The New Yorker Stories (52 page)

H
enry was twenty, and for almost fifteen years of his life he had understood that he didn’t like his older brother, Gerald. His father, Carl, didn’t care that Henry didn’t get along with Gerald, but his mother, who thought the boys would grow into affection for each other, now asked more often what was wrong. Whenever Henry admitted that he disliked Gerald, his mother said, “Life is too short not to love your brother.” On this particular visit, Henry had told her that he didn’t actually dislike Gerald—he was indifferent. “This is no time to be indifferent,” she had said. Gerald was in the process of getting divorced. He had been married to a woman named Cora. Probably the nicest thing Henry could remember about her was that she had once praised him excessively and convincingly for changing a tire. The most embarrassing thing happened the time he shared a canoe with her on a water ride at an amusement park; thrown against her as the canoe turned and tilted, he had twice reached out reflexively to steady himself and made the mistake of grabbing her breast instead of her arm.

Henry and Gerald had just arrived, separately, at their parents’ house in Wilton. Gerald was already stretched out on a chaise, with his shirt off, drinking a gin-and-tonic, getting a tan. After Henry had done a little work around the yard, he reverted, as always, to being childish: he was drinking Coke and putting together a jigsaw puzzle.

It was Carl’s birthday. Henry had given his father a pair of swimming trunks patterned with a mishmash of hibiscus, hummingbirds, and something that looked like brown bananas. His mother had bought his father more weights for his barbell. Earlier in the day, two boxes had been delivered from the store. After the delivery boy lowered them to the kitchen floor, he had shaken his hands and then examined his palms. “God help me,” he said.

“Henry, darling,” his mother, Verna, said now. She had come out of the house and stood in front of the picnic table, where he was assembling a puzzle that would be a pizza all the way when he finished. She put a mug of iced tea next to him on the table. There were no glasses in the house—only mugs. He had never asked why. When she said “Henry, darling,” it meant that she was announcing her presence in case he wanted to talk. He didn’t. He pushed two pieces together. An anchovy overlapped a piece of green pepper.

“Thank you for trimming the hedge,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“I think that Gerald is more upset about the divorce than he lets on. A friend of Daddy’s called Gerald this morning to play golf, and he wouldn’t.”

Henry nodded. More to get away from Verna than to commiserate with his brother, he got up and walked across the lawn to where Gerald lay stretched out on the chaise, eyes closed. Gerald was only twenty-seven, but he looked older. There was a little roll of fat around the belt line of his khaki jeans. Henry knew that Gerald knew that he was standing there. Gerald didn’t open his eyes. An ant was running around the rim of Gerald’s gin-and-tonic. Henry brushed it in.

“Feel like going down to the driving range and hitting a couple of buckets?” Henry said.

“You know what I feel like?” Gerald said. “I feel like going to bed with somebody who’s beautiful and eighteen years old and who doesn’t ask a million questions.”

“You care if it’s a girl?” Henry said.

“Ha, ha,” Gerald said.

“What questions?” Henry said.

“About everything I ever did or thought before I got into bed with her, and what I’m going to act like and what I’m going to think the minute I stand up.”

Henry sat on the grass, pulled a blade, and chewed on the end. Then he tossed it away and walked down the sloping lawn to where his mother stood, shaking insecticide onto rose leaves.

“He’s pretty sad,” Henry said. “But he’s been thinking about things. He says he’s going to church on Sunday.”

“Church?” his mother said.

The sun shone through the green visor his mother was wearing. Her face was yellow.

Henry went back onto the porch to get out of the sun. Through the front screen he saw the newly cut grass, the level privet hedge that bordered the front lawn. In front of the walk, the street was empty. He tried to imagine Sally’s rusty beige Ford parked there.

No one in the family approved of Sally, the woman he loved. She had been his graphic-design teacher. She was thirty-three, divorced, and had an eight-year-old daughter named Laurel, who wasn’t at all charming; the girl wore thick glasses and usually stood behind, or right alongside, her mother. The child’s skin, in full sun, was as pale as sand. She often had rashes and mosquito bites that she scratched until they got scabs. Henry and Sally had become lovers a few months ago, and recently he had been staying with her at the loft she was subletting in SoHo. This week, she and Laurel had gone to visit her sister in Providence, but they were coming back for Carl’s birthday party, and in the morning the three of them would drive back to New York.

Henry looked out the other side of the porch. Gerald had gotten up and, with his gin-and-tonic mug in one hand, was fanning water out of a garden hose onto the roses.

“No!”
Verna screamed, coming around the side of the house from the garden with a basket of freshly picked vegetables in one hand.

“Didn’t you see the white powder? For the
aphids
, Gerald. Don’t—”

Gerald turned the hose on Verna.

“Gerald!” she shrieked.

“How come you call him Henry darling and I’m just Gerald?” he said. “Showing preference damages children.”

“You’re insane,” Verna said, running toward the porch, cucumbers and lettuce spilling out of the basket.

Gerald was laughing loudly. Verna ran onto the porch, dropped the basket, and stomped into the kitchen. Henry considered going inside to find out if she still wanted him to love his brother. Gerald trained the hose on one chaise after another. Then he aimed it at the roses again, no longer laughing. His face had the rigidity of a soldier pointing a rifle. Henry watched until Gerald dropped the hose and headed for the spigot outside the porch to turn off the water.

“You’re losing it, darling,” Henry said.

Sally’s daughter, Laurel, was too shy to stand up with the rest of the group for a birthday toast. She was half under the picnic table, petting a neighbor’s cat.

“To me!” Carl said heartily, raising a thermos cap full of champagne.

Gerald had given him the thermos for his birthday. Carl was also wearing the swimming trunks, with knee-high black socks and black cordovans. “To the birthday boy at the end of his forty-ninth year, and”—he turned toward Sally—“to new friends.” He raised the cup higher. “To the sailboat I’m buying,” he said.

“What sailboat?” Verna said.

“A white one,” he said.

“You’re going to buy a
sailboat
?” Verna said.

“A white one,” he said.

“Telephone!” Gerald said, running down the lawn toward the house.

“Why not a sailboat?” Carl said. “Business was very good this year, considering. No one asks me how business is. It’s fine, thank you.” He raised his cup. He had still not had a drink of champagne. Sally sipped her champagne. Henry’s mug was empty. He walked over to the table, knocking the box top with the pieces of puzzle onto the lawn with his elbow as he took the bottle out of the cooler and poured. Champagne foamed out of his mug. He held it away from him, then licked his wrist.

“Excuse me,” Sally whispered to Henry. “I’m going to the bathroom.” She handed him her empty mug. Head down, she walked down the hill toward the house.

Carl, sitting on a chaise now, said, “I was really expecting a new sand wedge for my birthday.”

Verna sat on the bench by the picnic table. “Perhaps when Gerald gets back we should have the cake,” she said.

“I’ll get the cake,” Henry said, and walked toward the house. Laurel caught his eye and ran to his side when he opened the porch door. She was still holding the cat. It jumped out of her arms and ran under a bush. He wished she’d stayed with the others; he thought that Sally had gone to the bathroom because his family had made her uncomfortable, and he wanted to talk to her.

“Where’s Mommy?” Laurel said.

“In the bathroom,” he said, pointing.

“Anything. Anything, if only you’ll have me back,” Gerald was saying on the telephone. “Counseling—hell, I’d have electroshock therapy. Anything.
Anything.
”

Henry stood in the hallway, looking at his brother. Gerald looked at him and smiled. “Wrong number,” he said, and hung up.

“Mommy, the cat likes it here,” Laurel said, skipping to the bathroom door. “It didn’t go home or anything.”

The birthday cake was on the kitchen table, sitting on top of a paper doily on top of a footed cake stand—a tall chocolate cake, with “Happy Birthday” written in loopy white icing. A packet of candles and a book of matches lay beside it, ready for the occasion. Henry tapped out some candles and began to press the little wicks upright, stiffening them between his thumb and forefinger.

“Mommy, that cat has a real short tail,” Laurel said.

The telephone rang, and Henry picked it up.

“Gerald?” a woman said.

“No. This is Henry.”

“Henry—it’s Cora. Is Gerald there?”

“Did you just call?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I think he’s had a few drinks. Maybe you ought to call back later.”

“I should have known better. I’m at the emergency room, waiting to have a broken ankle set. I fell off a damned stone wall. I called to see if he had that card with the insurance-policy number on it.”

“Do you want me to go get him?” Henry said.

“No,” she said. “I just remembered that even on the rare occasions when I can communicate with him it’s never worth the price.” She hung up.

Laurel walked on her heels through the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Mommy said I could play with the cat.” Henry heard the door slam. He continued to push wicks upright. Then he arranged the candles in two concentric circles. Sally had been in the bathroom too long. He went to the bathroom door.

“Sally,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“After we have the cake, let’s leave, O.K.?”

“This is the way families turn out,” she said.

“No, it isn’t,” he said.

“Rick got remarried this week. To that woman with the kid that we ran into on Sixth Avenue. Laurel hates the kid. She’s going to have to spend July with them.”

He put his fingertips to the door. “It’s only June,” he said.

Sally laughed.

“Sally,” he said.

“I don’t know how to act around your parents,” she said. “I’m not doing anything right.”

“You do more things right than anybody I can think of,” he said.

She sniffled. She had been crying. “What if I was really going to the bathroom? It would be embarrassing, with you standing right up against the door.”

“Nothing’s changed between us,” he said. “This is one day. My father’s in a bad mood. My brother’s nuts. I told you about my brother.”

“I have to pee,” she said. “Please get away from the door.”

Laurel was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, facing the table and the cake. “I wish I could have that cat,” she said.

Out the window Henry saw his father and brother wrestling. Verna was still on the bench, sipping champagne. The cat, standing by a tree, seemed to be watching what was going on. Henry saw Verna’s face turn stony; she put her mug on the table and smacked her hands. The cat ran away, taking high leaps like a rabbit moving through tall grass. He picked up more candles and poked them into the inner circle of the cake.

“I’m not afraid of matches,” Laurel said.

The birthday cake had gotten her attention. She swung her feet back and forth, eyes riveted on it. Her barrette had slipped; it was clamped below her ear, holding only a few strands of hair. Laurel picked up the book of matches. “Light one and give it to me,” she said.

He struck a match and held it out to her. For a second, her fingers touched his. They were so thin that it didn’t seem she could hold anything heavier than a match. He watched her, intent on seeing that she didn’t burn her fingers—so intent that the whole ring was aflame and the match blown out before he realized the problem. The inner circle of candles was unlit, and now there was no way to light them. She knew it, too. “What should I do?” she said softly.

“Hurry up,” he said, putting his hand on her back, tilting her forward. “Blow them out. Start again.”

Laurel took a deep breath and blew out half the candles. She sucked in her breath and blew again. The others went out, and a little blue cloud rose above the cake. When the candles didn’t flare up again—when he saw that this time they weren’t those joke candles that somehow reignite themselves after a few seconds—he crouched and put his arm around Laurel. Outside, the light had almost disappeared. No one was coming toward the house yet, but things wouldn’t stay the way they were much longer.

Heaven on a Summer Night

W
ill stood in the kitchen doorway. He seemed to Mrs. Camp to be a little tipsy. It was a hot night, but that alone wouldn’t account for his shirt, which was not only rumpled but hanging outside his shorts. Pens, a pack of cigarettes, and what looked like the tip of a handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket. Will tapped his fingertips on the pens. Perhaps he was not tapping them nervously but touching them because they were there, the way Mrs. Camp’s mother used to run her fingers over the rosary beads she always kept in her apron pocket. Will asked Mrs. Camp if she would cut the lemon pound cake she had baked for the morning. She thought that the best thing to do when a person had had too much to drink was to humor him, so she did. Everyone had little weaknesses, to be sure, but Will and his sister had grown up to be good people. She had known them since they were toddlers, back when she had first come to work for the Wildes here in Charlottesville. Will was her favorite, then and now, although Kate probably loved her more. Will was nineteen now, and Kate twenty. On the wall, above the sink, was a framed poem that Kate had written and illustrated when she was in the fifth grade: