Things You Should Know (9 page)

“Is she here?” She hears her mother's voice across the house.

“Hi Mom,” she says and her mother does not hear her. She tries again. “Hi Mom.” She walks down the hall saying, Hi Mom, Hi Mom, Hi Mom at different volumes, in different intonations, like a hearing test.

“Is that you?” her mother finally asks when she's two feet away.

“I'm home.”

Her mother hugs her—her mother is smaller too. Everything is shrinking, compacting, intensifying. “Did you have a good flight?”

She has never flown home. “I took the train.”

“Is Ray back?” her mother asks.

“Not yet,” her father says as he puts two heaping tablespoons of green powder into a glass of water.

“Where did you meet this Ray?”

“Your father left his coat at the health food store and Ray found it and called him.”

Her father nods. “I went to get the coat and we started talking.”

“Your father and Ray go to vitamin class together.”

“Vitamin class?”

“They go to the health store and a man speaks to them over a video screen.”

“What does the man tell you?”

“He talks about nutrition and health. He tells us what to do.”

“How many people go?”

“About thirty.” Her father stirs, tapping the side of the glass with his spoon. “This is the green stuff, I have two glasses of this twice a day and then I have a couple of the red stuff. It's all natural.” He drinks in big gulps.

It looks like a liquefied lawn.

“See my ankles,” he says, pulling up the leg of his pants. “They're not swollen. Ever since I started taking the supplements, the swelling has gone down. I feel great. I joined a gym.”

“Where was this Ray before he came to you?”

“He had a place over on Arlington Road, one of those apartments behind the A&P, with another fellow.”

“Something happened to that man, he may have died or gone into a home. I don't really know,” her mother says.

There is the sound of a key in the door.

“That's Ray.”

The door opens. Ray comes in carrying groceries.

“In your honor, Ray is making vegetable chow mein for dinner,” her mother says. And she is not sure why vegetable chow mein is in her honor.

“You must be Ray,” she says, putting her hand out as Ray puts the bags down.

“You must be the daughter,” Ray says, ignoring her hand.

“Did you get the crispy noodles?” her mother asks.

“I don't eat meat anymore,” her father says. “I don't really eat much of anything. At my age, I don't have a big appetite.”

“I got you some chocolate rice milk—I think you'll like it.” Ray hands her father a box of milk.

“I like chocolate,” her father says.

“I know you do.” Ray is of indeterminate age, somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-five, sinewy with close-cropped hair, like a skullcap sprinkled with gray. Each of his features belongs to another place; he is a little bit Asian, a little bit Middle Eastern, a little bit Irish, and within all that he is incredibly plain and without affect, as though he has spent a lot of time trying not to be.

“And I got the noodles,” Ray says.

“Oh good,” her mother says. “I like things that are crunchy.”

Her mother and father peer into the grocery bags. She wonders if Ray pays for these groceries—if that's why they're so interested—or if he makes them pay for it.

“Nuts,” her father says, pulling out a bag of cashews. “And raisins.”

“Organic,” Ray says, winking.

Her father loves anything organic.

“Remember when we couldn't have lettuce because it wasn't picked by the right people, and then we couldn't have grapes. And after that it was something else,” she says.

“Tuna,” her mother says, “because of the dolphins.”

“I have something to show you,” her father says, leading
Ray into the living room. There is a drawing on the dining table.

“Very nice,” Ray says.

Her mother walks past them. She sits at the piano and begins to play. “I've started my lessons again.”

“Let's hear the Schubert,” Ray says.

Her father proudly shows her more drawings. “I'm taking classes, at the college. Free for seniors.”

It is incredibly civilized and all she can think about is how bad things are with Steve and that she needs to come up with a slogan for adult diapers by Monday.

A little later, she is sitting in the den. As her mother knits, they watch the evening news. Her father is in the bedroom, blasting the radio. Ray is in the kitchen with the pots and pans. The smell of garlic and scallions fills the house.

“You let him just be in the kitchen? You don't worry what he does to the food—what he puts in it?”

“What's he going to do—poison us?” her mother says. “I'm tired of cooking. If I never cook again that's fine with me.”

She looks at her mother—her mother is a good cook, she is what you'd call a food person.

“Does Ray have a crush on Dad?”

“Don't be ridiculous—what am I, chopped liver?” Her mother inhales. “Smells good doesn't it?”

A noise, an occasional small sound draws her out of the room and down the hall. She moves quietly thinking she will catch him, she will catch Ray doing something he shouldn't.

She finds him on the living room floor, sitting on a cushion. There are small shiny cymbals on his first and third fingers and every now and then he pinches his fingers together—
ping
.

She goes back into the den.

“He's meditating,” her mother says, before she even asks. “Twice a day for forty minutes. He tried to get your father to do it and me too. We don't have the patience. Sometimes we sit with him, we cheat, I read, your father falls asleep.”

Again there is the sound of the cymbals—
ping
.

“Isn't that the nicest sound?”

“Does he do it at specific intervals?”

“He does it whenever his mind begins to wander. He goes very deep. He's been at it for twenty years.”

“Where is Ray from? Does he have a family? Does he have a job? Is he part of a cult?”

“Why are you so suspicious? Did you come all the way home to visit or to investigate us?”

“I came home to talk to you.”

“I don't know that I have anything to say,” her mother says.

“I need advice—I need you to tell me what to do.”

“I can't. It's your life. You do what's right for you.” She pauses. “You said you wanted to come home because you needed to get something, you wanted something—what was it, something you left in your room?”

“I don't know how to describe it,” she catches herself. “It's something I never got. Something from you,” she says.

“I don't really have much to give. Call some friends, make plans, live it up. Aren't any of your high school buddies around?”

She is thirty-five and suddenly needs her mother. She is thirty-five and doesn't remember who her high school buddies were.

“What does Ray want from you? What does he get?”

“I have no idea. He doesn't ask for anything. Maybe just being here is enough, maybe that's all he wants. Everyone doesn't need as much as you.”

There is silence.

“Damn,” her mother says. “I dropped a stitch.”

She leaves the room. She goes downstairs. She wants to see exactly what he is up to.

The door to her brother's room is cracked open. She pushes it further. A brown cat is curled up on a pillow; it looks at her. She steps inside. The cat dives under the bed.

The room is clean and neat. Everything is put away. There
is no sign of life, except for the dent in the pillow where the cat was, and a thin sweater folded over the back of a chair. By the side of the bed is a book of stories, an empty water glass, and an old alarm clock, ticking loudly.

“Can I help you?”

Ray is in the room. She doesn't know how he got there, how he got down the stairs without a sound.

“I was just looking for a book,” she says.

“What book?”

She blushes as though this were a quiz. “Robinson Crusoe.” She knows it is a book her brother had, a book they used to look at as children.

He takes the book from the shelf and hands it to her.

She sneezes. “Cat,” she says.

“Bless you,” he says. “You'll excuse me,” he says, edging her out of the room. “I want to refresh myself before dinner.”

In the downstairs bathroom, each of his personal effects is arranged in a tight row on top of a folded towel—tooth-brush, comb, nail clippers.

The cat's litter box is in the corner. There are four little lumps in it, shit rolled in litter, dirt balls dusted in ash.

 

Her mother sits at the table. “I haven't had chow mein since Aunt Lena used to make it with leftover soup chicken.”

There is the scrape of a matchstick. Ray lights two tall tapers.

“Every night we have candles,” her father says. “Ray makes the effort.”

Ray has changed his clothes, he's wearing an orange silk shirt, he seems to radiate light. “From the Goodwill,” he says, seeming to know what she is thinking. “It must have been a costume. In the back of the neck, in black marker, it's written—‘Lear.'”

“I'm tasting something delicious,” her mother says, working the flavors in her mouth. “Ginger, soy, oh, and baby corn. Where did you find fresh baby corn?”

She has something to say about everything. “Such sharp greens. Olives, what an idea, so Greek. The color of this pepper is fabulous. Red food is very good for you, high in something.” She gobbles. “Eating is such a pleasure when you don't have to cook.”

“Did you take care of your errands?” her father asks Ray.

“Yes, thank you,” Ray says. “Every now and then it helps to use a car. I filled it with gas.”

“You didn't need to.”

“And I put a quart of oil in. I also checked the tires; your right rear was down a little.”

“Thanks, Ray.”

She hates him. She absolutely hates him. He is too good. How does a person get to be so good? She wishes she could get behind it, she wishes she could think he was as wonderful as he seems. But she doesn't trust him for a minute.

“More,” her mother says, holding her plate up for seconds. “What's the matter—you're not eating?”

She shakes her head. If Ray is poisoning them, putting a little bit of who knows what into the food, she wants none of it. “Not hungry.”

“I thought you said you were starving.”

She doesn't answer.

“White rice and brown,” her mother says. “Ray is kinder than I could ever be. I would never make two rices.”

“Two rices make two people happy—that's easy,” Ray says.

Her mother eats and then gets up from the table, letting her napkin fall into her plate. “That was wonderful—divine.” She walks out of the room.

It takes her father longer to finish. “Great, Ray, really great.” He helps clear the table.

She is left alone with Ray.

“Marriage is a difficult thing,” Ray says without warning. She wonders whom he is talking about and if he knows
more. “I was married once.” He hands her a pot to dry. “Attachment to broken things is not good for the self.”

“Is that where you got to be such a good cook? You're really something, a regular Galloping Gourmet.”

“To feed yourself well is a strong skill.” He speaks as though talking in translation.

“Where are you from, Ray?”

“Philadelphia.”

She is thinking Main Line, that would explain it. Maybe that's why he doesn't care about anything, maybe money means nothing to him, because he already has it, because if he needs it, there is always enough.

“And what did your family do in Philadelphia?”

“They were in business.”

“What sort of business?” she asks.

“Dresses,” he says.

Not Main Line. “Do you have many friends in the area?”

He shakes his head. “I am not so easy, I don't like everybody.”

“Do you have a family?” she asks.

“I have myself,” he says.

“And what do you want from us?”

“You and I have only just met.”

“My parents are very generous, simple people,” she says. It sounds as though she's making him a deal, an offer. She stops. “I noticed you on the floor with the cymbals. Are you a guru, a swami of some sort?”

“I have been sitting for many years; it does me good, just noticing what I feel.”

She is noticing that she feels like hitting him, hauling off and slugging him. The unrelenting evenness of his tone, his lack of interest in her investigation, his detachment is arrogant, infuriating. She wants to say, I've got your number; you think you're something special, like you were sent here from some other place, with little cymbals on your fingers—
ping
.
She wants to say, pretending you're so carefree, so absent of emotion, isn't going to get you anywhere—
ping
.

“Do not mistake me,” he says, as though reading her mind. “My detachment is not arrogance, it is hard won.”

If she hits him, he will not defend himself—she knows that. He will let her hit him; she will look like an idiot, it will look like proof of how crazy she is, it will look as though he did nothing to provoke her.

“This is just what you think of me,” he says, nodding knowingly. “I am not anything. I am just here. I am not trying to go anywhere.”

“I'm watching you,” she says, walking out of the kitchen.

 

The door to her parents' room is closed. She knocks before entering. Her parents are sitting on the bed, reading.

“We're spending some time alone together,” her mother says.