Equal Affections (22 page)

“You slapped him!” Louise was interested in spite of herself.

“I was angry! And then he stood up and turned around and put his hands around my throat. I still have a mark, see? So I screamed, and then there was a real commotion, and the police came, and I had him arrested. Simple as that. I'm suing him for emotional distress and medical expenses. Seems pretty open-and-shut, right? Wrong! Guess what?”

“What?”

“On the advice of his lawyer, he's countersuing me for slapping him
and
for false arrest! Can you imagine? The whole thing has gotten so out of control we tried for an out-of-court settlement, but he wouldn't hear of it. Believe you me, this thing is costing us a pretty penny.” She shook her head sadly. “Well, what can you say? What can you do? Someone makes trouble and they end up suing you. Part of me really wishes I'd never pressed charges. But then I remember, I really do have a case, you see. The usher's promised to testify on my behalf, and the other day a lady called me up who was in the theater, she saw the whole thing. And when I remember what he said to me! The nerve, to tell a woman of my distinction she has a fucking face.” She laughed and blew her nose.

“I don't blame you,” Louise said, and poured more coffee.

“Oh, well, enough about me and my boring lawsuits,” Eleanor said. “So how are the kids?”

“Danny's fine. April's fine.” She frowned for a moment and concluded, “The kids are fine.”

“Both of them back east?”

Louise nodded.

“Are they going to get out West anytime soon?”

“I don't know. I suppose so.”

“You'd think they'd care enough to come out and visit their parents now and then,” Eleanor said. “How long has it been, three months now? I tell you, Louise, I count my blessings every day I've got my Joanne around the corner.” Then she looked away, thinking, Louise supposed, DES. Was it possible for her ever to think of her daughter without those letters flashing through her brain?

“You know, Markie says he's moving to New York,” Eleanor said, brightening suddenly. “Has some girlfriend there he met up in Alaska, or so he claims. Do you suppose he could call up Danny, or maybe stay with him at first?”

“You'd have to ask Danny.”

“I know it's an imposition—let's face it, my Markie's an imposition—but I hate to think of him wandering around New York by himself. God knows what kind of trouble he'd get into. Still, he's saved a bundle of money up there in Alaska, and he says he wants to go to New York. I don't trust the whole thing, that's for sure.” She sighed. “Well, maybe they could just have dinner—Markie and Danny. They are cousins, after all.”

“I'm sure Danny would be happy to do that.”

“Good!” Eleanor said. She noticed Louise's left hand moving unconsciously along her right arm. “Your rash?” she asked.

Louise looked at the table, nodded.

“Any better today?”

“It doesn't get better. It doesn't get worse. It just stays. Stays and stays.” She stood, suddenly agitated.

“Poor baby,” Eleanor said. “You've had too much pain to need this. Anyway, it's just a rash. It'll clear up.”

“I suppose. But, Ellie,” she said, suddenly turning, “I'm up all night with it. I take these baths, and then I'm okay for maybe forty-five minutes, and then it starts up again. I'm taking Benadryl too, that seems to help a little.” She sat down again and took another sip of her coffee. “Right now, I feel fine. I probably have twenty, twenty-five more minutes of feeling fine. Before it starts up again.”

“Have you seen a dermatologist?”

“The dermatologist doesn't know, the GP doesn't know. Dr. Stern thinks it's the result of dental trauma—you know, that root canal
disaster last month? So I said, ‘Dental trauma! Doctor, it's not my teeth that itch!' ” She laughed. “Want more coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Eleanor said. “How's Nat doing through all this?”

Louise stopped, sat still a moment before refilling her mug. “Fine,” she said, knowing that moment of silence had told Eleanor everything she wanted to know.

“Louise,” Eleanor said, putting a doughy white hand over her sister's parched red one, “you know if you need anything, you can always come to us. You know that. Sid and I are always here for you.”

“Thanks,” Louise said.

“You want some buckle or some slump?”

“Not right now.”

Eleanor got up to clear the table. Louise watched her as she stumbled to the sink, washed the cups out, stacked them to dry. Sometimes, on mornings like this, when it was raining slightly and she was still in her bathrobe, an odd, ancient intimacy overcame Louise about her sister, and they were returned to two little girls sitting on the twin bowls of that miraculous double toilet. It was an intimacy Eleanor encouraged and Louise struggled to resist—she didn't want to be so close to anyone ever again—but somehow the old warmth, the easy familiarity, took her in every time. Even now it was happening; in spite of her annoyance, she felt herself becoming soft, tractable.

Eleanor sat down again. On the table was a small pile of library books, including several by Thomas Merton. “Thomas Merton!” she said. “Isn't he that theologian?” She took one of the books and examined it with a look of mock-seriousness. “Catholicism,” she said, in a deep, television voice. “I remember the Catholics in our neighborhood, don't you? You remember that afternoon Mary O'Brady and her sister trapped us on the merry-go-round? She and her sisters kept spinning it and spinning it, even though we were crying to get off, and they shouted, ‘You killed Christ, Louise Gold! You killed Christ, Eleanor Gold!” She shook her head. “Great people, the Catholics.”

“Not all Catholics are ignorant ten-year-old girls,” Louise said, taking the book back from her.

“Why are you reading this stuff? You've never been interested in religion.”

Louise shrugged her shoulders. “I'm interested now,” she said.

Eleanor looked at her suspiciously.

“Oh, Eleanor, it's nothing,” Louise said, standing up and taking the books to the laundry room, where she deposited them next to the wax cauldron. “Really, just something I've been thinking about, toying with.”

“Does this have to do with Nat?” Louise said. “Is this because of what's going on with Nat?”

“Nothing's going on,” Louise said. She had thought she wanted to resist telling Eleanor, but suddenly she realized how much she longed to say it, to tell Eleanor all about it; she could barely hold back.

“I am just thinking about Catholicism—as an alternative,” she said, sitting down again, and looked nervously at her sister across the table. She had not talked about it with anyone except Danny. She had not talked about anything important with anyone for years.

Eleanor stared at her rather blankly.

“An alternative?” she said.

“Well, if you must know, I'm thinking of possibly—changing my faith. I think Catholicism has a lot to offer people who have to be alone. So I've made an appointment to talk next week with Father Abernathy of the Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church on Coolidge Street.”

“Oh, my God,” Eleanor said, and suddenly she was shaking her head violently. “Oh, my God, what would Mama say? She would die, Louise, she'd die a second death in her grave.”

“Come on, Eleanor! Mama was not a religious woman, and neither are you, for that matter. What do you care what I do?”

“Louise,” Eleanor said, taking her hand, “think twice before you do this, sweetheart. Why Catholicism? We're Jews, Louise, one hundred percent. Maybe you should talk to Rabbi.”

“The rabbi does not interest me,” Louise said hotly, taking back her hand. “The rabbi is an egotistical, horny womanizer who, I don't have to remind you, left his own wife and three kids out in the cold not three years ago for, yes, a Catholic.”

“Then another rabbi. Or a counselor. You know the Sisterhood does peer counseling. But a priest?” She shook her head. “It's just not normal, Louise. It's not healthy. Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.”

Louise steadied her gaze against the window. “I shouldn't have said anything to you,” she said. “I knew I shouldn't have.”

“That's not true, Louise, it's good you've told me. I can help you now.”

“I don't need your help,” Louise said. “Don't you see? It's not a question of getting help. It's a question of—how I'm supposed to live my life, or what's left of it. Because none of
this
is any good anymore”—she gestured vaguely at the kitchen, the washing machine, the pictures of her children on the bulletin board—“all this talk by psychiatrists and rabbis isn't any good anymore. Nothing
helps
anymore. If Catholicism gives my life meaning, then what's wrong with it? No one cares about me; I'm not ruining anyone's existence; my kids are grown up, and God knows they've made their own decisions. And I feel something for it, Eleanor, I—oh, forget it, you won't understand.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Look, just promise me you'll leave me alone to do what's best—what
I
feel is best for
me
. Okay?”

“Louise,” Eleanor said, “I understand what you're saying. You're feeling low, and you need—”

“I'm not feeling low,” Louise said. “There is a lower than low.” And she looked shyly across the table, to see if those words had put pleasure in her sister's face.

Eleanor looked only grave.

“You're right to know to get help, sweetheart. But I wish you would think about the source you're trying.”

“I have,” Louise said. “And I'm not going for help, I told you. Help has nothing to do with it.”

Her sister stood. “It's probably time for me to go now, isn't it?” she said. “Try to think about what I said.”

“Think about what I said,” Louise answered.

“I will if you will. Deal?”

Louise shrugged and looked away.

___________

Later that afternoon, while she was doing a crossword puzzle, the phone rang. “Mrs. Cooper?” said a bright female voice.

“Yes.”

“Hi, Mrs. Cooper, you don't know me. My name is Melanie Frankel, and I'm the new assistant rabbi at Temple B'nai Mitzvah?”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Louise said. “Look, forget it. I know my sister told you to call, and now I'm telling you, forget it.”

“Mrs. Cooper, I just want to talk to you for a moment. I understand you're having a very difficult time right now, and I want you to know I'm here if you need me. It's my job. You're disillusioned with your own faith—I understand that—but please, before you change your religion, let me make a case for it. You owe that to yourself, as a Jew and as a woman.”

“This is none of my sister's business,” Louise said quietly. “And it's none of yours. I haven't set foot in that temple for five years, and I've always paid my dues. I am my own person, and I will make my own choices.”

“I just want you to think carefully, Mrs. Cooper. It's generally a bad idea to make major decisions at a time of crisis. Now I won't keep you on the phone anymore, but if you ever want to call me up or come by, I'm here to talk. Okay?”

“The only thing you can do for me is tell my sister to leave me the hell alone.”

“She's only thinking of you—”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“Well, she loves you very much. She's very concerned, Mrs. Cooper.”

“You're a young woman,” Louise said, “and you don't know me. And you're very naive.” Then she hung up.

___________

Of course, part of her wanted to call back. Opening up to Eleanor had ripped something in her; suddenly, for the first time in years, comfort tempted. The young woman's voice, so calm, so urging—it would have been easy to fall into that voice, crying, to fall into what she imagined were that capable young woman's capable, strong arms. But she must not. She couldn't trust it. What was comfort, anyway? just an anodyne, a painkiller, a false oblivion, probably addictive. For those
purposes she had a cabinetful of lovingly prescribed bottles: Valium, Percodan, Halcion.

She stood from the sofa, throwing aside the crossword puzzle—a drug in its own right. The phone rang again.

“Louise, just listen to me for one second—”

“Leave me alone!” she said loudly into the phone, into her sister's ear, and hung up. The silence that followed was as palpable as the absence of someone who has just died. Eleanor muffled, for once. And suddenly Louise panicked, and wondered, Is this it? Is this the irrationality of the dying? Crisis, Rabbi Frankel had said. “I am in a time of crisis,” Louise said aloud. “This is me, Louise, in a time of crisis.” Yet as she said those words, it was as if someone else were speaking through her mouth.

Oh, she hated her sister now, hated her for turning the tables, for making her the sick, the weak, the needy one, herself the strong, healthy, rational being who must do what she can, even against Louise's wishes, to help her. How she must have wanted it, after all those years of weakness and failure, after polio and crippledness and her dreadful husband and dreadful children—to be, for once, strong and well, to feel she has everything and can therefore minister to the one who has nothing. How she must be gloating now! Louise thought. How she must be loving it! When the balance was different, Louise hadn't loved it, she hadn't wanted it. It was a wretched position into which fate had thrown her, sitting all those afternoons in their quarantined house, listening to Eleanor's faint breathing in the sickroom she was forbidden to enter, and thinking of Tommy Burns on the beach, in the blazing sun, the water, and the sand, and the sea gulls shrieking, and all the while, in the stifling house, her own tan peeling away, revealing pale winter skin too early. How she had longed to be back there, among the other swimmers, her friends! She had hated Eleanor that summer, though she kept her mouth shut, did everything she was told, helped in the kitchen and with boiling the sheets. And maybe she had wished Eleanor
would
die. Maybe she had wished more than anything that Eleanor would die, or disappear, or never have been born, just so that she could be free again, to run back out onto the beach and in the ecstatic sunlight call to Tommy Burns, “Tommy, it's me, Louise! I'm here! I'm back!”