Tender at the Bone (37 page)

I was shocked by my father’s appearance. He stood hesitantly on the railway platform, peering at everyone who passed. He had lost
a great deal of weight and was now so tall and thin that the white hair springing from his scalp gave him the air of an anxious crane. For the first time I could remember he actually looked his age. It was easy to calculate: Dad was born at the turn of the century.

“Are you all right?” I asked, linking my arm through his.

“Oh yes,” he said, “there’s nothing much wrong with me. Besides, it makes your mother so angry when I say I don’t feel well. She says she’s the sick one.” He led me to the car, opened the door for me, closed it carefully, and then went around and slid behind the wheel. “She’s picked another fight with Bob,” he said as he started the engine.

“Is she disinheriting him again?” I asked. When my mother was manic she regularly rewrote her will. I think it made her feel rich.

Dad sighed. “Yes,” he said, offering me the current list of dangerous subjects. It was not safe to mention my father’s health, my brother, Mom’s friend Estelle, or the mess in the house. I nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t really matter what I said: peace was impossible when my mother was manic.

As we drove I wondered what Dad and I would be talking about if Mom were a normal person. If she were normal, of course, I wouldn’t be here in the first place: in her own strange way she was the glue that kept us together. Being a family meant dealing with Mom.

The driveway was even worse than Dad’s description. Since there was no room for the car he just dropped me at the end of the driveway, turned around, and went to catch his train. He was going to work. I didn’t blame him. I picked my way through the boxes and broken chairs and stood at the door. Through the glass I could see that the living room looked a lot like the lawn.

I pushed the door open and hesitated, dreading the moment when I would lose myself. Crossing the threshold, I had a falling sensation, as if I were careening backward in time. I tried desperately
to grab onto the Gypsy chef, but she was gone, along with the restaurant owner and wife. All that was left was a little girl.

“Pussycat!” cried Mom, throwing her arms around me. “You’re here! Let’s have a cup of tea!”

She pushed things aside to make a path through the mess and led me to the dining room. All the silver was set out. “We have to polish it,” murmured Mom, shoving it to the far end of the table. She went into the kitchen and returned carrying a platter covered with items in various states of decay.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, just a few leftovers I thought we’d finish up for breakfast,” said Mom, helping herself to some creamy thing with a suspicious blue tinge on the top. “This is rice pudding. Have some, it’s very good.”

“I ate on the train,” I said hurriedly. “I think I’ll just have some tea. Have you decided what to serve for the party?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time to think of that later,” said Mom. “I thought today I’d take you shopping. I’m sure you can use some new clothes.”

“Mom,” I said, “the party’s in a week. I didn’t come home to go shopping. We have to make a menu. We have to clean up the house.”

“I don’t
want
to think about that now,” said my mother petulantly. “Let’s have some fun! We’ll spend the day shopping and when Daddy comes home we’ll go out to dinner. Tomorrow will be plenty of time to think about the party.”

I was supposed to take charge but she was too strong for me. I didn’t have the energy to resist. I followed my mother out to the car and spent the day staring into mirrors, trying on clothes I didn’t like and didn’t need. “It’s such fun to buy you clothes now that you’re thin!” cried Mom, walking out of the store, laden with boxes. “I’m having such a good time!”

When we stumbled through the front door burdened with purchases, Dad was there. He looked at me and pulled a dismayed face. I knew I had let him down, but all he said was, “I’ll just wash my hands and we can go to dinner.”

“You take Ruthie,” said my mother, “I think I’ll just stay here and start cleaning. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

“Oh, darling,” said my father, falling into the old ritual, “it won’t be any fun without you.”

“No, dear, you go without me. You’ll have a better time,” she replied.

“Please come, dearest,” Dad began. We were in for ten minutes of this. Suddenly I couldn’t stand it. I put my hand on my father’s arm and turned to my mother. “Of course we understand if you don’t want to come,” I said. “It’s been a long day.” And, jingling the car keys, I led my startled father down the path my mother had made through the living room, through the mess in the driveway, and to the car.

He stood hesitantly with his hand on the handle of the car door, reluctant to get in. He looked miserable. “Do you really think we—” he started and then stopped in mid-sentence. Framed in the doorway was my mother, shrugging on a sweater. “I think I’ll come after all,” she said gaily, picking her way through the broken furniture.

That night I had a dream. I was a little girl with long blonde curls wearing a white dress with a blue sash. The sun was shining and we were having a lawn party. Where were we? Behind us was a vast mansion and the lawn sloped gently down to a river. A small orchestra dressed entirely in white played beautiful music. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and people kept pulling up in horse-drawn carriages.

I was cooking in a gazebo, standing on a chair in front of the
stove. But I was not alone: Mrs. Peavey and Alice were there too. Alice dipped oysters into a bowl of eggs and gave them to Mrs. Peavey, who dipped them in breadcrumbs and handed them to me. I lowered the oysters into the hot fat, and waited for them to come bobbing to the surface. As they did, I snatched them from the fat and handed them to the waiters lined up behind me with empty trays.

A woman was hiding behind the stove, staring at my every move. She made me nervous. Then she stood up and I could see that it was Rachel Rubenstein. Or was it my mother? Alice looked at her disdainfully and then, as if she were a troublesome puppy, said, “Scat now. Shoo. Go away.” And the woman simply vanished.

I reached for the next batch of fried oysters. But they floated away from me and, one by one, lifted themselves out of the oil and into the air. They flew to a man in the distance, who was wearing a tuxedo. The golden puffs circled him once and then settled softly onto the silver tray he was holding with white-gloved hands.

It was Henry. He turned and handed the tray to the waiter behind him, who was wearing a sadly rumpled tuxedo. “Mr. Izzy T looks ridiculous in black tie,” I thought as Henry came toward us. He bowed solemnly and then, taking Alice on one arm and Mrs. Peavey on the other, led them gently away.

When I woke up the sun was spilling across my face like a caress. It radiated behind my eyelids, all shiny and gold. I stretched luxuriously as a sense of well-being flooded through me. I splashed cold water on my face, threw on some clothes, and went downstairs.

The mess in the house seemed to have multiplied while I slept. “She was up all night,” said Dad sadly. “She’s emptied out every closet. Now she’s gone to have the other samovar made into a lamp.” He shook his head morosely.

“Sit down,” I said. “Don’t worry.” I made coffee and orange juice and put out the rolls for breakfast. “The party will be fine.” I held up my glass and clinked it against his. “Cheerio,” I said. “Have a nice day. I’ll drive you to the station.”

I came back, did the dishes, and sat down to think about the food. I tried to remember Aunt Birdie’s wedding menu, to think of the dishes she liked best. Fried oysters, of course, to begin. And a salad. And then? There had been salmon with lobster sauce at the wedding, but Mom didn’t have a fish poacher. I had a sudden inspiration and called the fish market. Of course, they said, they’d be happy to poach salmon for me. As many as I liked. I could pick them up just before the party. If I baked the cake ahead of time and made the salad dressing, all I’d have to do on the day of the party was wash lettuce, make a sauce for the salmon, and fry the oysters. It would be fine: Mom could ask a thousand people.

Feeling entirely calm and collected I turned to the most pressing problems. I called plumbers to fix the dishwasher and gardeners to repair the damage to the lawn. I rented tables and chairs. I ordered champagne. And then I turned to tackle the driveway.

I was actually enjoying myself. And if Mom didn’t ruin it, we would have a good party.

Mom disinherited me five times in the next seven days. Most of the time I didn’t care. Fueled by the dream, I worked steadily and methodically, cleaning the house room by room, enjoying pulling order out of all that mess. My mother was furious.

“You can’t give that away!” she screamed one day, following me out the driveway where I was making a pile for the Goodwill. “That’s my mother’s table.”

“Fine,” I said, “where would you like to put it?” She stood, speechless, eyeing me warily.

“You have three choices,” I said. “You can find a place for it in
the house. You can give it to the Goodwill. Or you can rent a storage locker for everything you want to keep.”

“You’re so, so, so …” she sputtered.

“Yes?” I said.

“So cold!” she finally managed. “Nothing fazes you. You have no heart. You loved olives when you were little. Did you know that? Lemons too. When you were a baby we’d come into the bedroom and find you in your crib, sucking lemons. If I had known then that you were going to turn into such a sourpuss I would have left.”

“I’m sure you would have,” I said. “Will you help me polish the silver? I’d like to put it away.”

“You polish it,” she said. “I have important things to do.” And she flounced off to make telephone calls. “Just wait,” she called over her shoulder, “you’ll see what it’s like. Manic depression is inherited, you know. I wasn’t like this when I was your age. You’ll probably end up just like me.”

“This is not my real life,” I repeated to myself, over and over like a mantra. “Only four more days. I can take it.” My mother did everything to create chaos, but for the first time in my life I refused to join her. When she called the fish store and canceled the salmon (“What a ridiculous expense!”) I didn’t fight. I simply took a check to the store and paid ahead of time.