Requiem for a Dream (24 page)

The thought of going out to see if anything was
happening floated around Harry during the commercials, but he just
couldnt seem to work up the initiative. He entertained the thought
briefly, each time it passed by, but he allowed it to continue on its
merry way as soon as the movie started again. Eventually Marion got
home, the makeup and cold winds putting color in her cheeks. She
shook herself out of her coat, O, its cold out there. It took me
forever to get a cab. Yeah, its a bitch. She spent so much time
hanging up her coat and straightening out the clothes in the closet
that she became self-conscious and closed her eyes and tried to think
the tension out of her stomach and a sparkle in her eyes before
turning around and facing Harry. Well, I got the money—walking over
to the couch, trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant, Here. She
handed the money to Harry. Good. We should be able to get straight
now. He tried to relax and not just ignore but deny the fact that
there was a feeling of embarrassment in the room that was so intense
it was almost tangible. Marion leaned back against the couch and
crossed her legs and tilted her head and smiled, speaking as
offhandedly as possible, What movie is this honey? Harry shrugged,
Don't know. I just flipped it on. You know. Marion nodded and stared
at the screen, fighting, fighting, fighting, but she knew it was not
only useless, but senseless to sit here trying to pretend that
nothing had happened and that everything was just the same and
nothing had changed. That was absurd and she involuntarily shrugged
as the word rang through her head, she was far too intelligent and
aware to allow herself to fall into the self-delusive trap. She knew
she couldnt talk to Harry about it, that that would only make it
worse, much worse, but she could not try to deny it to herself. She
almost sighed audibly as she reached and accepted the conclusion.
What happened happened. She would accept that and just allow it to
drift from her mind into some other space and just not say anything
to Harry . . . she shrugged inwardly. No, the chances are that he
wont ask. She sighed, then smiled at Harry when he looked at her,
then rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, I love you Harry. He
kissed her, I love you too. She smiled again and then he turned his
attention to the tube and she stared at it for a moment, trying to
ignore the horrendous knot gnawing at her stomach, then uncrossed her
legs and leaned forward, I think I'll get off. You want to too? I
just had a taste. Go ahead. She smiled again, automatically, and went
to the bathroom telling herself she was only imagining that Harry was
acting funny. After she got off she sat for a moment allowing all the
conflicts to dissolve and bathe her in a comforting warmth and she
felt a real smile on her face and she went back to the living room.
She put an arm around Harry and rubbed the back of his neck again,
then kissed his ear and rubbed his chest and he slowly responded and
they held each other, desperately, reaching, groping, for many
minutes, the television droning on in the background, then they
decided to go to bed and Harry grabbed her and squeezed her harder
and harder and she clung to him and kissed him and bit him as he
kissed her body trying to work up a passion that would force itself
though his body but something was missing, something was cutting off
the flow of something and no matter how desperately they tried they
couldnt get the physical motions to mean any more than motions and
the harder they tried the more they withdrew into their own shells of
embarrassment until they mutely agreed to stop trying and they sort
of exhausted themselves into a semblance of sleep and release.

Sara wore her red dress all the time. And the gold
shoes. Ada still touched up her hair and if she should suggest that
maybe something happened to the show she should be going on, Sara
shook not only her head but her arms and her whole body. Sometimes
some of the other ladies would come and make a visit and bring a
danish or lox and bagels, but Sara was always not hungry. She was
still thinking zophtic. The flesh was hanging from her upper arms
like a hammock, but she was still not eating and thinking zophtic. So
be already zophtic, but youre needing meat on the bones. But Sara
would decline and just drink her coffee and talk continually about
going on the television, the set always on, Sara studying all the
quiz shows so she would be able to compete no matter what show she
went on. Soon her friends would leave and she would sit in her
viewing chair watching, nodding her head and smiling as she watched
herself stand with such poise as she rattled off the answers, like
its nothing, and everyone applauded and she got the presents and made
a little speech and said that she was not keeping the presents but
giving them to somebody needy, and they applauded even more and
theres pictures in the paper and on the six oclock news and even on
the eleven oclock news she smiled at everybody and when shes on the
street people chant, WE LOVE SARA, WE LOVE SARA, \VE LOVE SARA, and
she sighed and smiled and hugged herself as she watched her
television and drank coffee, but every day, in the morning, something
happened and she felt strange and she pulled down the shades and
closed the drapes and from time to time she got up and peeked out of
the side of the drapes to see if she could catch who was watching her
and she looked over as large an area as she could without giving
herself away to whoever was spying on her and then she'd go back to
her viewing chair and glance sometimes at her refrigerator, quickly,
and it just stood there, silent, frightened; and then she'd get up
and tiptoe very slowly and quietly to the door and listen for long
minutes, holding her breath for as long as possible so they wouldnt
hear her, and then she would very carefully bend down and take the
tape off the keyhole and peek through to see if she could see them
but they always managed to get out of sight before she could find
them. She would replace the tape, take a few Valium, then go back to
her viewing chair and watch her shows, one upon the other, clutching,
from time to time, her breast when a mother was worried and she would
tell the woman she knew what it was like to miss your son. My only
child, my boobala, and I dont even have a phone number. But hes busy
you know. His own business. Hes a professional man my Harry, and soon
hes making me a grandmother, and Sara consoled her and told her it
would all be alright, and then she would take a few more Valium and
her eyes would start getting heavy and a shroud like sadness would
wind its way around her and tears trickled down her cheeks as she
watched the evening and nighttime shows, and even watching herself on
the eleven oclock news didnt seem to stop her sadness as she watched
everything through a film of tears and she half muttered a prayer to
hear from the television what show she would be on and when; and
Harry should come visit and bring his fiancee with him and they would
have a glass tea and tell her what show and she would wear the red
dress, O Seymour, you remember the red dress? Harrys bar mitzvah?
Seymour, theres something wrong? Youll come on the show and we'll win
prizes and give them to the poor people and make nice for them and
Harry will be having a grandson for me and she should watch out for
that car . . . O, Im telling you to watch out, always when a car
comes like that and the man looks around its trouble and I'll babysit
my little boo-bala and tell her how to make the stuffed fish Harry
loves and why dont you talk to me Seymour? you just stand there
looking at me, come, come we'll go to bed, come, come . . . and Sara
Goldfarb went to bed holding Seymours hand and Harry and his son and
the television swam around in her tear filled mind and the tears
seeped from her eyes and kept moist the pillow on which she rested
her head, trying to wash out the pain from her chest. . . .  and
then awakening in the morning, turning on the television, then
starting the coffee and then taking her purple, red, and orange pills
and drinking her coffee and staring at the drawn drapes and calling
the McDick Corp. and hanging up the phone and shaking her head in
confusion trying to remember what was said and then sitting and
listening to, and feeling, her heart pound so hard and loud that it
felt like it would come right through her chest and her pulse sounded
like drums in her ears and she sat in her viewing chair, clutching
from time to time the arms, as the pounding of her heart threatened
to cut off her breath and she slowly, then suddenly, realized that
someone at that McDick Corp. was trying to keep her off the
television and they probably tore up her card so they dont know shes
supposed to be on the show, she had heard how that happens, she saw
that many times on the television how people do that and someone gets
cheated sometimes out of an inheritance and nobody knows but she
would go and find out who and make a new card and she put on
stockings and heavy wool socks from Seymour and squeezed her feet
into her golden shoes and put on sweaters over her red dress and put
on her heavy coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck and one around
her head and went out to the street, not slowing down or hesitating
in any way as the cold and sleet hit her face, but continuing to the
subway, not hearing the people or the cars, but just keeping her head
lowered and thrusting herself through the wind, and she continued to
mutter to herself as she sat on the subway looking at the ads,
recognizing the products that were advertised on television and
identifying the show they were associated with and telling the people
near about the show and how she was going to be on the television and
help the poor and her Harry was going to be with her and the people
continued to read their paper or look out the window and ignore her
just as completely as if she wasnt there until she got off and then a
couple shrugged slightly and watched her for a moment out of the
corners of their eyes as she walked across the platform, still
muttering, and up the stairs and along the streets holding the
babooshka tightly around her head, slipping and sliding on the frozen
streets with her golden shoes, but she continued to thrust her way
through the wind and sleet to the Madison Avenue building and up the
elevator, unaware of the looks and stares of the others, into the
reception room of the McDick Corp., and she asked the operator why
she wasnt putting through her calls that she wanted to see Lyle
Russel and the operator stared at Sara, her switchboard flashing and
buzzing, but she was immobilized for a moment as she looked into the
haggard fece, the sunken eyes, the wet, straggly hair hanging and
cling-lng, the heavy wool socks sticking out through her golden
shoes, Sara very wobbly, knocking against a wall from time to time as
she continued to talk incoherently and she kept telling her her name
and soon the operator recognized the name and asked her to sit down
for a minute and she rang the new programs department and told them
who was there and what was happening and soon there were a few people
trying to soothe Sara and convince her that she should go home and
she told them she was staying until she was knowing what show she was
going to be on and the water dripped down her face and clothes and
her red dress was wrinkled and wet and her babooshka was sliding down
the back of her head and Sara Goldfarb looked like a pitiful and
soggy bag of misery and despair and she slowly sank into a chair and
her tears started to mingle with the melted sleet that was dripping
down her face and falling onto the bodice of her red dress, the gown
she wore at Harrys bar mitzvah, and someone got her a cup of hot soup
and told her to sip it and held it for her so she could get some
warmth in her and a couple of the other girls helped her into a small
office and tried to soothe her and someone called a doctor and soon
an ambulance was on its way and Sara sat crumpled and wet in the
chair, sobbing and telling them she'll give it already to the poor, I
dont want the prizes, itll make somebody happy, I just want to be on
the show Im waiting so long to be on with Harry and my grandson, and
they tried to explain that only a few people are picked and then they
tried to soothe her by telling her it takes time, maybe soon, but her
sobs continued and from time to time the hot soup was put to her lips
and she sipped some and then the two ambulance attendants came and
looked at her for a moment and talked to her gently and soothingly,
asking her if she could walk, and she told them she was always
walking across the stage, they should see her Harry on the six oclock
news, and when they asked her name one of the girls told them it was
Sara Goldfarb and Sara said Little Red Riding Hood and Im going jpsy
pipsy to the announcer, and she sat back down and sobbed and sobbed
and then, in time, quieted slightly and asked them to call Seymour,
he should come get her at the beauty parlor, and the attendants
helped her up and slowly walked her to the elevator, and down to the
ambulance, and started the ride through the traffic and weather to
Bellevue.

Fortunately Sara was unaware of her surroundings, the
crowded corridors and rooms, the rushing people, the cries of pain,
the moans and groans and pleas did not penetrate her ears and the
battered, sickened and bleeding bodies didnt register on her eyes.
Her illness insulated her and she had all she could bear, being
isolated in the cocoon of her pain. She was put in a wheelchair as
forms were filled in and a medical doctor looked at her briefly and
read the report of the ambulance attendants, then sent her to psycho,
and she was wheeled down corridors and put on another line and after
another hour or so she was wheeled into a room and a doctor glanced
at her briefly, then quickly scanned the forms hanging from her
wheelchair and he asked her her name and she started to cry and tried
to tell him about Harry and the television show and he gave her a new
set and she would be on for the poor people and he nodded and quickly
scribbled a note that she was paranoid schizophrenic and she should
be examined more thoroughly, but shock treatment was definitely
indicated. He called the attendant and Sara was wheeled to another
line. After many more hours Sara was finally wheeled to a bed in the
corridor of the locked ward. Some patients were shuffling around,
their expressions blank from heavy doses of tranquilizers, others
roamed around in straitjackets and others were strapped in their beds
alternately screaming, crying and pleading. Sara lay flat on her
back, staring at the ceiling, sobbing from time to time, her own
misery protecting her from that of the others. Eventually a young
medical resident stood at the foot of her bed. He was tired and
yawned as he read her chart. He frowned when he read the comments of
the admitting doctors and saw their names. He looked at her for a
moment, then spoke to her soothingly as he examined her slowly and
carefully. Occasionally Sara responded with an answer and he smiled
and patted her hand reassuringly. He listened to her chest, then
asked her to sit up and listened to her back and he asked her to
raise her arms and bend her fingers and he noticed the flesh hanging
from her upper arms and looked again at the hollows around her eyes
and her neck and asked her if she had had a heart attack recently.
No, its beating very hard. Yes, I noticed, and he continued to smile
at her reassuringly. You look like you lost a lot of weight recently
momma. She smiled, Yes, Im wearing my red dress on the television. He
listened, patted her hand, called her momma, continually smiling and
gently and patiently questioned her and eventually she told him about
the weight, the doctor, the pills, and many, many times, about
Seymour, her Harry and the television. Okay momma, everything will be
alright—patting her hand reassuringly— we'll fix you up in no
time. Would you like a glass of tea? grinning at her then chuckling
as she smiled and nodded her head, You're a good boy Harry.