7
et’s ask Rob to come over to decorate the tree,” Evie had said earlier“L that week. But when she called Rob, he said no, but he wanted to come by in a few days, he had some news for them. So Evie and Artie decorated their tree by themselves. Evie had put on Christmas music, and what she did not know was how sad Artie was as he handed her the ornaments from the box. “But he’s going to come for Christmas, right?” Artie asked as he handed her an ornament that had belonged to her grandmother, a pink glass shell.
“He didn’t say, but of course he’ll come,” Evie said.
Artie felt a wave of fear. He could not have explained it, and he did not have to. But the idea of his being alone with Evie on Christmas morning seemed almost unendurable to him. Then he said, cheerfully, “And now this,” handing her the star and watching while she stood on a chair to set it at the top of the tree.
—
ROB SHOWED UP a few days before Christmas—with Francesca. Once inside the house, when their coats had been taken and they were standing in the living room with Artie and Evie, Francesca said, singing this, “We’re together again—forever!” And Rob said, “That’s right,” and they hugged each other.
“Oh, thank God!” Evie jumped up and down in tiny motions, clapping her hands. “Thank God, thank God, thank God!” She looked at Artie, her face glowing. “Right?”
Artie said, “Absolutely right.”
They had brought with them some presents, and Evie said, “Here, let’s put them under the tree,” and she started to take them from Francesca, who stood there in her white sweater and her jeans, and Francesca glanced at Rob, who said, “No, open them now. We’re not coming for Christmas.”
“You’re not?” Evie’s face showed dismay.
Rob said, “We’re going to have our first real Christmas together. We’re taking a car trip to Maine and having it with Francesca’s cousins who she hasn’t seen for a million years.”
“Good for you,” Artie said, clapping his son on the back.
As Francesca moved past the piano she bent down and played a few quick notes. “Play!” Artie said. “Please do.” But Francesca laughed and said, “No, no.”
They moved into the living room and opened the presents, a cashmere sweater for Evie and a pair of binoculars for Artie. As Artie sat there, he had a memory of Christmases with his family. Maria had given his mother a cranberry-colored glass vase one year, and his mother had been very pleased with it, and Artie remembered the happiness on Maria’s face at that. Artie and Maria got one present each, both a Slinky, and they played with them for hours on the cellar stairs.
“Two more things,” Rob said as he handed his father a big soft wrapped package. “It’s a joke, except not,” Rob said, and Artie opened it to find a big plastic bag filled with fresh white socks.
“God,” said Evie, but Artie beamed at Rob.
“And one other thing that is not even remotely a joke,” Rob said, and he handed his father a small wrapped box. Artie undid the wrapping slowly, making a bit of fun out of it, and when he opened the box, a tiny sailboat was in it. He took it out with wonder, and looked at Rob, who said, “I’m going to go sailing with you again, Dad. Like I did when I was little. That’s what that’s about. This summer. We’ll go out together.” After a moment Rob said, “Are you okay, Dad?”
Artie nodded. “Makes me very happy,” he said. He said it quietly, he could almost not speak.
After they left, Evie kept on saying, “But why can’t they come here for Christmas?” And Artie kept answering, “Evie, let them be.”
—
BUT HERE WAS something strange: All evening Artie had a feeling, and what was it about? It was about the safety—the future—of Rob and Francesca. But he could not figure out exactly where this feeling came from, and he did not mention it to Evie. In the middle of the night Artie woke suddenly. He had had a dream that he could not remember, but he had a clear understanding: Rob and Francesca needed to leave the country for good.
—
HE CALLED ROB the next morning when Evie was upstairs and he said, “I had a dream I can’t remember. But I think you two should leave this country. Get out before it’s too late.”
Rob said, “Oh Dad. We’re staying right here. Don’t worry about it.” It was clear that his son had not taken him seriously, and so Artie said, “Okay then,” and they hung up.
—
(IN FACT, THREE MONTHS later, Rob would be without a job, his contracts with the federal government canceled, and Rob telephoned his father with this news, and said that he would be able to get work anywhere and that he and Francesca were going to move to Brussels, which they did early that summer.
They were gone, their apartment cleared out, only dust bunnies on the floor when Artie went over to say his final goodbye to them. Evie wept for days.
And so there was no sailing with Rob, except for one day when he came back for a visit.)
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY at the home of Endicott and Ashley Peabody was an
event that had begun when Endicott’s parents and Evie’s parents had lived in the same houses where Artie and Evie and Endicott and Ashley now lived.
That was how long the tradition had been going on. (Ashley was Endicott’s second wife, and she was half his age.) It was cold as Artie and Evie walked over to the Peabodys’ home. A wind was coming off the water, and Artie bent his head against the gusts coming toward him. Evie held on to the top of her black coat, clutching it against herself, and then she stopped walking and said, “Artie! You wore your white socks!” Artie stopped walking as well. “Oh, come on,” she said.
Artie glanced down at his black old man sneakers and saw a tiny strip of white—his socks—coming from above them. “Too bad,” he said. “I’m not
going back.”
“Oh Artie. Good God.”
In the past Artie had (sort of) enjoyed these Christmas parties, the whole neighborhood was there, he would see people he hadn’t seen all year, and he would talk and joke with them. (Even though he had never liked Endicott Peabody himself.) As they stepped through the front door of the home now, he felt a sense come to him of…What? Dread? No. More like indifference?
Yes, that. But Ashley was saying, “Oh, hello! Come in, come in!” Her hair fell past her shoulders, dark and curly, and her makeup was perfect. She wore a red dress that fit her tininess, she was extremely thin, and she stepped back as they walked in.
Ashley took their coats, and a man in a black-and-white tuxedo almost immediately offered them a glass of champagne from a tray. And then Artie remembered this: The very first time he had come to this party, Evie’s parents were still alive and Endicott was still married to his first wife, Evelyn. When Artie and Evie had knocked on the door, it had been opened by a man wearing a tuxedo identical to that of this champagne-offering man, and Artie had stuck out his hand and said, “Hi there, I’m Artie Dam.” And the man had simply stepped back from the door, not smiling, and it was not for quite a while afterward that Artie figured out that the man who had opened the door was a waiter hired for the party.
They moved now into the living room, it was a huge room, windows on three sides, and it looked out at the water. It was midafternoon and the sun shone coldly and meekly through a thin sheet of clouds. Off to one side of the room was a large Christmas tree, decorated with only red and gold balls and small twinkling white lights. Beneath the tree were many well-wrapped presents. On the mantel over the fireplace (in which a fire was roaring) was a green bough trimmed with a few gold and red Christmas ornaments. And on the walls were paintings; Artie knew that one of them was a Picasso, although he could never remember which one that was.
People milled about; a few said, “Hello, Artie.” Everyone was very well dressed, this occurred to him. The men all looked like his father-in-law had, and many of the women had gray hair nicely cut, a few were dark-haired or blond. (One woman wore a red wig, and that was sad because it was not a good wig, and also she had no eyelashes or eyebrows, and Artie understood that she was sick, but he did not know who she was, and when he said “Hello there,” she smiled just slightly and turned away.) Endicott finally came over from where he had been standing with a group of men and said, “Hello, Artie, nice to see you. Hello, Evie.” He was wearing a red bow tie against a pale blue shirt. “My son’s here, you remember Davis?” Endicott held up one hand and waved it and a young man walked over, he had on a red sweater and gray slacks, and he had a thick head of brown hair.
Davis was teaching English at Phillips Academy Andover prep school; Endicott announced this to Evie and Artie, and Artie said, “Hey, that’s great.”
Davis said, with a laugh, “It’s exhausting is what it is.”
After a few minutes Evie saw a woman she exclaimed over, and she and Endicott walked off and Davis and Artie were alone.
“Say, how’s your mother doing these days?” Artie asked. No one had mentioned Evelyn (that Artie could remember) since the divorce at least five years ago.
Davis seemed slightly taken aback. “Good, she’s—Yeah, she’s doing well.”
“Where is she living?” Artie asked, and the young man seemed almost confused, but he said, “Ah, Florida. She’s got a really nice place in Florida.
Plays a lot of tennis, you know.”
—
ARTIE ENDED UP sitting in a big overstuffed chair in the corner. He saw that there were other chairs that had been set out just for the party, he understood this, because they had coverings of beige sailcloth (not unlike what people wrapped their bushes in, he thought), and he remembered dinner parties in the dining room, when these same chairs had been placed around the long table. But Artie sat down in this big overstuffed chair, and he leaned back into it, crossing his legs. His old man black sneakers and his white socks were on display for anyone who cared to see them.
No one came over to speak to him, although a few people passing by would say, “Hi, Artie.” He just raised a hand.
—
AS THEY LEFT the Peabodys’ house and made their way around the parked cars in the driveway, Evie said, without looking at him, “Don’t say anything yet.”
“What?” Artie looked over at her.
“I said, hold on.”
When they got into the street Evie turned to him and said, “Okay. Evelyn Peabody tried to kill herself. Last week.”
“Really?” Artie slowed down.
“Yes, keep walking. She took an entire bottle of pills. Klonopin. A whole bottle, along with half a bottle of whiskey. Turned her phone off. Lay down on her bed.” Evie took a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her nose, then she continued: “I mean, it was a serious attempt. But an old friend came over and found her.”
“She hadn’t locked the door? So it wasn’t a serious attempt.”
“Completely serious attempt. This old friend wasn’t even supposed to be there, she’d come in from California that day and thought she’d surprise
Evelyn, so she walked into the house—through the back door, the front door was locked—and found her. The friend said she figured that Evelyn was there because her car was there. Anyway, Evelyn was in the hospital for three days,
and now she’s in a loony bin.”
“A loony bin?”
“Yes. Some very fancy place down there, they’re trying to stick her back together. Honest to God, Artie. The things people go through.”
—
THE FACT THAT Evelyn Peabody had tried to kill herself sat with Artie for the entire evening and into the next day. He thought of writing her a card: I know what that feels like. But in truth, he could not find within himself what it was exactly that he had felt when he had wanted to do such a thing. Though it did come to him, as he and Evie got ready for bed that night, that after the Merrills’ party (which seemed years ago now, though it had been only a few months) he had said to Evie when they came home—he had said something like “Why don’t people ever say anything real?”
And now he knew why. Because to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand.
It was a private thing, to be alive. He understood this now.
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, Artie sat on one end of the couch and Evie was on the other end; her legs were lying on Artie’s lap. The day had been okay. But Artie understood—with a finality—that he was simply never going to tell Evie that he knew about Rob’s father. He had understood this as the day progressed; it was not going to happen.
Years earlier, after Rob’s accident, Artie and Evie had decided not to give each other presents anymore on Christmas, but today he had wrapped for her a potato ricer and she had wrapped for him a new sweater.
Now he said—they had been chatting about a variety of things—“You know, I think maybe my best friend…” He paused.
“Who is it? Your best friend? Tell me.” Evie was interested.
“Ken Moynihan.”
“Really? You’ve only met him a few times.”
“I know. Well, he saved my life. Just saying: I like the man.”
“That’s interesting. And that’s nice.” Evie seemed to think about this.
“I’m a little surprised because he’s such a supporter of our incoming
president. But good for you, Artie.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Did he say he wasn’t?” Evie asked.
Artie thought about this. “No, I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about
politics. Not national politics.”
“What’s his wife’s name? Lucille?”
“Yeah, that’s her name.”
Evie shrugged. “Well, yes, then, he’s a big supporter of our next president.”
Artie sat up straight, and Evie had to take her legs off his lap. “Wait,” he said. “How do you know this?”
“A client told me. Ken’s her uncle, and she said there were family breaks because of politics. Apparently, they’re very Catholic. Lucille and Ken.”
“Your client told you this?”
“Yeah.”
“And you never told me?”
Evie looked slightly puzzled. “No,” she said.
—
AFTER EVIE WAS ASLEEP, Artie came downstairs and sat by the lit Christmas tree. He went over in his mind his conversations with Ken. No, they had never discussed politics directly, they had—he thought—mentioned the terrible stuff in the Middle East and Ukraine. As Artie slowly recalled these memories, it came to him that it did not (really) matter to him that Ken
supported the next president (except that it did). Mostly Artie was surprised.
He felt the old sadness of what (he thought) was going to happen to the country. And he was surprised at how different people could be. Ken was the opposite of an evil person, and yet the country was headed in a terrible direction, Artie was certain of this. But Ken—and Artie shook his head slowly—was such a good and decent man. Artie thought: I love him. And it was true; a warmth spread through Artie as he realized this. He sat for many minutes as he absorbed this.
He thought then how he had told Ken that maybe he was going to tell Evie during this Christmas vacation that he knew about Rob’s father. But he had not told Evie; they had just had Christmas together for the thirty-fifth time; let it go, he had thought, I’m not going to do that. He wondered now if Evie would feel better if it was no longer a secret? And Artie realized that he did not know. He did not know Evie well enough to know if she had lived with this so long that it had become a part of her fabric and that to have it ripped off would destabilize her. Or if in fact she would be hugely relieved.
He just did not know.
—
THE HOUSE was silent.
—
AS ARTIE SAT THERE looking at (but not really seeing) the lit Christmas tree, he had a sense of time rushing over him. Oddly, he pictured himself climbing those steep blue stairs by the school, the ones that led down to the public basketball court, and how his heart had banged hard when he’d last walked up them, after speaking to Flossie. He thought—without particular concern— that he might never walk up them again. (He was right, he would not.) He thought about Rob and Francesca, that they were embarked now on their own life. And he did not want to weigh them down, he would not ever call his son, as his poor father had done, and say, “I’m feeling kind of depressed.” (He would, in fact, do that.)
And then he thought about Ken Moynihan again, what a good man he was. A man to whom Artie had spontaneously told the secret of his son. But he thought he would be careful now with Ken; they would just never talk about politics, that’s all. Nobody was talking about it these days if you didn’t know whose side the other person was on. Everything, Artie sat forward as he realized this, everything in the world seemed to him to be filled with unspoken truths. Evelyn Peabody trying to kill herself. Artie himself having thought about such a thing for those few months. All the things in the world that people did not know about one another. Even those very close to them.
It was not anybody’s fault. He thought this. Not really. Poor Maria eating that confectionary sugar. That had been a secret.
His own recent attempt at shoplifting. That was a secret.
He stood up.
As he walked slowly up to the bedroom, he thought that now, after all these years, he was finally becoming a grownup. What did he mean by that?
That he was finally beginning to understand the multitudinous aspect of people. He was amazed by it, really, now that he thought about it. In his study of history, he had learned about the leaders, and the various groups involved, but he had somehow missed this fact about every single person: that they held within themselves a vast, unknowable universe.
And he understood that it could make a person lonely; people had to take and give to one another whatever they could. If it was not enough…Well, then it meant one just had to be a grownup.
—
(ABOUT FREE WILL, Artie did not think all that much anymore. He was—and he only vaguely understood this—beginning to get tired.)
AS ARTIE PULLED into the parking lot of Spud’s on the first evening of January, it was dark and raining and very windy. He heard a text come in and it was Flossie: I’m here!!! When Artie got out of his car he ducked through
the rain; it was too windy to open an umbrella, and the surf was so strong that it almost came over the railing by the door. Just as Artie was about to go inside, he had a sudden flash of understanding: This will be hard.
Inside, the tiny lights on the tables gave a glow to the white tablecloths; there were more people than Artie would have thought. He looked around as the hostess stepped up to him. But there she was, dear Flossie. Her hair was not as yellow as it had been, he almost did not know who she was except for the sound of her voice: “Artie!” She held out her arms in her dark tweed winter coat as she walked toward him, and he gave her a hug. From the moment she clung to him, he thought—in some way he thought this—this is going to be more than hard, it is all going to be false. Spud came out of the kitchen and said, “Flossie! You’re back!”
“Hello, Spud!” And Flossie gave him a hug as well.
“You two enjoy yourselves, nice to see you back here, Flossie.” And Spud returned to the kitchen.
—
FLOSSIE SAID, “Artie, what do you think of my new glasses?” She was wearing huge, square, red-framed glasses, and he told her that he thought they were just great. But as he followed her to the table and sat down across from her, it went through his mind that she looked slightly crazy. “Flossie,” he said, shaking his head. “Artie!” she said, putting her hand over his. “Tell me how you are”: They both said this at the same time, which caused Flossie to start laughing. Her large full chest shook as she laughed, and her big red glasses seemed to magnify her eyes and therefore the black circles she had drawn
around them.
Flossie said, “So Evie is okay?”
And Artie said that she was.
“Good,” Flossie said. “Now let’s enjoy ourselves.” And this made her laugh again.
“You first.” He nodded at her. And she let out a huge sigh that made her cheeks swell, and she said, “Oh Artie, what was I thinking when I went out
there? Sophie cannot stand me—” And Flossie talked on about her lonely days, how sometimes she did not get dressed at all, but that she had found on television a show where men knitted and that was soothing to her.
“They knit?” Artie said.
She nodded. “It’s really a lovely show.”
“They’re knitting?” Artie asked again, and she said, Yes, it was very soothing to watch. She shook her napkin into her lap and said, “But you!
Artie, you went and practically drowned yourself! How in the world did that happen?”
He told her again, briefly, how it had happened. But he did not tell her much of anything else. He did not tell her about Rachel or Francesca or Rob, and when Flossie asked again “How’s Evie doing?” he said again that she was fine. He did tell her about Ken Moynihan, and about coming to Spud’s with him, and she said, as she had said on the phone, that this made her jealous. And she drank. She drank a lot. “Yes,” she said whenever the waiter came by, “I’ll take another glass.”
—
THEIR OLD SPONTANEOUS friendship seemed gone. How could it not be, with what Artie now knew about Reginald? “How’s Sophie?” he asked, and she waved a hand back and forth and said, “Oh, she’s a pain in the ass.” And Artie just nodded. She wore no nail polish, he noticed; her fingernails looked slightly dirty to him, but that could not be true.
And then, when dessert was almost over, Flossie ducked her head down and said, “Sophie hates me because of that stupid affair I had twenty years
ago.”
“What affair?”
She looked at him with her painted eyebrows shooting up and said, “Oh come on, you had to have known about it, everybody else did.”
“I didn’t know. What affair?”
And she told him that the man was Ed Merrill, Anne’s husband, and he said, “I never knew that.”
Flossie looked down at her hand and said, “I was lonely. That’s the whole reason. I was just lonely married to Reginald. But God, I still miss him so much, every day I miss Reg, he was smart, Artie, you know he was a really smart man!”
Artie sat back and said, “I suspect you’ll miss him for the rest of your life, why wouldn’t you?”
“Thank you, Artie,” Flossie said. “Thank you for understanding that.”
“And I understand you were lonely. So there.” Artie thought about it, and decided that he would not ask, except she answered his (unasked) question and said, “And when Reg found out about my affair with Ed he told our daughter, she was ten years old! But he told her, and it turns out—now that her dearly loved father is dead—that she’s never forgiven me.”
Artie took a deep breath. “Forget it,” he said, waving a hand, and he understood that he was saying this to himself. All of it tired him, the whole thing. Flossie and Reginald and Sophie and even Evie. They all tired him.
Except Rob did not tire him, nor Francesca; he felt the keenness of love for the young man that he had always felt, and for his son’s wife as well.
And then Flossie leaned forward and mentioned the new president. She said, “You know, Artie, I’ve been thinking about him. Maybe it was good he got elected. Maybe he will shake things up.”
Artie looked at her. She was drunk. She shook her fists, and her large body wiggled. “Shake things up,” she said, and laughed.
And Artie, he never later understood why, began to laugh as well.
“Shake things up,” Flossie kept repeating. “Shake it all up.”
“Oh, he will,” said Artie, and she laughed louder.
“Artie, I’m so glad you’re still jovial,” Flossie said. “I have been worried about that.” And she began to laugh even more loudly now.
As Artie laughed, he felt it coming up through him, the emotion that was not remotely laughter but appeared that way, and he could not stop.
“You’re killing me!” Flossie said, tipping back her head, and he saw then that she was fully drunk. His laughter—only it was not laughter, it just sounded like laughter—was many things, a knowledge that the world, his country, would never be the same, not in his lifetime, that he loved his son,
and that he no longer loved “poor old Flossie,” as his wife had called her. It came to him that he had once thought he could be himself with Flossie. But that self—himself—seemed far away now, so much had transpired. He understood fleetingly (and correctly) that he would never again be thinking of ending his life—in spite of the variety of sadnesses he felt. (And would feel in his few years to come.) Tears came from Artie’s eyes as they laughed, and the laughter was an awful sound. People at the nearby tables turned to look. But Artie could not stop. And he thought of his sister then, in the cellar of their childhood apartment, with the confectionary sugar all over her face. Just looking for something sweet.
What are we going to do now, Mama? What are we going to do now?
And still it rose up from inside him, his awful laughter, which was not laughter, while tears came down his face, and the surf kept pounding up over the rail, splashing onto the windows.
