We Only Know So Much (7 page)

eleven

I
t’s been several weeks now since James’s death. Almost everything Jean sees now is filtered through a hazy lens of James hanging from the bar in their cabin. Imagine: you’re making microwave popcorn, and on the door of the microwave is a transparent film with an image of your dead lover hanging from a beam overhead, his belt around his neck, his feet just a foot from the floor, eleven inches actually, according to the coroner’s report, eleven inches from salvation. Or imagine driving to school to pick up your son. On the windshield, a projection of the same. James’s pants hanging loosely, beltlessly around his hips, worn work boots pointed slightly down, hovering over the windshield wipers, eleven inches from the floor. Your husband, delivering a speech about the history of clowns, behind a husband-sized image of your lover, his thick, shiny black hair hanging over his face, probably a good thing, that, since it hides a bit of his eyes, which are only half-closed. Watching the nightly news, the field reporters, talking about traffic backups, slightly visible behind your hanging lover, hoping day after day to hear that this was all a terrible mistake, that it was some doppelgänger of your lover, that though this means your lover left you, at least he’s not dead.

Very few days have gone by where Jean has had any relief from her thoughts about what happened to James. She sees things in eleven-inch measurements now.
Hm, this drinking glass is eleven inches tall. If this drinking glass had been underneath James, he could have lived. This candle could have saved James’s life. That pile of books. This lamp is about eleven inches. This folding umbrella. If I had been there, and just put this little folding umbrella under his feet. A Barbie doll is about eleven inches. This vibrator or this ruler would have saved him by a whole inch.
And so on. Accordingly, this is what Jean hears repeatedly when people talk:
eleven inches from the floor
. It’s like that thing where you open your fortune cookie after you’ve had Chinese food, and you read it out loud and then you say “In bed.” Or, like with Otis’s version, “In your butt.”
Pass the butter eleven inches from the floor. Caterina eats jelly beans eleven inches from the floor. Baby Freak eleven inches from the floor. Mom tell Priscilla to quit it eleven inches from the floor. Mom tell Baby Freak to stop being a Baby Freak eleven inches from the floor. Did you know that, in the Deep South, nutria is often served in gumbo, along with okra, eleven inches from the floor? I heard that on ‘Paula Deen’ eleven inches from the floor. Eleven inches from the floor, eleven inches from the floor. Eleven inches from the floor.

Today, Jean is looking at the note again. She has already spent entire days on analysis of the note, the piece of paper, folded in two, written with a black grease pencil
.
I’m sorry.
Just like that, with a period. Jean has reviewed, is reviewing, will review the few details of the note in her mind many, many times. Sorry? He’s sorry? Sorry is for
I broke your coffee mug
, not for
I wrapped a belt around my neck and jumped off a chair.
The single period after
sorry
will receive mental scrutiny the likes of which no lone mark of punctuation has ever known. Could it have been the beginning of an ellipsis? If it was, what was that drifting off meant to indicate? A sigh? Sorrow? Regret? Hesitation? Could he have cut some lengthy explanation, something that could possibly have justified this terrible, terrible choice? She can’t think of what that could be, unless he found out that he carried a flesh-eating disease that would kill millions of people, or that he was radioactive or something. Jean keeps coming back to the ellipsis theory because she can’t attach any possible meaning to the period by itself. She had never doubted his love. But why on earth would someone do such a hateful thing to someone he loved, why would he leave her, why would he make her see this, why? Could he have been cheating on Jean, and that’s why he hung himself? Why no explanation? Was there any possibility that his love wasn’t true? No. No way. No way. No way. No.

Jean doesn’t have a lot of close friends, certainly not one she’d talk to about this. She has not told one soul about the affair. Not one soul.

She had believed what James told her about himself, about herself, about everything. She also believed he held nothing back—which was, of course, where she went wrong. Jean has a small envelope with his love notes and Polaroids they’d taken of themselves, which she keeps hidden inside a copy of
More
magazine in her nightstand. Gordon never looks over there, and if he did for sure he wouldn’t look at
More
magazine. Jean goes through the Polaroids one by one, lingering in each precious memory: the time they went for a hike and she’d gotten poison ivy and he so lovingly daubed her ankles with calamine lotion, the time they almost took nude photos of each other but giggled too much to go through with it, the time they pretended they were in Paris wearing berets. They both look so happy and content in the photos. Is there any bit of tension near his mouth, around his eyes? She sees nothing. She wipes away tears before beginning an online search for information about suicide. Maybe she’ll get some answers.

After skimming over a lot of information she’s mostly familiar with, she comes across a blog full of horrifying photos. They’re not photos of James, thank god—not that it would make any difference, imprinted in her mind as that image is—but photos of suicides, a chronicle of crime scene photos under the title Gruesome Moments. The masthead design features a Precious Moments figurine with a noose around its neck. Not funny. Jean’s stomach turns over. Who in the name of everything good would do such a thing? She knows she should just move on; she’s seen it in real life and hasn’t forgotten. But she’s burning right now thinking about the sick mind that would do something like this; she’s on fire to find this horrible person and destroy him. Jean drafts a lengthy comment.
These people were in pain, you evil motherfucker.
Jean has used the word “fuck” about four times in her life before this, three of them usually referring to something someone else had said, and in those times, were uttered entirely awkwardly.
I will find you and hang you and take your photo and post it online, you sick fucking psycho. May god have mercy on your soul. No. I take that back. May god have no mercy on your soul.
Jean begins to cry again. She has no idea where this rage is coming from and she doesn’t like it, wants it out. Maybe it’s time to get some help, she thinks.

twelve

F
or his seventy-fifth birthday, the family had thrown Theodore a party. Vivian had not been thrilled about this idea—a birthday party for a grown man, such a fuss. But the grandkids made a big sign, decorated the dining room with streamers and balloons even, and finally Vivian agreed to bake a chocolate layer cake with fresh strawberry filling, his favorite since he was a boy. After the cake was served, Theodore had stood up to read “Sailing to Byzantium,” a poem that he said had been a favorite of his since he was a child. But he choked up on the phrase “a tattered coat,” and passed the poem to Jean, whose reading was so lovely she seemed born to do it. Gordon had held no small admiration for Jean in this moment, noticing an elegance he hadn’t seen in her before, how poised her posture was, how present she seemed, though he failed to mention any of this afterward. Theodore sobbed loudly through the remainder of the reading, and when Jean was done he stood up once more for a toast.

I just want to say how much I love every single person in this family
, he said, raising his glass,
even those who aren’t present. My beloved wife, Laura
, he said, taking a big gulp of air as tears began to pour down his face,
who I miss so much and who took such good care of me all of our life together
.

Everyone at the table squirmed in their seats. Vivian desperately wanted to get up at the first mention of Laura, opened her mouth to ask if anyone wanted more coffee, but withdrew when Gordon shook his head in her direction. Gordon, no more comfortable than anyone else, distracted himself thinking about an upcoming work retreat. Jean, at least, had a slight tear in her eye.

Theodore took a huge gulp of air and continued.

My wonderful, generous son, and Jean, my lovely daughter-in-law
—
well, Gordon, you chose very, very well
.
My beautiful grandchildren, you have given me precious memories. And my loving father and mother . . .
Theodore trailed off, sobbing too hard to continue.

Unilaterally, the family was stunned. Jean found Theodore’s speech sweet, even got a little misty herself, but the rest of the Copelands froze. Priscilla was so uncomfortable that she volunteered to clear the plates, just to give her an excuse to get up from the table.

Vivian knew she should have been more vocal about the whole party from the start. Not to restate the obvious, but we might mention again that Vivian hadn’t had but the one birthday party as a kid, which she’d repeatedly claimed had not bothered her.
It wasn’t the popular thing in those days, you see
, she always said, though that wasn’t altogether true. Baron had always made a point of taking her out to dinner on her birthday, giving her flowers and jewelry, even taking her to Europe, but had never in all their years together given her a party, at her request. He had not known it was a request she’d wished he’d ignored, just once.

A TYPICAL THEODORE DAY now:

Much of Theodore’s daily life is as it always was. Here’s what’s the same: He gets up early, still in his pjs, brings in the paper, fixes himself breakfast, usually cereal, followed an hour later by a low-fat ice cream pop, followed every ten minutes by some small treat, a piece of chocolate, a cookie, a handful of nuts, a low-cal Popsicle. He sits at the table with the paper, turns on one of the morning news shows, maybe CNN or one of those. Works on the crossword. Goes to his desk to do some work there for an hour. Couple hours later, goes in to take a shower, get dressed. Jean might come in to see if he wants his lunch fixed, but if she comes in after 10:30 a.m., it’s likely he’s already fixed and eaten it himself. Not that there’s anything wrong with two lunches now and again. Changes channels on the TV, maybe to a channel playing old Westerns, maybe to an
Andy Griffith
marathon. A classic. Takes a short nap. Putters around (his words) for a while, an hour or two or three at his desk. Continues to snack. Goes into the main house for dinner with the family around 5:15, which Jean will usually prepare, and the evening news at 5:30. He has watched the
CBS Evening News
for more than fifty years, even though he still misses Cronkite, hated Katie Couric, doesn’t even know the name of the new guy. After this, maybe a game; after this, bed. In the years before he retired, you would have added in work, but really, a lot of the content would be remarkably similar.

What’s different now: Okay, so Theodore has always had a sweet tooth, and as the years have progressed, he’s started eating sweets earlier and earlier in the day. Now, however, there’s a combination of things going on. His sweet tooth hasn’t gone away, but because of his memory issues, he sometimes forgets that he’s already eaten a piece of chocolate and starts to yearn for another one. There’s some gray area here, of course, as Theodore was always inclined to consume a fair amount of chocolate throughout the day. But now, as often as not, he eats another piece of chocolate because he’s forgotten about the one he ate ten minutes earlier. If Jean’s in the room, she’ll gently point it out, and he’ll protest weakly, but this will only shave off maybe two or three extra pieces of chocolate in Theodore’s ten-to-twenty-piece day.

He scans the paper, but no longer reads it closely. That’s different. Theodore used to read a great deal of the local paper. He cuts articles, coupons, and ads out of the paper, just as he always has, but these days he tends to nick himself with the scissors, as his hands are pretty shaky.

Subsequent to this, he puts the clippings in piles. Piles that only grow. Efforts to reduce the size of the piles have been made by both Jean and Gordon (Vivian does not like the mess, but won’t have anything to do with it), but any lowered piles are quickly built back up taller than they were before, or they get sifted through and moved around to generate entirely new piles. This, too, has been going on for years, but now Theodore cannot say what exactly any given pile means.

Also: whatever’s on the TV doesn’t get watched all that much. Often Theodore nods out briefly (in large part because of the medications he takes every four hours), or turns his attention outside. He may add a few words to the crossword before getting distracted by whatever’s outside, but will say, as he always did before handing it over to someone else,
There may be a wrong word or two in there
. In fact, the few words he adds are usually right, but there are more wrong words now than there used to be.

As regards
work
and
puttering
: These activities, once distinct, are basically synonymous now. They primarily involve the aforementioned paper-moving, but also include the careful examination of rocks, the careful observation of critters, another look at his box of medals, and taking things apart.

Theodore has written a draft of an academic paper on optometry that he claims he’s still working on, but it’s been a while since he’s changed more than a word or two. In the years before his illness, he had lectured on the subject at numerous colleges and universities, had always been well-received at these events, somehow managing to inject humor as well as insight into his subject matter. He reads his intro to the sitter. She doesn’t know much about optometry, doesn’t really know whether it’s any good or not, nods and smiles, says
Sounds great!
, goes back to dusting.
Of course, it hasn’t been accepted yet, but I think it’s some of my best work yet.
The truth is that it hasn’t been accepted because he hasn’t submitted it. Theodore hasn’t sent an email in months, and doesn’t go to the post office alone, isn’t allowed to go anywhere alone now, and until recently Jean’s been trying to keep on top of the paper situation so he doesn’t embarrass himself.

Other things added to the day: a wheelchair, a walker, and a sitter. The sitter, who also does some light housecleaning, is an older lady from down the street, though not as old as Theodore; she comes in for a few hours each day, cleans, and makes sure Theodore doesn’t hurt himself. But that’s about the extent of it. If she gets the house clean, she watches TV to fill up the time, maybe fixes the elders a snack. Sometimes she’ll set up a table with a five-hundred-piece puzzle before she leaves. Theodore always used to enjoy a puzzle, but cannot get two pieces together now. He’ll try though. For an hour.

Something else he used to love but no longer does at all: read. Theodore used to read about a book a day, Westerns and mysteries were his favorites, but also the occasional
highfalutin
titles, a Bellow or an Updike. At some point, his ability to focus, to move from sentence to sentence, fell away, and he lost interest; now he doesn’t even think about it. It’s kind of the same with the TV. Theodore used to highlight his week’s programming in the
TV Guide
. He had his favorite shows, and always looked forward to the New Fall Season issue in the hopes of adding a new one or two. Jean dropped his subscription a year ago, knowing he hadn’t been looking at it, and Theodore hardly seemed to notice.

What’s in Theodore’s mind? We think it’s something like this:

I’m hungry. (Opens freezer.) Ice. Peas. Frozen dinners. Ice cream pop. (Retrieves chocolate-coated ice cream pop from freezer. Struggles with wrapper.) These wrappers are a little harder than they used to be to open. (Eats ice cream, opens newspaper on table, gets bits of chocolate on chin, paper.) Local teen. Complications. Iraq. 20 percent off. Cinema. Dilbert. (Looks up, out window.) Oh, look, there’s a ground squirrel, carrying a nut. Or maybe that’s an acorn. And a cardinal. I wonder if the cardinal sees the ground squirrel. Op, there goes the cardinal. Oh, there’s a little frog on the edge of the pond. Op! In the pond. There goes the ground squirrel, under a bush. But he dropped his nut. Or acorn. Maybe he’ll come back to get it. I should go get my camera. (Gets camera, comes back. Waits. Falls asleep for a minute. Wakes up, sees squirrel again.) Op, there he goes, there he goes! (Sits and waits for twenty minutes.) This is where we have to admit we don’t have complete access. We imagine these longer silent periods are just blank. We wonder when, if, he thinks about his wife, who he had loved so. We just don’t know. But the rest of it, we’re sure that if it’s not exactly like this, it’s close.