byron’s happiness at the prenursery school.
Diane and Lily smiled at each other, at their mutual triumph. They had made Byron together, a relay race across the years, two husbandless women; Byron was there in their hands to show the world that they had survived.
Who’s going to listen to me brag now? Who’ll listen to the worst of me? Who’ll make me go on?
How much longer to New York? Diane checked the clock, her mileage, tried to identify where she was on the turnpike. She had to get back to Peter and Byron.
The Beatles sang it now on the stereo: “Get back. Get back to where you once belonged.”
But I don’t want to be Peter’s wife; I don’t want his invention. I want my mother’s: the brilliant student, the tough lawyer, the Supermom. “You were the smartest girl in your class. The other mothers died with envy.”
In Lily’s lonely triumphs, Diane was created. Diane had fought Lily hard as a teenager — and lost. Ended up just the way Lily had wanted: married to a rich man, worked at the right law firm, made the male Lily had craved.
The car began to vibrate. Diane felt the rumble run from the front to the back, across the roof, and start again.
I’m going too fast. Mom’s old car can’t take it
But in the cave of night, on the gray river, she had to hurry back. Only another half hour at this speed and she would be back, back to Lily’s creation. She could go into Byron’s room and hold him. She could put her ear on his smooth back and listen.
Listen to a young heartbeat.
Fast. Strong. Brave.
She forgot for a moment. She could feel Byron’s skin against her cheek and hear the thuds of his life. She forgot for a moment.
The sound pulled back — a shot, air exploding. The gray river twisted away.…
Don’t hit the brakes hard, you’ll skid. Turn into it, the tire’s blown—
There was Byron — get home to him.
I can handle this, the road is empty, this skid will—
The gray river disappeared. Her head hit the ceiling. She knew she was off the road, bucking on the black grass. She knew the shadows ahead were trees—
The seat belt. She had forgotten.
There’s Byron — get home to him. How fast am I going? Why doesn’t it end? What a stupid way to die.
The shadows came fast now. Dark and huge.
Do something! There has to be something you can do.
At the last second of this eternity, cursing herself, Diane twisted out of the seat and tried to leap back, back to the way she had come, back against the rush to nothing.
ERIC GOLD, the Wizard of Wall Street, returned to his desk, ignored the sounds of the pygmies, and made his bold move. “Billy? Here’s the short list—”
“Uh, Eric,” Billy stammered. “We’ve got a problem.”
What problem? Weeks ago Eric had cleared the borrowing. He had been ready all his life for this triumph.
Sammy’s hand came down on his phone. Eric stared at the fingers slashed across his phone, cutting him off. He thought: okay, Sammy, I’ll slam the phone on you and break your fingers.
“Eric.” It was the owl. “I’ve told Billy not to accept any orders from you. I spoke to Tom Winningham half an hour ago. He’s removed your discretion and turned it over to me. I couldn’t do anything about your closing out the positions, I’ve explained that. Mr. Winningham was appalled that you sold him out of the market. I told him it would be a good opportunity to get him into some quality issues.”
“It’s Billy,” said one of the secretaries.
So this is why no one looked at me when I came in.
“Tell Billy we’ll get back to him,” Joe said.
Eric couldn’t look up. His eyes stayed on Sammy’s white fingers — cutting Eric off from the money.
Joe said, “I begged you to discuss this in the office with me. I repeat my request. We’ve worked together for many years — let’s not end our association too hastily.”
Joe was sure of his position. Eric couldn’t help himself from guessing what Joe might offer. Half the management fee? Nothing? Raise Eric’s salary while lowering his cut of the profits?
Come on, Eric. You can’t go back. You can’t be the pleasant servant anymore. Joe is relying on your cowardice.
“Sammy,” Eric said. “Move your fucking fingers or I’ll break them.”
“Either come into the office now,” Joe said, “or get out.”
Eric looked at Sammy. Sammy’s thin face, usually nervous, worried, harassed, seemed to be at peace. Sammy’s won, Eric realized. Sammy had recovered his father’s respect. For a weird moment, Eric was glad for Sammy.
If only I had the courage to go, this would be a happy ending for everyone.
“Sammy,” Eric repeated. “I’ll break your fingers.”
“Who are you gonna call?” Sammy said softly. “Your father-in-law? He’s already made his decision. You can’t talk him out of it.”
Leave, Nina had said. Leave and we’ll make it. Maybe she could call Tom, get him to change — but she won’t.
He got up slowly. He felt himself grow. He was tall. Much taller than anyone in the room.