[cont.]
When he was fairly certain the concert was over, he called Lisa. They had just left the hall and he could hear children laughing behind her, squealing about the puddles outside the pavilion. His grandson grabbed the phone away from his mother to tell Larry how great he’d played, how he’d gotten a standing ovation. “The conductor came over and shook my hand. He said I was a rare talent.” Larry agreed and repeated all the standard grandfatherish words of encouragement. Finished with that obligation, he told his grandson to pass the phone back to Lisa.
“Mom’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the suffering is over.”
Lisa did not respect him. When she brought her two children over to the house, they all beelined for Doris and spent their time with her. He didn’t really blame her. She loved her mother and he cheated with everyone who would consent. Except the fat Puerto Rican girl who cooked for them ten years ago. Despite her doe eyes and looks of longing, he simply couldn’t get hard around her. Lisa had thought he was a great dad until she was a teenager. It’s the job, though, of teenagers to hate their parents, isn’t it? Still, he probably deserved it. He would never forget the afternoon when Lisa, who was thirteen at the time, came home early from school. Her menstrual cycle had started and the cramps were so bad and the bleeding so heavy, the nurse took pity and let her go home. Lisa called and when no one answered at home, called a cab. She had forgotten that it was her mother’s afternoon to volunteer at the museum. When she walked into her pink frilly bedroom with a row of teddy bears on the bed, she found him and a buxom young editor in flagrante on the coarse grey carpeting.
She saw them. They saw her. And she told the young editor, “Watch out for carpet burn,” turned and walked out. He had laughed so hard the editor was offended.
Carpet burn. Wherever did she get that priceless piece of information?
If he had paid attention while Lisa was growing up, he would have heard Doris routinely reminding Lisa as she scooted across the floor, “Watch out for carpet burn.” He would have remembered the time her cousin threw the softball in the house and Lisa took a dive to catch it, scrubbing the skin off both knees and one elbow. He would remember how long it took for them to heal, how long the scars remained bright red.
Lisa didn’t tell her mother about finding her father with the young woman. It was the beginning of a long line of omissions designed to protect her mother. He tried afterward to bribe Lisa into forgiving him, giving her the horse she had said she wanted. She never rode it. The following year she insisted on going to a preparatory school in Switzerland. When he and Doris flew over to join her for the holidays, his Christmas presents stayed in their boxes. When she donated them to charity, her mother praised her generosity. But her mother knew, if not about the editor, then about subsequent flings that year with the model and the weather girl. The tabloids made certain of that.
She and her father spoke, of course. Lisa let him talk and responded as little as she could. He worried about her ability to hold onto anger so tightly for so long. She had a history of hurting him, exacting her revenge. She immediately sold the car he gave her and bought a more fuel efficient one with the money, donating the substantial difference to a shelter for abused women. She eloped: he never had a chance to walk her down the aisle. She thought she had long ceased to be his to give away. Her choice of husband surprised him. He was a tongue tied man, a dime a dozen kind of guy despite the obvious love he had for her. He was going bald and didn’t try to hide it. At least he stayed fit. Before the cancer, Doris and the two of them would go hiking together in the mountains with the little kids strapped securely on their backs while he “wrote.” One day when they weren’t noticing, he watched them eating a meal on the porch. It struck him how his son-in-law’s mannerisms were so similar to Doris’. He realized Lisa had married someone very much like her mother – solid, happy, vague. For the first time, Larry approved of the choice.
Larry asked Lisa if she would mind concluding the funeral arrangements with his secretary. Doris had already chosen the plot and funeral home, written the notice for the paper. Doris was the practical one. When they first married, she handled his scheduling and business affairs until he became successful enough to hire a professional. Someone had always taken care of him. His mother picked up after him, his father bailed him out, and then his wife did both until the success of that third novel.
Doris had him pegged: she teased him that he was superstitious. He resisted shifting to the computer, insisted on writing with the same kind of pen he used while concocting that breakthrough novel, wore the same alligator belt every time he wrote, had to have a view of water for the duration of the first draft. And he felt compelled to hire an attractive assistant for typing his notes. It always progressed to sex. He could tell by the look in their eyes when he interviewed them for the job. The next three novels were all best sellers. When the seventh one bombed, he hired two assistants and added a particularly gruesome murder into the mix. Number Eight and the three thereafter were made into films. The more affairs he had, the better his books sold. How could he stop?
After the brief call to his daughter, he found himself in the small book room with its tall ceiling and sat among Doris’ bright pillows by the window. The night was clear and he could see the little sparkles of yard lights receding into the distance, growing ever fainter until they vanished into the slight haze at the horizon. She was the one who liked books, being around books. She was the one who insisted upon getting a job to support him while he wrote. She was the one who deferred having children so that he could have the solitude to create. She was the one who was always there. She was the one who held everything together. What was he going to do without her?
Return on Wednesday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.
