Interstate (31 page)

used to say, but here it might only have been her first airing. So: outside air on her face and street sounds—cars, trucks, maybe birds, a dog barking, passerby shouting, motorcycle passing—and all your excited chatter at having her out. Even a plane overhead. They often flew by and sometimes it seemed pretty low. Think what the first one of those must have sounded like. Impossible. The phone, and you sit at the desk. Got to get it over with. No, that's not the attitude. The attitude should be what? You don't know. The attitude, my friend, the attitude! Sorry. How do you call out from here? Same as from your office: dial nine, then one, area code and phone number? The area code, you were looking for a phone book, and you go through the drawers again and look on the bookshelves but don't find one. Some people in tight quarters keep them in corners on the floor and you look at all four of them, none's there. Someone's playing loud music with this thumping beat, probably in a nearby cubicle. Area code you suddenly remember and write it down along with your phone number. But you're not dialing home, you're calling your wife at your in-laws', and you jot down the New York City area code. Their phone number, even after years of calling them now and then, you were never able to remember. You don't know why. You like them and they're easy to speak to so it isn't that you wanted to forget the number and by forgetting it you forgot them or your difficulty in talking to them, et cetera. You even tried to find some memory device to remember it but it was such an odd assortment of numbers, the lower ones all mixed up with the higher ones and none seeming to join another, that you couldn't come up with one. It'll be hard calling your wife—speaking to her with what you have to say—with that music—and then dealing with everything else after it—going on. “Stop, please stop that racket,” you say, “if there's a God in heaven, stop it now.” But you don't want to try and find the room it's coming from and ask that person to turn it down or off, if anyone's there. You might lock yourself out of this room and you also don't want to confront anyone. You want to get it over with, that's all, done, done, and don't want any more interferences and distractions, and then get on to the next thing and the next thing and so on till ten years from now it's somewhat out of your mind or not in it all the time. Something like that. Just speak, when you do speak, with a finger in your free ear. Which kid did that recently? Not one but with two: Julie, in the car; no, Margo, here. Both—all kids likely—did it with both ears plugged: don't want to hear what you're saying when you're remonstrating, that sort of stuff. You get up and put your ear to the walls till you find the one it's coming from and yell “Stop it, will ya, shut the fucking music up,” banging the wall. You listen for about half a minute and no one says anything, music stays; they had to have heard you so probably nobody's there. There's no other way, you'll have to get New York City Information, and it isn't as if you're talking to your wife yet, and you dial nine, one and the Information number there. Man says “Mr. Lewis, what city please?” and you say “Yes, thank you. Listen, this is very tough for me, Mr. Lewis, speaking. I do want a number but there's been—please stick with me through this quick spiel—a death in my family—” and he says “I'm sorry, sir, what can I do for you, what city?” and you say “Manhattan. It was just before, a few hours, and I'm still a little crazy—a car accident—all upset about it and I have to call my wife and need her parents' number there,” and he says “The name and address?” and you say “That I have,” and give them and he says “Hold on for your number please,” and a recorded voice gives it. The music, another piece, almost the same screeching and beat but faster, is that supposed to be relaxation, diversion, rest, something to think with or listen to on your dinner break, maybe just good for sex, but not here, though could be, on the floor, put a jacket underneath, or both on a chair, perfect place with only one key, but if not what is it then, what's it serve? It's so goddamn ignorant, why do people who like serious music keep it low and those who like this kind turn it up so? That true? You don't care what the answers are, but in a hospital, in this part, where people are dying or recently dead, or maybe that's not in this part, you walked a long way, but still, and instead of a bracer, this? What am I missing? Oh that's a lark. Oh shit, forget it, don't let it get to you, it's not going to go away by your praying and raving against it, so are you ready? As I'll ever be. What are you going to say? I'll just see what I'll say. Not good enough, this is the most emotionable of human instances which calls for the rarest most fastidious kind of sensitivity, equableness and self-control. Stop it, stop the words and bullshit, speak to me in plain language, I can't stand any fanciness like that and for sure not now. Okay, so just how will you? How will I? How will you and what, yes, how? I'll say, I'll say, I'll say I'm at a hospital, here, this one, I'll give the name and state, Margo's with me, Margo's all right, nothing's wrong with her, don't worry about that, but there's been an accident, a terrible one, so terrible, couldn't be worse, listen, hold tight, it's a shooting, Julie's been shot, Julie's shot, Julie's dead, I'm at the hospital, Margo's with me, she's okay, unhurt, is anyone there with you, if anyone is, please get that person to the phone or just someone to help you. You'd break the news to her like that? So fast, right off the bat? You wouldn't first ask if anyone's there with her before you tell her, so that person can sort of be there to help her when you tell her or tell her himself? And also, for this is such shocking news, get into it slower and easier with this person before you say what happened? Yes, I'd do that. I'd say to my wife “Hi, dear, how are you, is anyone there with you, your folks, they around? May I speak to one of them, it's something about something, a secret, nothing wrong, don't worry, and one I'm sure they'll give away the moment I get off the phone,” as if it were something like a surprise party I was planning for her, and then I'd speak to her mom or dad the way you said. I'd do it quietly, wouldn't break the news quickly, even start off with a bit of small talk. If she said “Which one?” I'd say “Oh, I guess your dad,” since I think, though it'd be the worst thing he's ever heard or had to deal with, he'd handle it better. Or I'd just ask for him straight off, “Let me speak to your dad, please, if he's there,” and if he wasn't then I'd ask for her mom. But suppose neither parent is there? Or suppose she then says, after I made that pitch, “Sure, I'm at their apartment, why wouldn't they be here? But something's wrong, you're holding it back, don't try to act like you're not, so what is it, tell me, the kids, one of the kids, both?” She might have picked up by my voice, not what I said, that something's wrong, very wrong, couldn't be worse. I might only have to say one word for her to notice. Or one word before I start crying. I might start crying second I finish dialing her folks' or be crying while I dial. Be sobbing, be bawling. I might have to hang up while I'm dialing, try to collect myself and then dial again when I feel composed enough to speak to her and then might start sobbing the moment she lifts the receiver and says hello. Or I might never get that control. I might try very hard, clench my teeth, bite the insides of my cheeks, do some mental preparation—“Now don't cry, don't cry, too much is riding on your staying composed”—think I have it, heart's not beating wild, throat's not tight, and so forth, and dial again and start crying while I'm dialing or the moment my wife picks up the phone. Or when some other person, it doesn't have to be she, lifts the receiver. Though most times I've called her at her folks' place she's been the one to pick up the phone, maybe because she's faster, more energetic or it's just a habit of racing to the phone there from the time she was a kid and they don't even bother trying to answer it while she's there. But if her mother does answer the phone, what then? Do I ask for her husband? If she says “What's it about, Nate, anything I can do?” which she usually does when I ask for him, what do I say? Something like “Something to do with our income tax forms last year, he told me to call him about it if I got the letter from IRS I had anticipated would be waiting for me at home, and we're home, by the way, good trip, everybody's safe, kids say hello, and of course after I speak to him I'll want to speak to Lee.” But if I do get her dad, or only her mom if her dad's not home, what then? I don't know. No, you have to know, it's absolutely essential. You're priming them for your wife, right? and the call's to be made momentarily, so you have to think now what you'll say. I'll say something like, I'll say something like, I'll say “Hi, it's Nate, Nat, Nate, but you know that, you know my voice, but there's something you don't know, some very important thing to tell you, some very bad news to tell Lee too but first I have to prepare her through you, prepare you to prepare her for the absolute worst though I wish there was some way to prepare you for it too.” I might then say “It isn't Margo, it's Julie.” I might put it this way: “Margo's not hurt, Julie is.” I might then add “Julie's very hurt, in fact. Extremely. There's been an accident. Not an accident. Listen, I'm going to go nuts with crying if I don't tell you right away and if I do start crying I'll never stop and you'll never find out what it is I have to tell you and you have to, you see, for I have to tell Lee. It's this: Julie's dead,” I might say, “Margo isn't. Julie's been wiped out clean, Margo isn't even scratched.” No, not like that, not any of it, I have to go back. Why? You're on to it, you are, and almost over it with her folks, so go on, what else? I'll say, or might, “Listen, Julie's been killed, killed, by a freaking mad gun shooter from a car.” No, some other way. If I tell them that way I'm sure they'll break down and be unable to prepare my wife for what I have to tell her, what do you say? What do I say? I say you're right but that whatever way you tell whichever parent you tell it to, they'll break down, how can they not? They might be strong, father stronger than the mother as you said, but no one can be that strong if they're not the same type as the guys who killed your child. But even those guys would probably break down the same way if let's say they heard one of their kids was just killed, even if they'd done it to someone else's kid the same way and not long before, but we won't go into that. Or both you and one of your wife's parents might break down the same moment after you say it about Julie and then the other parent might get on the phone after the first one broke down or ask his or her spouse what's wrong. And you might then have to repeat it because the one you told it to would be in no shape to repeat to the other one what you just said. So? So I'm saying you'll now probably have two of them broken down, if you were able to tell the second what you told the first, and you still haven't really begun to get the news to your wife. So? So stop saying “so?” for you don't see that as a problem? I see it, my wife. Where would she be all this time? If she's not home, that's one thing, and it might even be easier that way, for her parents would have calmed down enough to tell her or prepare her by the time she got back. But if she's home and in the room with them, one of her parents breaking down during the call would in a way be a way of telling her something's very wrong. In other words, that might be all the preparation I need, through the crying and probably the hysteria of her parent or both of them, if I was able to tell the second, but not the way I want to begin telling her. What way do you want? That could be the key to how you go about telling her. I'm not sure. I don't know. No, I'm just not sure. I'd love for her to just hear it from me in whatever way I tell it, soberly, hysterically, something in between, either of the three or some other way but no matter what way for her to then say something like “This”—soberly, unhysterically, no in-between—“is the worst news of my life, dear, the worst thing that has ever happened or could ever happen, but we have to begin dealing with it the best way we know how. And I know how it is for you now, Nat, and how hard it was to tell me, just as I know you know how it is for me and how hard it was to hear. But we can't let it overwhelm us where we can't function for each other and Margo, especially for Margo, so that's what we have to do.” “What do we have to do?” I can then say if it's not really clear to me and she can say in the same way what she means till I understand. Do I want her to say something like that in the way I had her say it? I do, for if she doesn't there'll be nothing but sorrow and we'll just sink in it and Margo will go down with us too. One of us at least should stay in some kind of control like that, either Lee or me, and I should because she might not and also because I've known of it longer than she and probably because of some other reasons, and maybe that's the approach or attitude or tactic I should take now, to take care of them both in their sorrow or despair, but how do I do it, how do I even start? First step is to try to composedly tell one of her parents, second is to try to tell Lee the same way, and so on and so on, and
maybe only at the funeral I can crack up for the length of it and then recover till we get to the cemetery, if the entire service isn't at the cemetery, and then crack up for most of the burial ceremony and recover for the ride home with Margo and Lee. And maybe later I can crack up in moments when I'm alone but where I know I can come out of it just about when I want, and then months from now—a month, weeks, even—when Lee will be a little better adjusted to Julie's death perhaps, I can crack up with her when Margo's asleep or out of the house or can't hear, or just on my own when Margo isn't around or can't hear and Lee for those minutes can take care of me. In time in front of Margo but when I can quickly recover again, and maybe even with Margo if it comes to that, and much later on, whenever it happens and in front of whomever happens to be there. Anyway, better to take that approach than total breakdown or any but a momentary breakdown on the phone with Lee now. Certainly if she's in the room when I tell one of her folks about Julie she'll see from their face that something's very wrong—did I say all this before? That something catastrophic and possibly tragic has happened but she wouldn't automatically know it was one of us her parent was screaming and sobbing over. It could be about one of her relatives—an uncle, a cousin—or a good friend of her folks: sudden stroke, someone keeled over and died, news that the husband of the woman on the phone has terminal cancer and only a month to live, that sort of thing. For if my name isn't mentioned—for instance, if my father-in-law doesn't say right away “Nate, how are you, how was the trip?” or Julie's name isn't mentioned—“No, not Julie, oh my God!”—she probably wouldn't know who her parent is crying over or that I was on the phone. She might think it's a call from her sister or brother-in-law about her brother-in-law or sister or one of their kids. Lee's parents would break down if anything tragic happened to one of them too—not to the brother-in-law as much as their other daughter and three grandchildren from them. Lee might say “What is it, what happened?” and if her father or mother continued to sob and scream or acted any way like that, take the receiver away, if she thinks it's about her sister or one of her nieces or her nephew or even her brother-in-law and say “Hello, this is Lee, who's this, what happened, why's my mother (or father) crying so?” and I might be crying. She might recognize my cries. Of course she would. I've cried and sobbed before over the news of people's deaths or the memories of some who were dead. She might say “Nat, what's wrong, tell me, one of the kids? It's one of the kids,” and I might be able to say yes or I might not be able to say anything I'd be crying so hard. She might then say—she'd probably then say—“Come on, what is it, one of the girls like I think? Which one, and what, what—a car accident—on the highway—something at home? Is she alive, is she dead? Both, one? Which, which?” Her parents would still be crying—one would probably have told the other by now if both were home—and she might then say to them or just to the one who's home, since I might not be able to speak—I probably wouldn't—“What is it, what did he tell you?” and they might, one might, blurt out “Julie.” “Oh no, Julie what? It's the worst, I know, I can tell by your face and that he can't speak. What? Oh no,” and they might not be able to say anything and she might get back on the phone and say “What's wrong with Julie?” or if they told her what, “Dad (or Mom) said Julie's dead—he (she) has to be wrong, she can't be, she isn't,” and I still might not be able to speak, and then what? She might turn to her folks again, or one of them—whatever—and say “I'm wrong that you said that, right? She's not dead, isn't that so? Nat didn't tell you that, true? It's something bad, I know, but nothing as bad as that, right, right? So what did he say, what exactly did Nat tell you?” and one of them might nod that yes, she's dead, or mouth “Yes, dear, she's dead,” or say it, whisper it, or just in a normal voice “Yes, dearest, Julie's dead,” both of them could say it, he could be saying it on the phone while they're saying it or just calling out for her, “Lee…Lee…,” but whatever way she's told she would then scream, there's no question she'd scream and become hysterical and cry hysterically and yell and tear at her hair and scratch her face probably and stick her fingers in her mouth maybe and bite down on her fingers and pull the corners of her mouth apart till they hurt and even after, maybe till they bleed, but things like that and I'd be on the other end listening but not knowing what to do and she wouldn't get back on, by this time she wouldn't be able to, though I'd stay on, it might take minutes but then one of her parents might be able to get on and say “Nathan, you still there?…tell me what happened, Lee's hysterical as you can hear, we all are, but if you can, just some more information, tell me and I'll do my best in conveying it to her, or withholding it from her, whichever I think best, but please, don't keep us in the dark.” That might be a phrase her mother would use, her father would just say something like “What is it, Nate, before we lose our senses again and I can't hear what you have to say? Where you calling from? Home, a hospital, a police station, the morgue?” “Hospital,” I might manage and he could say “Did you say it was a car accident?” “Shooting,” I might be able to say. I would then probably say I can't speak any longer, for I probably couldn't, but that I want to, to be as cooperative as I can—