Part 27 (1/2)
WHEN THE PHONE RANG THAT NIGHT, Henry knew that it would be Martha, but for some reason it didn't bother him.
”Oh, Hanky,” he heard her say.
”Hi, Emem.”
It had to have been years since he had called her that.
”Isn't it awful?” she said.
”How's everyone taking it there?”
”Oh, well, you know. These girls. Who knows what they think about?”
”They weren't upset?”
”Well, only one of them was around when it happened, and she hightailed it out of here pretty fast.”
”So it's just been you and the baby?”
”The baby. Yes,” Martha said.
To Henry, she sounded almost unbearably old. An old woman, sitting almost alone in an old, almost empty house.
”Is there something else, Emem?” he asked her.
There was a brief silence, which Henry knew could mean either surprise or calculation.
”I'm losing my job,” she said.
”You're what?”
”I'm losing my job.”
”My grandfather fired fired you?” Henry asked, incredulous. you?” Henry asked, incredulous.
”No.”
”What then?”
”He's retiring. Well, no,” she said bitterly. ”He's being made to retire.”
”What does that have to do with you?”
”The new president,” Martha said. ”She doesn't believe believe in home economics. She's one of in home economics. She's one of those those women.” women.”
”Have you talked to her?”
”She says I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned, and out of touch. As if it will ever be old-fas.h.i.+oned to know how to care for a baby!”
Henry had a mental image of the line of practice house baby journals, their pages of photographs fading.
Mildred Fairfax made me this hat!
He sank into one of the two chairs by the table, took a pad and paper, and started to sketch. As he listened to Martha, he drew simple shapes. Circles and squares, triangles and rectangles. A round hat. A rectangular crib.
”If only you could come home for Thanksgiving,” Martha said.
He drew the Bird Woman from Mary Poppins, Mary Poppins, sitting on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, feeding the birds. The Bird Woman was Martha. sitting on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, feeding the birds. The Bird Woman was Martha.
Listen, listen, she's calling to you.
CLOUDS CAME AND WENT, and on Sat.u.r.day the wind blew up. Henry walked to the food market. Plants and shrubs bent and twisted and tried to dance, but the palm trees remained stoic. Behind every open door and window was a working radio or television. Several bags filled with old newspapers had tumbled over on one of the side streets, and beside them were a discarded, seatless chair and an old electric fan, whose blades rotated with furious fake life.
Like almost everyone else in the country, Henry spent the rest of the day, and the next day, watching television. The world had altered. Reporters kept speaking about Mrs. Kennedy's pink suit; the green, gra.s.sy knoll; the red roses; the blue sky; the blood. But the world once again was in black and white. There was the black of the two-inch-high newspaper headlines: KENNEDY SLAIN, KENNEDY DEAD, and, bizarrely, in the Los Angeles Times: Los Angeles Times: a.s.sa.s.sINATE KENNEDY. There was the black and white and gray of television, broadcasting continuously, with all entertainment programs canceled. Cameras showed crowds standing across the street from the Dallas County Jail, shades of gray under a gray sign for a restaurant speciously called Victoria's Purple Orchid. a.s.sa.s.sINATE KENNEDY. There was the black and white and gray of television, broadcasting continuously, with all entertainment programs canceled. Cameras showed crowds standing across the street from the Dallas County Jail, shades of gray under a gray sign for a restaurant speciously called Victoria's Purple Orchid. Life Life magazine published an issue with its famous red logo printed in black. magazine published an issue with its famous red logo printed in black.
The a.s.sa.s.sin's name was Lee Harvey Oswald. Oswald, like Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, which was Walt Disney's first cartoon character, a forerunner of Mickey Mouse himself. Henry wondered where Walt was now, what he was thinking about his wonderful world. No one had seen him the day of the shooting; he was supposedly in Florida, checking out land for some new project.
On Sunday, Jack Ruby killed Lee Harvey Oswald on television. Kennedy was laid in state, saluted, prayed for, and walked to his grave with a skittish, riderless horse. On Monday, stores were closed, and businesses only limped back to life as the week went on. On Wednesday, Henry used approximately half of everything he'd ever saved to buy a plane ticket home.
THE MOMENT THAT HENRY SAW MARTHA, he knew that he shouldn't have come. He understood-from the force of her hug, the moistness in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she brushed nothing from his shoulder-that there was no way to quiet her need. He had flown across the country-a grueling trip-and would have to return after only two days. But this was not a gift; instead it was an excuse, a platform from which she would ask him for more. On the phone, Martha had said If only you could come home for Thanksgiving, If only you could come home for Thanksgiving, and the implied end of the sentence had been: and the implied end of the sentence had been: then I would be happy; then I would feel better; then I might have the strength to make things turn out all right. then I would be happy; then I would feel better; then I might have the strength to make things turn out all right.
Instead, the real statement should have been: If only you could come home for Thanksgiving, then I could show you in person how much I need you. If only you could come home for Thanksgiving, then I could show you in person how much I need you.
She went through the motions of trying to treat him like a man. She didn't flinch when he lit a cigarette. She offered him wine with dinner.
”What's it like out there?” she asked him, but even that simple question seemed to Henry an imposition, an unexpected and unwanted insinuation of herself into his world. He thought of his palm trees, strong and solitary. He thought of his apartment.
”It's nice,” he said.
”Do you have a lot of friends?” she asked.
”At work,” he said. ”Great bunch of guys.”
”Any special girl?” she asked him, somewhat coquettishly. He thought of Cindy's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and Fiona's legs, and Annie's sweetness.
”No,” he said. ”No special girl.”
”Maybe you'll want to see Mary Jane,” Martha said.
”Maybe,” he said, but he didn't realize how much he wanted to until she appeared the next morning at the back door.
SHE HAD GOTTEN SKINNY in the months since she'd called his proposal ridiculous. A pair of bell-bottom jeans sat low on her hips, held up by a wide leather belt. She had her hair in a kerchief.
”Happy Thanksgiving,” she said ironically.
”Yah.”
”Why'd you come?”
”Martha,” he said.