The Bubble Reputation (25 page)

“And so, in ending, Dear Father, let me say—”

“He better not have a flat tire,” Mother said to Lloyd. “I want my chocolates.”

“Well, in that case,” said Lloyd, “amen.”

Miriam's face was rigid with anger. She peered at Uncle Bishop with stony eyes.

“Stop staring at me, Miriam,” Uncle Bishop said. “You look like Medusa when you do that. Are those curls sleeping snakes?”

“Excuse me, please,” Miriam said, and disappeared with her glass into the kitchen. She returned with a drink that looked more like watery rose than the cabernet it was. Dilution with rum was tricky alchemy. She put the glass on the table.

“How long have you been cooking, Uncle Bishop?” Carol asked. “This ham is delicious.” She would learn, even by the next Thanksgiving, not to ask such questions. This was the novice's question, this highway toward one of Uncle Bishop's food lectures. He tilted his head, as if thinking about what to say.

“Cooking is a strange ritual,” he said. Those who knew him ate their food, well aware that they would not need to respond. “Now, Rosemary here won't eat meat. But you must consider what prompted man to be carnivorous in the first place.”

Miriam hiccupped. She pushed her plate of food aside. From now on, it would be just the wine and rum.

“And what was that?” Carol asked, getting herself in deeper.

“He managed to survive the last Ice Age because he had fire in his possession,” Uncle Bishop continued. “But when it retreated, ten thousand years ago, he was forced to view things differently.”

Ten thousand years ago
, Rosemary thought, staring at
The Chinese Horse.
That had been a long, vicious lesson, that never-ending glaze. By the time the Ice Age curled backward, like an old tongue, man had been an artist already for at least ten thousand long, white, Stone Age winters.

“He had learned a lesson by the time the ice retreated,” Uncle Bishop went on. “He learned to depend less on plants and more on animals, to hunt
herds
of them, to follow the pack.”

“Rosemary, are you just gonna sit there and let him go on and on?” Miriam asked. “Can't you at least say something?”

Rosemary arched her shoulders into a shrug. “I think Sacco and Vanzetti were framed,” she said.
Fight
your
own
battles
, is what she didn't say to Miriam
. Dig out all the ammo you can, while there's still time for such things. That's something Sacco and Vanzetti learned too late
.

“Well, this has been an unusual Thanksgiving dinner,” said Lloyd. He rose over his barely touched plate and looked around the table at each of them, the most challenging flock he'd seen yet.

“Do you have my flashlight?” Mother asked, tugging at the pocket of his jacket.

“Perhaps, Miriam, we can talk another time,” Lloyd said. He put aside Mother's hand as it searched for imaginary things in his pocket. Miriam barely noticed him, so angry was she at Uncle Bishop.

“Our Miriam has always been religious,” Uncle Bishop said to Lloyd. “She's been turning red wine into white wine for years.”

“Gay blimp,” Miriam said. She turned to Carol. “And by
gay
I don't mean happy.”

“On that note then,” said Lloyd, “I'll be on my way.” Robbie went off to get his coat in an upstairs bedroom.

“Well, Miriam of Bath,” said Uncle Bishop. “Now that you've rebuked the Friar and entertained the company in doing so, is your tale finally over?”

“Do you think you can make it back down to Bixley?” Rosemary asked Lloyd. She wondered if even Jesus—albeit he had a reputation for doing acrobatics on water—could make his way over so much snow. But Lloyd nodded, obviously willing to risk it rather than stay behind with a family that would
frighten
Leo Tolstoy.

***

After dinner, Miriam fell asleep on the sofa in the den.

“I see Miriam's knockout drops are working,” Uncle Bishop said, and Rosemary nodded. She was watching her sister's face. Miriam's mouth had fallen open, in the midst of dreams, or so Rosemary imagined. But what would Miriam dream of? Would it be a dream of green clothing she'd yet to buy, or shamrocks, maybe, cool between the toes. Or money, green and crisp and spendable.

“Let's plant something in her mouth,” Uncle Bishop suggested. “Mushrooms grow in dark, moist places.”

“Poor Miriam,” said Rosemary. “What will she do next?”

“I've been thinking,” said Uncle Bishop. “With her penchant for men
and
for green, she might turn up one day with a leprechaun.”

With the fire going well and the food settling in their stomachs, the family gathered faithfully to listen to the ordeals of the Pilgrims, three and a half centuries old. Here were stories of other human beings, filtering down through the generations like slow starlight, wavering, curving, bending. Rosemary read slowly as the fire snapped and an occasional snore erupted from Miriam's open mouth.

“‘The gale persisted throughout the day and night, without any sign of letting up. Mary Allerton gave birth to a child at the height of the storm, but it was stillborn, probably because of the conditions aboard the restlessly pitching ship.'” The story struggled on, through the first dwellings, the first squabbles, the horrible spring plague.

“Here comes the part about the beer,” she heard Uncle Bishop whisper.

“‘The shortage of beer seems to have been a prime problem,'” Rosemary read on, “‘although there was little they could do to remedy the deficiency in the immediate future.'”

“The Budweiser truck got stuck in Boston traffic,” Uncle Bishop said, as he did every year, a part of the ritual now. “Have you ever driven in Boston?”

“‘During that dreadful spring, when so many had perished, they had still managed to sow some six acres of barley and peas, and twenty acres of Indian corn. The peas crop had failed, the barley was barely successful; but the Indian corn had done well.'”

“I
love
that ‘barley was barely' part,” Uncle Bishop said happily.

“Here comes the first Thanksgiving,” Robbie whispered to Carol, who took his hand in hers and stared into the fire as she listened.

“‘Four men had been sent out by the governor on a fowling expedition and had brought back enough to last the community a whole week. The happy planters had amused themselves with ground sport and a little musket drill, and then, with the arrival of Massasoit and about ninety of his braves, who brought five deer with them, they held a joint feast.'”

The reading was over for another year. Miriam snored loudly. The Pilgrims themselves had gone back to sleep. While Miriam slept, Uncle Bishop watched a tape he'd brought with him of
The
People's Court
, a show he'd missed earlier in the week.

“It should be good,” he told Rosemary and Robbie. “It's the one where the dog bites Doug Llewelyn. It isn't a reenactment, you know. Those are actual idiots.” He had, on a plate in his hands, a large wedge of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. Mrs. Fortney was before the fire, working out the last of her crossword puzzle, while Mother sat in her rocking chair and drew lighthouses on her magic slate. Winston had curled into a ball beneath Rosemary's telescope, safe from the world and the snow coming down outside.

While Carol went upstairs to shower, Robbie and Rosemary bundled up in coats and mittens and went out into the night. The snow was falling in thick flakes, white moths everywhere, tiny angels, fluttering.

“Carol is really having her period,” Robbie said, “and wants to lie down. Menstrual cramps.” Rosemary smiled. There were more cycles now in the old house, from menarche to menopause. And there was ovulation, too, with its little white eggs; those small children, unborn and unbroken; tiny, flawless pearls escaping from the ruptured graafian follicles. Escapes. Ruptures. Hair-raising journeys. There were worlds within worlds. There were galaxies and nebulas and white gassy stars within them all, little universes waiting to explode.

“I wish the stars were out,” Robbie said, his head craned back, his face skyward to the pelting snow.

“The stars are always there, silly,” Rosemary answered, and then caught a snowflake on her tongue. “You just can't see them tonight.” She looked up into the blackness of the Bixley night sky, looked toward the stars.

Telescopio, William,
she thought.
Pointillism. Seeing at a distance
. She decided that on the first snowless night she would christen the telescope, chilling her fingers, sending galaxies of warm breath into small, cold orbits. The telescope had been waiting to teach her, as Mrs. Waddell's library books were waiting.
Having a wonderful time, William,
Rosemary thought.
Wish you were here.

“Remember when we were children,” Robbie asked, “how we used to throw ourselves backward on the snow, then spread our arms and legs to make angels?”

“I'd forgotten that,” said Rosemary. “Let's make some.”

They spent a chilly half hour, their laughter ringing about the forms and shapes that lay waiting for spring. When they were done, the front yard was filled with a dozen life-size angels.

“Too bad Lloyd missed these,” Rosemary said, as they stood and surveyed their artwork. “This suggests a religious side to our natures he may have appreciated.”

“Where
does
she find them?” Robbie asked, and pulled one mitten off with his teeth. His fingers beneath were brimming red.

“Let's go in,” Rosemary said. Even as children, she was the first one to end their play, noticing how red his cheeks had become, his eyes watering.

“You're still mothering me,” Robbie said.

When they came back inside to warm themselves by the fire, Miriam was awake.

“Let's play charades,” Uncle Bishop begged, already past the unlucky circumstances of Doug Llewelyn's dog bite.

“Bishop, your entire life has been a charade,” said Miriam. “What with your impersonating a man and all.” She lit a cigarette. The nap had obviously rejuvenated her. She was back with a glass in her hand, another wine-rum. She was almost bubbly, perhaps even relieved to be rid of Lloyd. Sometimes even Miriam could see her own mistakes before they happened. And with Raymond now on the outs, she was in the midst of what Uncle Bishop referred to as her
auditioning
period.
Between husbands, the family had seen many candidates worse than Lloyd. Uncle Bishop pulled Rosemary aside.

“I've written a poem about Miriam's husbands,” he told her excitedly. “It's the same cadence as ‘The Night Before Christmas,' when Santa calls out to Dasher and Dancer and the other reindeer. I was saving it for Christmas dinner, but I'll tell
you.”
His eyes were bright with anticipation.

“Let's hear it,” Rosemary said. She leaned against the den wall and closed her eyes. Miriam and Uncle Bishop. Uncle Bishop and Miriam. They didn't need anyone else in their lives.

“There's Peter the salesman, and Maynard and Bill, and Raymond and God knows they all got their fill. To the preacher in spring, to the lawyer in fall, now divorce them, divorce them, divorce them all.”

Christmas would be the next family gathering. After that, they would probably assemble for Mother's funeral, the only difference being, perhaps, that no one present would ask for chocolates.

“How is Ralph?” Robbie asked Uncle Bishop, who was stroking Winston. Winston, in turn, was happily kneading the rug and appreciating the rub. The humans had their good sides, he had grown to realize.

“Very healthy, knock on wood,” Uncle Bishop said, knocking on the small measure of wood in the sofa's arm.

“Speaking of Ralph,” said Miriam. She exhaled a stream of gray smoke that funneled up past her French curls. “Bishop bought him a baby seat and strapped it into the Datsun. Is that or is that not reason to institutionalize?”

“And with Moses gone, how do you intend to part the snow long enough to get back to Bixley?” Uncle Bishop asked. “You call a cab, missy. And I'm
not
driving you and Broderick Crawford to the vet next week.”

Carol had come back down from upstairs to join the group. She was pale but looked happy and contented to be where she was. A good sign. “Some of us are nomads, Rosie,” William once said. “We're at home anywhere.”

“Broderick Crawford?” asked Carol.

“Don't be surprised if you get up one morning and discover that Ralph has lost his balls,” Miriam warned. She made her fingers work like scissors, cutting the air. “Then there will be
two
eunuchs living in your house.”

“I would've thought you already had your quota of male testicles,” said Uncle Bishop. “But if anything happens to Ralph, little Broderick Crawford will pray it's only a spaceship chasing him.”

“A spaceship chased Broderick Crawford?” Carol's eyes widened. Robbie gave her a glass of wine. Mother rocked in her chair, in frantic jerks, and stared into the fire. Not much had changed, Rosemary realized, with William gone. Some habits were hard to break.

“You've no idea,” Miriam said to Carol, “how much money Mother spent dry-cleaning Daddy's suits until we gave them to Goodwill.”

“Here's a toast,” said Rosemary. She was feeling warm from the wine, from the splendid fire. Everyone raised their glasses and waited. Mother stopped rocking to peer at this stranger who was her daughter. The nurse poured a little of her own wine into Mother's glass.

“Here's to our family,” Rosemary said.

“To the family,” Uncle Bishop seconded. Rosemary caught his eye and winked at him, her uncle, her dear old, odd friend, her compatriot. They drank the toast.