Edgar and Lucy Read online

  The baby was still crying. What was she doing, loitering in the hallway? She touched Pio lightly with her foot, but he didn’t move. When she asked if he was okay, he replied, with a wave of his hand, that she should leave him alone. She stepped over his body and hurried down to the kitchen. She took the key from her apron pocket, came back upstairs, stepped again over her fallen husband, and inserted the key into the padlock.

  The air in the room was humid, as if the child’s cries were a kind of weather. Florence locked the door. When she picked up Edgar and bounced him lightly in her arms, the worst of his wailing stopped, though his face remained a terrible red shrivel and his breathing jerked in and out like a tiny handsaw. The child looked up at the old woman. What could she say? She kissed him three times on his forehead. With each kiss, she willed peace into his brain. It was late, the child needed to sleep. As she set him down in his crib, he flailed his arms with agitation and trumpeted his discontent. “Oh, no no no,” she said. “Nana’s here”—lifting him again and carrying him to the soft nursing chair by the window. Only then did she realize she’d forgotten the bottle of Lucy’s pumped milk from the refrigerator. It didn’t matter, though; the child wasn’t hungry—Florence could tell. He simply needed to be held. “It’s okay,” she said. She kissed him again. “Silly people, all gone,” she reassured him.

  The room was sweltering. Holding Edgar carefully with one arm, she undid the top buttons of her nightgown. The baby watched her. “Nana’s melting,” she said. Nana was the name she’d given herself, but, later, when the boy began to speak, he seemed to prefer Gramma. He’d learned it from Lucy. Go to Gramma; give it to Gramma; Mommy’s going out for a bit, stay with Gramma.

  Florence felt better now with her nightgown open. The child reached out the white dumpling of his hand and knocked at the loosed flaps. “What do you need?” she asked. A tear fell from her eye and landed on the baby’s lips. He flailed his arms more insistently.

  Florence, understanding, undid her nightgown more fully. Damn them all.

  No milk came, but as the boy suckled he looked at his grandmother with a profound expression of relief. Florence closed her eyes.

  Stella stellina,

  la notte si avvicina,

  la fiamma traballa,

  la mucca é nella stalla.

  From the stove, Edgar could hear his grandmother singing behind him. As he turned to look at her, he was astonished to see that she was touching one of her boobies. The song seemed familiar, though it wasn’t in English. Sometimes, for no reason, his grandmother spoke her other language. Edgar didn’t like it. It sounded kooky. As he set the platter of blackened meatballs on the table, his grandmother opened her eyes and burst into tears.

  Edgar was about to apologize for his poor cooking skills when he heard the front door open—and then the peanut-buttery voice of his mother. “I’m home!”

  Lucy gasped when she entered the kitchen and saw Florence crying and the boy’s shirt covered with a huge blood-red splotch. “Oh my God, what happened?” She rushed over to the table and touched Edgar’s tomato-sauce wound. As if she’d pressed a secret button, the boy, too, erupted into tears.

  “I burnt the meatballs,” he wailed.

  “He’s fine,” the old woman said, pulling herself together. She reached out her hand and patted Edgar’s face. “Aren’t you fine?”

  Edgar nodded, rubbing his eyes. “She was teaching me to cook,” he squeaked to his mother.

  “Yes,” Florence said, going with Edgar’s story. “He has to learn sometime.”

  Lucy glanced around the room, checking for party hats (she knew it was Frank’s birthday and suspected Florence might be up to her old games). “I have to pee,” she said, leaving the kitchen.

  “We have to talk,” Florence called out. And then she turned to the boy, stroked his hair. “But first we’ll eat this lovely dinner you made us.”

  “It won’t be any good,” he said, still sniffling.

  “It’ll be delicious,” the old woman replied. “Here”—she handed him a napkin. “Wipe your nose.”

  9

  Boo-Boo Bag

  Driving at night was a loneliness made bearable. Lucy liked it best, very late, when all the porch lights and lampposts were dark, as if whatever virtue existed in other people’s houses had been snuffed out, too. At such hours there was a democracy of loneliness; one felt the smog of it to be equitably distributed.

  Lucy reached across to the passenger seat and pulled her handbag closer. Earlier she’d cashed her paycheck; the money was in her wallet. That, on top of the day’s tips, added up to something. She could stop driving whenever she wanted, should she get thirsty. She could go to Nicky’s or the Red Hen or Slaphappy’s. She could even get on the Turnpike, make her way to one of the airport hotels, join the company of those lucky insomniacs waiting for an early-morning flight. At airport bars, you could pretend to be anyone. Who, me? I’m off to Brazil, she’d say to the businessman next to her. I love Brazil, he’d reply, slurring enthusiastically—Brazil is fucking amazing.

  Maybe she wouldn’t spend the money on booze, but rather on a few tanks of gas. Drive aimlessly until she was thoroughly lost, unable to find her way home. Drive until there were cornfields and cows and old men on tractors.

  Every time she dreamed of escape, though, something twinged in her side: that damned elastic strap that connected her to Florence’s house. It seemed capable of stretching endlessly; though surely, at some point, it would break—the loosed cord snapping back to hit the old woman flat in the face.

  The nerve of the old bitch. Treating Lucy like she was a teenager in need of a curfew or a cold shower. Florence needed to get a fucking hobby, something other than Edgar. Other than sticking her nose into Lucy’s private affairs.

  Earlier, when Florence had brought up the fact that Lucy hadn’t come home the night before, Florence had tried her best to pass it off as concern. “Everything all right, dear?” When Lucy replied, “Just a date,” the old woman had smiled affably and said, “Oh, very nice.”

  All through dinner Florence had maintained a thin veneer of pleasantness—though Lucy could see the effort it cost her. After the meal—a disgusting offering of mushy pasta and burnt meatballs—Edgar was excused, and Florence suggested that she and Lucy have some demitasse. At the mention of it, Lucy knew she was in trouble. Since Pio had passed away, Florence rarely made demitasse. Lucy understood the old-world politeness to be, in this case, the equivalent of one last cigarette before she was shoved before the firing squad. In the living room, with the tiny cups in their hands, Florence began her interrogation. The questions were short and direct, and Lucy, in turn, delivered her answers in as few words as possible.

  “And who is this man?”

  “A butcher.”

  “From where?”

  “Not far.”

  Florence sipped. Lucy sipped.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ron.”

  “Ron what?”

  “Salvatore. He owns the shop.”

  “Salvatore’s Meats?” The old woman pursed her lips.

  Lucy nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “We don’t get our meat there,” Florence said.

  “Would you prefer I date your butcher?” replied Lucy.

  “Haven’t you?”

  It went on like this, quip for quip, until the two women were speaking in strangely high voices that sounded, to Edgar—who was hiding at the top of the stairs—exactly like Beep and Tweep, the rivalrous cartoon parakeets from The Beep and Tweep Show. The tension had started while the two women were attempting to eat the horrible dinner Edgar had prepared. When the old woman first bit into one of the shriveled meatballs, she smacked her lips approvingly but suggested a salad might be in order. She sent Edgar into the yard with a flashlight to pick some tomatoes. Soon they’d be gone, she said. “Pick as many as you can find.” When the boy returned with three enormous beauties, his mother and grandmother looked up at him with
such phony smiles that Edgar was certain they were going to kill each other before the meal was through. As the boy watched them chew and swallow, dutifully eating what was indisputably inedible, he felt sick to his stomach—even as he spit each of his own small bites discreetly into a napkin. Dinner had passed slowly, in eerie civility. But later, from the top of the stairs, Edgar clenched his fists as all hell broke loose below.

  “Should I never fuck someone again?” Beep said.

  “Language,” said Tweep.

  “You want everyone to live in a friggin’ wax museum.”

  “I want respect. This is my house.”

  “I help pay for this shit.”

  “Keep your voice down, Lucille.”

  “Why? As if the kid doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “Well, you don’t have to rub his face in it.”

  “What did I—”

  “Vodka on the coffee table, cigarettes. Is that what you want him to see? What are you teaching him with things like that? What’s he supposed to think?”

  “Whatever you tell him, I guess.”

  “I keep my mouth shut. I don’t say a word.”

  “Please. You twist his fucking mind.”

  “Again with the language!”

  Edgar felt that perhaps he should be writing all of this down, like one of those ladies in the corner of a courtroom. What if somebody wanted to know, one day, the story of his life? He’d have to remember things like this.

  “What were the two of you up to when I got home?” he heard his mother say.

  “I told you, I was teaching him to cook.”

  “Why was he crying?”

  “He’s a crier, he’s sensitive.”

  “Having another little party, were you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play games. I know what day it is, Florence.”

  “Oh, do you? Is that why you went out with some stranger? Is that how you pay your respects? Staying out all night. Acting like a…”

  “Like a what?”

  “Not like a wife, that’s all I know.”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  “Not like a mother.”

  “Fuck you.”

  When Edgar heard the slap, he jumped. Before he knew what he was doing, he was running down the stairs. In the living room he saw the tiny cup on the floor, the brown stain on the pale carpet. The women looked up at him. Both their faces were red; it was impossible to tell who’d been slapped. Edgar hesitated, not knowing if he should move any closer. His mother’s hands were trembling, and his grandmother wasn’t breathing right. He looked from one to the other, and then back to the doll cup on the floor. When he lifted his head again for an answer of some sort, habit and instinct returned him to the old woman’s face. His mother was a burning planet to his left. Edgar felt the heat.

  “That’s right,” Lucy said. “Go to Grandma.”

  Something was peculiar about how she’d said it. When Edgar turned to her, she spoke again, her voice strikingly unkind. “Go on. Go to her.”

  But Edgar didn’t move. He kept his eyes on his mother now, even as the horror-movie sound of his grandmother’s breath troubled his ear.

  “I’m leaving,” Lucy said, turning away.

  “No.” Edgar rushed to her side. After everything that had happened today, he had a funny feeling. What if she meant forever? He grabbed her hand.

  “Leave her alone,” the old woman hissed, and the boy, to everyone’s surprise, obeyed.

  Strangely, the gesture of releasing his mother’s hand seemed to have more power to hold her in the room than when he’d clutched her. She stopped moving and turned to him. In the silence between them, Edgar felt like an actor who’d forgotten his line.

  Was his mother crying? It was hard to tell. The tears were just enough to fill her eyes, but not enough to fall. Worse than the tears, though, was the way his mother shook her head in disgust. It was exactly how Mr. Brunelli, the phys ed teacher, shook his head when Edgar tripped or fumbled a ball.

  He should not have let go of his mother’s hand. He knew that now. It was a terrible terrible mistake. The boy had an urge to punch himself in the stomach to prove his loyalty.

  Florence, watching the scene, felt that all of it had happened before. The boy, the mother, the dark stain on the carpet. If not this slap, this violence, then another one. She felt, suddenly, a fear that all things, all people, were interchangeable in the cruel mechanics of the universe. As she collapsed into the armchair, an almost painful boredom seared her heart. The endless repetitions within a single life, like some bedeviling trick with mirrors. When she heard a car pulling away, Florence returned to her body, only to realize she was now alone in the room.

  “Edgar!” She tried to stand, but her knees locked.

  Had she really slapped the girl? Strangely, the aftermath of her small violence was a wish to wrap Lucy in her arms, to clutch her until all desire for flight had been exhausted.

  But the girl was already gone. Why, Florence wondered, were people so impatient? Didn’t they realize that love was slow, shy, baffled half the time by pride? The girl should have recognized what was in Florence’s heart, even if Florence had not yet expressed it.

  “Edgar!” she cried out again, now certain that the girl had taken him.

  When the boy reappeared, Florence wheezed with relief. She held out her hand. “Come here, baby. Help me up.”

  But the boy stayed where he was, hovering like a dark elf in the shadow of the entryway. She couldn’t see his face. Again she shook her hand, demanding he move out of the darkness and come to where the light was better.

  Edgar watched her breathe in fits and starts, and wondered if she was pretending. If it was just some trick to make him go to her.

  “Go to Grandma,” his mother had said, as if she knew him better than he knew himself, as if everything he would ever do was already written.

  “She left,” the boy said, keeping his distance.

  “Yes. It’s okay. Come here.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  Edgar stared at the old woman, waiting for an explanation.

  “This is between grown-ups,” she said. “It’s”—hiccup of breath—“nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Why are you doing that?” the boy said with sudden force. He couldn’t stand another minute of his grandmother panting like a dog.

  “What am I doing? And stop hovering in the doorway, I can hardly see you.”

  “She drove away.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Doesn’t she always come back?”

  Edgar barely shrugged.

  “Of course she does.”

  “She made marks on the driveway,” the boy said, his voice rising again.

  “Where are you going? Edgar.”

  The boy returned to the front door, which was still open. In the glare of the outdoor lights, he looked again at the black chars on the driveway. His grandmother was shouting something behind him. When he returned to the living room, she was standing, leaning on the chair for support.

  “What’s gotten into you?” she said.

  Edgar lifted his foot to stamp it, but only held it there before letting it fall gently back to the carpet.

  “They could kill her, too.”

  “Kill who?” The old woman touched her neck, which was damp with sweat.

  “Her,” the boy insisted.

  “Your mother?”

  Air rushed from the boy’s mouth. “If they killed him.”

  “Oh my God,” Florence said, falling back into the soft chair with a thud. “No one’s killing anyone tonight.” What had she said to the boy? She couldn’t remember now.

  “Did they ever catch who did it?”

  “Oh my God,” Florence said again. “You just forget about all that.” She closed her eyes and begged silently for forgiveness. Whatever seed she’d
planted in the boy’s mind had already bolted into bloom. “You don’t know anything,” she said softly, as if she could mesmer, the boy into forgetfulness.

  But Edgar took umbrage. “I know things,” he said sharply.

  “Of course you do. I’m only saying there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Edgar was suddenly beside himself with fury. He marched over to the old woman and pulled up his sleeve. “Look,” he said.

  “What? What are you doing?”

  “Look!” He brandished Supersluts.com right before Florence’s face.

  “What is that? I can’t see. Get me my glasses.”

  Edgar, regretting his rashness, tried to pull away. But the old woman held tight. She leaned in to inspect his arm.

  “Did you cut yourself?”

  “No,” he said, still trying to extricate himself.

  “You scratched yourself in the woods, didn’t you? What did I tell you about traipsing around in there?”

  “It’s not scratches.”

  “I can see it,” she said. “It’s all red. Why didn’t you show me this when you got home? Do you want to get an infection?”

  “I’m not hurt!”

  “Go and get my boo-boo bag,” his grandmother ordered.

  Edgar’s rage slumped into exhaustion before the insult of his grandmother’s blindness. “It’s not scratches,” he said again, but with less conviction. “It’s words.”

  “I can’t hear you when you mumble. Go and get my bag.”

  When the boy returned with the little Macy’s shopping bag his grandmother kept under the sink in the downstairs bathroom, he watched dolefully as she removed the contents and lined them up on the table beside her chair. Cotton balls, gauze pads, Band-Aids, a needle-nosed tube of ointment, a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a tiny one of Mercurochrome. The old woman took nothing more seriously than an injury to Edgar’s person. Even a mosquito bite was cause for alarm, requiring treatment with a cold compress, followed by calamine lotion.