“You’d just say, ‘Look, Dad, I felt really rejected when you went
to Paris without us in’ — what year was it?”
Pratik supplied the year, a detailed description of his emotional
state, and a theory about the roots of his father’s behavior. Yana
loved his explanation of the importance of pride for Bengalis,
reacting as though the desire to avoid embarrassment were an exotic
Eastern proclivity, and supplied I-statements for him to inflict.
She became increasingly calm, finally yawning a few times while
instructing him to put his anger on the table, or mat, if that was what
his family ate upon, and wandered back upstairs to sleep. Pratik
cleaned their dishes, touching the glass her lips had touched, giving
her a new private nickname: The Anger Manager, TAM for short,
and imagining how they’d laugh about it once they were married.
Jean
The night before the wedding, Jean made Bobby rent
Cool
Hand Luke.
Paul Newman was so sexy in the movie, but still, every
few minutes, she jumped up, wanting to check on something, not
sure what needed checking, thinking she heard the phone. She had
a headache, and, in the bathroom, stretched the wrinkles back from
her face. Was she supposed to feel bad about having been a tan, sexy
college student? What was God trying to tell her with wrinkling and
spotting and being sued by an ex-client and Bobby’s heart problems
and this pale and unfashionable sub-European who’d be walking
down the aisle tomorrow carrying the Strauss family Torah? Jean
had offered the Torah in a moment of weak-minded benevolence
upon hearing, back in February, that Milla had agreed to postpone
the wedding and get married in August instead of May. A lot could
have happened in those extra months, but hadn’t. To think: Jean had
given money to free Soviet Jews.
“Bobby,” she called from the bathroom, “Do you think we
should call the kids tomorrow to wake them up?” They were staying
at Jean and Bobby’s summer house, which was odd. Everyone knew
the bride and groom slept separately the night before. Everyone
knew about Hamptons traffic.
Bobby shuffled up to the door, not even trying to hold in his
stomach. Didn’t he realize that her stomach only looked all right
because she was always holding her breath? Why couldn’t he try to
be attractive for her? Either a man should be so naturally handsome,
like Paul Newman, that a few blemishes don’t matter, or a man
should make an effort. She had Bobby, who made a comment: “They
have an alarm clock.”
Jean walked to her dressing room, Bobby following. “They’re
kids,” she said, “They’ll never wake up on time. Maybe that’s —
okay.”
“Jean…” Bobby said.
Jean held her wedding outfit, a white silk shorts-suit, in front of
her body. “I should have had Ronette let out the bust more.”
“You can unbutton the top, right?”
“It’s much too small.” Another thing gone wrong. Life was an
errand, she had always told Malcolm. What she hadn’t told him, but
should have, was that errands were not easy. She tried her hardest at
everything, and look what happened.
“Try it on,” Bobby said. Jean lit her closet and went inside. At
her age, she wasn’t about to let Bobby see.
“Did you remember to lock it?” Bobby asked from outside, his
little joke.
She’d lost a little weight and so only the top button was a problem.
The halter drew attention to her arms, still tan from a conference in
Cozumel, and to her chest, which looked more freckled than age-
spotted. Jean was about to open the door when she caught sight of
her back: puffy, pale. She’d have to keep her jacket on tomorrow, that
was all. She tugged up the silk shorts (very special for a wedding,
Chloe at Saks had said) and opened the mirrored door, then hurriedly
reached behind herself and threw on the jacket.
“That looks real good,” Bobby said. Whenever he got excited,
he spoke like a blues musician. At least she’d distracted him from
telling her whatever he’d wanted to tell her before. And an orgasm,
if he could manage it, might help her sleep.
“Shall I get more comfortable, then?” Jean said in her best Grace
Kelly voice. Stepping away from the closet, she pulled the jacket
over her head and threw it at Bobby. He caught it, stretched it out,
pretended to play it like a guitar, and then neatly draped it over the
bureau. “Good job,” Jean said. “Very, very, good job.”
Malcolm
Malcolm awoke in his parents’ summer house and felt around
for his doubts, which he’d discussed at such length with his family,
his friends, his rabbi, his barber, his former Ascetic Philosophy
professor, this Buddhist guy who hung around New Haven selling
stemless carnations, his dentist, and this girl from high school he’d
run into at the drugstore. Miraculously, they’d disappeared.
Of course he’d be able to have a band and be married. Of course
he’d still be able to hang out with his friends. Milla wasn’t jealous.
He’d still flirt with girls. The only difference was, he’d have a home
girl waiting for him every night.
Of course, marriage was a two-way street. He’d do things to
make Milla happy, like cook, and encourage her to be more free,
and teach her about music. If Nietzsche had met him and Milla,
wouldn’t he have said they were those exceptional ones, who could
experience both true love and true friendship?
Lately, Milla had looked so different when she was awake, a
lumpy vein in her forehead, a wrinkle between her brows. That was
probably Malcolm’s fault: she could tell he had doubts, or perhaps
had even overheard him discussing them. He would do everything
he could to match her sleeping and waking faces. He would write
her a song.
Milla’s lips were small and pink, like a baby’s. Sandra had
always needed to wear lipstick, had smiled crookedly. In Platonic
terms, Milla was better.
Anyway, once he’d agreed with his mother that he had to return
to the States, Sandra had disappeared. She hadn’t even shown up at
the Sydney airport to say goodbye. All this had happened when he
was still a college kid. It felt so long ago. Also, Milla would have
shown up, closer to the ideal in that regard, as well.
His mother had been right: it would have been impossible to
sustain the kind of relationship that makes you want to drop out of
college. His love for Milla was a stable, growing love, a love like
moss.
Milla turned onto her stomach. Her hair was still frizzy from
the previous night’s rain, and she’d be worried when she saw it. He
would tell her she was beautiful. She needed her sleep, but he so
wanted to wake her up. The previous night, it had been cloudy, and
his thoughts had been cloudy, too, but this morning, all was clear.
Wake up, love. Your hair will un-frizz and we will be together always.
He lay on top of her, lifted some hair off her cheek, and kissed her.
“Wake up, beauty, wake up,” he whispered. It was a translation from
a famous line of Pushkin’s she’d recited to him once.
Milla’s head jerked and banged his cheek. She was instantly
awake. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, sprang into action like some kind of
fire nurse and ran to the kitchen for ice. “It doesn’t even hurt,” he
said, but let her press it to his face. That was another thing he could
do for Milla: let her take care of him.
Milla
Milla sat on an aluminum stool in the Eskimo Room and said,
“My wedding,” in a perky voice. The room had been closed for
several years, and most of the Eskimo dioramas were covered with
tarp. In a few places, the tarp had torn, and she could glimpse a
hooded head, an upraised arm. She hoped her grandmother Byata
would arrive soon.
After a few minutes, Jean Strauss speedwalked in, accompanied
by a very tall man with eyebrows like slashes over electric blue
eyes, wearing an embroidered robe over jeans. “Meet Dawa,” Jean
said.
Dawa stuck out his tongue.
“That’s a traditional Tibetan greeting,” Jean said. “See?” She
wiggled her own pointy tongue.
“Nice to meet you,” Milla said, standing up.
“Do it,” Jean said, and then, “Her tongue’s so big. Look how
thick it is.”
Dawa said, “It will bring your son great happiness.”
“Hmm,” Jean said.
Dawa grabbed the stools, lined them up in front of the window,
produced a tiny silver stereo, inserted an old George Michael CD,
and just as George was expounding on the necessity of faith, Julie
appeared.
Julie was wearing a navy bustier with diamond buttons in the
shape of X’s, as if inviting someone to kiss down their length. Dawa
and Jean stuck out their tongues. Milla hurried to place herself
between them and Julie, saying, “It’s Tibetan.”
“O-kay,” Julie said, a haughty, frightened Polish Valley girl.
Milla made introductions.
Julie said, “Is Johann Strauss the relative of yours?”
“Actually, yes,” Jean said.
Now Julie was attempting friendliness: “I and all Poland loves
waltz.”
“Huh.” Jean examined herself in the mirror. “Dawa, are my
eyebrows balding?”
Emboldened with the need to protect, Milla asked Dawa, “Can
we get a stool for Julie?”
“Dear, we have fifteen people about to come through here,” Jean
said.
“Is okay,” Julie said, and guided Milla to the stone bench in the
middle of the floor.
“But then how will you —” Julie untied the ribbons on her
sandals and kicked them off, knelt on the floor before Milla. “Let me
get you a pillow, at least,” Milla said. Julie pressed her leg to signal
she should stay seated, reached inside her suitcase, and took out a
small pillow covered in fiery poppy blossoms. The sight of Julie’s
lacy thighs amidst the poppies was too much for Milla. She could
not look at them again, but then, where to look? Not at Julie’s lips,
not at her eyes, not her at her collarbone, certainly not at her bustier
or those buttons. Milla settled for Julie’s left ear, thick and large, but
then found herself wondering whether the lobe would be sensitive.