Читать книгу A Reunion of Ghosts - Judith Mitchell Claire - Страница 15

When she got home from Riverdale, Lady dropped the blue screwdriver on the kitchen counter—because, as bad as she felt about everything, she hadn’t relinquished it, she’d held on to it, clutching it the whole train ride home as if it were a wand or scepter; she has it even now, today, in a drawer in her bedroom—and not bothering with the switch plate, she headed straight to the bathroom for a drink. For many drinks. She sat on the tiled floor and she pulled her T-shirt up over her head, and she thought about how unhappy she was and how unloved and unlovable and how strange and, now, how violent, and she drank from the bottle, one glug, then two, and she called it drinking from the bottle. From time to time the phone rang, and she had another drink or she turned on the faucet to drown out the sound. She stared up at the peeling paint of the ceiling. And when the ringing stopped, she had another drink.

She toyed with the idea of a note. The fact that none of our family suicides had left one had always struck her as a dereliction of duty, or, if that was too strong, at least a missed opportunity.

She had always imagined that when the time came, she would leave an explanation behind. Just a few years before, an actor had killed himself (pills) and left a courteous note she’d admired: “Dear World,” he’d written, “I am leaving because I’m bored.” Ever since, Lady’d imagined leaving behind an equally pithy and frank declaration, a sentence unassailable and plucky and concise enough to fit inside a Hallmark card. But now, as she thought about it, she realized that if she were being honest, her note would have to say, “Dear World, I am leaving because Shine’s Hardware at B’Way and 242nd refused to honor its returns policy,” and so by the time she passed out, banging her head on the side of the tub in the process, doing more visible damage to herself than she’d done to that sad entrepreneur in Riverdale, she’d already ditched the note concept.

She woke up several hours later, headachy and parched. She chewed a handful of aspirins and drank the taste away with several glasses of fuzzy tap water. She washed her face.

In the tradition of Jews in the hours before the Cossacks arrive, she spent the rest of the day cleaning her apartment and packing her things. She filled a cardboard box with volumes of literature from her truncated college career, Reader, I married him crammed next to I can’t go on; I’ll go on. She put the box out by the staircase. Her hope was that one of the building’s families, immigrants all of them, would take the books for their children and perhaps think well of her.

The day latened, and she stopped to take in the sunset, that purple, magenta, and orange offspring of innocent nature and despoiling industry. It was beautiful, the sunset, in the way poisons sometimes are—the berries of the belladonna plant, shiny black as patent leather; the apple of the wicked stepmother, blood red and irresistible. An unnatural natural phenomenon, those dangerous and gorgeous colors, and she looked at them longer than she meant to. She had to shake her head, turn away from the window, before she could continue with her chores: fetching, bending, placing material things in boxes. It was as active as she’d been in weeks. The muscles along her spine, shocked at what was suddenly asked of them, twinged and chided.

She dragged a second box out into the hall, this one filled with cartons of Irish oatmeal and bags of brown rice and a dozen or so dented mini cans of soup. FREE TO A GOOD HOME, she’d printed on its side.

Her dented Campbell’s Soup for One Chicken with Stars. Her dented Campbell’s Soup for One Split Pea with Ham. “I would rather dump a gallon of soup gone bad,” Vee had said only a few weeks before, holding up one of those little cans, she and Delph laughing at Lady’s expense, “than buy something that informs the whole world, or even just the checkout girl, of my desperately lonely existence.”

Lady hadn’t minded the teasing, and it still made her smile to recall that evening. Eddie Glod was at his night job, mopping floors at Union Theological, so it had been just the three of us on Lady’s futon, wooden plates balanced on knees. She and Joe Hopper had bought the plates at Azuma, figuring that, wood being unbreakable, the set would last them forever. And certainly none of the plates had broken or chipped. Still, there was something about eating off wood that was like nails on a chalkboard, and there was a slightly rancid smell due to the vegetable oil Lady used to keep up their color, and eventually you had to watch out for splinters.

Lady hadn’t made soup that evening. Vee had come across the soup-for-one cans while searching Lady’s cabinets for the vodka. (“In the bathroom,” Lady had been required to say.) Lady’d made only spaghetti, pouring Kraft blue cheese dressing over it, a favorite meal of ours, one she’d been preparing for Vee and Delph since our childhoods.

“I don’t care what supermarket checkout girls think about me,” Lady told Vee, although this wasn’t true; she cared what everyone in the world thought about her, including impotent college boys and irritable hardware store owners. “But,” she added, “you know what those cans of soup make me think of? Men. All the men I meet, all the men I know. Not Eddie. We all love Eddie. I’m talking about Joe and his friends and the men who come into the office, all flirting and puffed up with themselves as if I don’t know about their tartar and bad breath and gangrenous wisdom teeth. Even the guy I work for. There’s something wrong with all of them, I swear it. An entire gender of dented soup cans, all damaged and marked down, and you have to wonder, is the dent just because it fell on the floor and you’re getting a bargain, or is it caused by something like botulism and it’s going to kill you? My feeling is, Why take the risk? What’s the best that can happen? A bowl of cheap soup? Better to go soupless, that’s what I think.”

“You’re twenty-six,” Vee said. “It’s too soon to give up on soup.”

Delph disagreed. “Who says? I’m only nineteen, and I have no interest in soup whatsoever.”

“Yes, honey,” Vee said, “and no offense, but that’s not normal. I’m not saying you have to run out and lap up the first bowl of soup you stumble across. You should wait for a variety you like. But you should at least be wanting soup. In fact, you should be craving soup. You should be dreaming about slurping it from bowls and drinking it from mugs and ladling it from the pot straight into your mouth.”

“I’ll have the salad,” Delph said.

It took Lady the rest of Saturday evening and all of Sunday, the actual Fourth of July, to finish packing. She owned so little; she was surprised it took as long as it did. But it was all the trips to the liquor store to mooch cardboard boxes. It was her sudden compulsion to fold the clothes she normally just stuffed into drawers, every black T-shirt, every black sweater, every pair of black jeans folded as if by a saleswoman in a luxury boutique. It was her decision, after she’d filled those boxes, to pile them neatly, geometrically, a waist-high room divider that was somehow both sturdy and flimsy.

When she was done, she took off her black T-shirt and jeans and changed into a black sundress she’d laid out on the sofa. She stepped into flip-flops and went to the kitchen and took her will from the otherwise empty junk drawer, where she’d kept it with the take-out menus and magnets from banks and broccoli rubber bands. A will at her age: it was a perk of having a paralegal for a sister. All the estate planning you could ever want. Who cared that you had no property to speak of? “Yes, but what if you get hit by a bus?” Vee had argued when Lady and Joe were newly separated, “and your executor sues the city for millions and wins? Don’t you want a say in who those millions go to? Or who they don’t go to?”

“You don’t have a will, though,” Lady pointed out.

“Because if you die intestate without kids, the law gives everything to your spouse,” Vee said, “which I don’t mind. But you should.”

The truth was that Lady didn’t care one way or the other. Let Joe inherit her rabbit-eared TV. Hell, let him inherit the fortune reaped by her estate after her imaginary collision with a bus. But Vee wasn’t having it. “Over my dead body,” she said, and she came by the next night with the document, ten legal-size pages although only two sentences in the entire thing mattered. The first of these sentences said, “I give and bequeath the rest, residue, and remainder of my property in equal shares to my surviving sisters.” The second one said, “It is my intention that this will shall not be revoked by my forthcoming divorce from Joseph Hopper.” All the rest was archaic gobbledygook.

Lady hadn’t looked at the document since she’d signed it. But now, given that it was soon to take effect—to mature, as Vee would have said—now, before folding it into thirds and slipping it inside her purse, Lady stopped to skim it. She wished she could blot out the reference to Joe. The divorce was no longer forthcoming. It was done, it was history. Why did he still have to be a part of her story?

She wished, too, she could cross out “the rest, residue, and remainder,” and replace it with a phrase that sounded like something she’d actually say. Something like “I give all my shit to Vee and Delph, although why they’d want any of it, I have no idea.”

“The rest, residue, and remainder,” she’d said the evening Vee had presented her with the document, Vee proud of herself the way a kid is when bestowing a handmade Mother’s Day card upon the kind of mom who gets off on such things. “Doesn’t that sound like what’s left after you kick? Ash residue? Skeletal remains? Eternal rest?”

Vee had been annoyed. “It’s just legalese.” She’d expected gratitude and admiration, not a bad review.

“Why can’t it just be English?” Lady asked.

“Jesus, Lady,” Vee said. “None of our clients who actually pay an arm and a leg for these things stop to read them. Why do you have to? Just sign whatever your name is these days.”

Her name then, as now, was Lily Alter. No longer Frankl, our father’s name. No longer Hopper, her husband’s name. The new name was such a recent acquisition it still felt like an alias. As she wrote it, she felt as though she were committing fraud.

“Okay, you can die now,” Vee said when Lady put down her pen.

The witnesses, a Korean mother and her adult daughters who lived in the apartment next door, had scowled. They understood more English than they spoke. They didn’t like Vee’s sense of humor. Smiling comfortingly at Lady, they sang out a Korean word that sounded like “muenster,” as in the cheese.

“Man-se,” the mother said, enunciating. “Means may you live ten thousand more year.”

The final thing Lady did before leaving the apartment that Sunday was gather the diaries she’d kept on and off through the years. She took those small spiral notebooks filled with her dull day-to-day and threw them into a black trash bag.

She knew that the most recent of the notebooks contained a recap of the soup conversation, and she considered stopping what she was doing to find it and read it over, see if she was remembering it correctly, but she forced herself to resist succumbing to nostalgia and fondness or anything else that might interfere with what she was planning to do later that night. Instead she slung the trash bag over one shoulder and left the apartment.

It was a little past midnight. She trudged west, pushing through the thick heat of the night, the black plastic sack sticking to her back. Standing on the broken concrete and exposed rebar that was the bank of the Hudson, she hurled the bag as far as she could. Not very far, but far enough. She watched as slowly it sank.

It was a relief to be rid of the weight of the journals. The literal weight, she meant. The contents of the notebooks weren’t weighty at all; she never wrote anything revealing. She rarely wrote anything that was true. She didn’t lie, per se. She just committed literary sins of omission. Sleeping with a married dentist? Who’s sleeping with a married dentist? She was drowning those notebooks not to prevent people from learning the discouraging facts of her life, but to prevent them from laughing at all she’d left out.

She reflected, too—how could she not?—on our mother’s leap into this river the year before. Vee had called her. Lady was answering phones then.

“Mom’s not here,” Vee said. “She hasn’t left the house in weeks, and now suddenly she’s not here.”

“Enjoy the time off,” Lady said.

“We thought she might be with you.”

“With me? When has she ever walked the four blocks to see me?”

Later in the day Vee called her again.

It was not Lady’s choice to die the same way our mother had. The method Lady preferred had come to her almost immediately. She would hang herself in the basement laundry room of the Riverside Drive building. She might have done it in her own building, where there was no chance that her sisters would be the ones to discover her, but she was being a little selfish: she didn’t want to die among roaches and rats. The basement in our building was cleaner.

But although she debated over which building to die in, she never wavered when it came to the method. She was actually good with ropes and knots; she’d made a number of intricate wall hangings and plant hangers from rope over the years: the macramé craze.

Walking away from the river, she saw few people. The professional pyrotechnics of the holiday were over and done with. All she heard now were the occasional explosions of cherry bombs in nearby Spanish Harlem. Tomorrow, the last day of the long weekend, the last day of this wretched vacation, there would be newspaper articles about the accidental mutilations of reckless boys by reckless boys, about the deliberate mutilations of cats. She was glad she wouldn’t have to read any of it.

It was already tomorrow—the early hours of Monday—when she reached our building. She let herself in with the key she’d had since always, and boarded the waiting elevator. Without thinking—a muscle memory—she pressed the button to our floor. It was only when the doors opened and she heard music seeping out from under our apartment door—Buffy Sainte-Marie, all that vibrato, and the volume much too loud considering the hour—that she realized she’d gone up when she’d meant to go down.

For a brief moment she stood in the elevator, annoyed and uncertain. When the doors started to close, though, instead of letting them, instead of pressing B as she should have done in the first place, she extended her hand, and the doors reopened.

She stepped into the hallway and stood on the welcome mat, a little rag rug that had lain before the door for three generations, the fibers frayed, the colors rubbed away. She was unsure what to do next. Then she made a decision: she reached into her purse, retrieved her keys again, and let herself in. Leaving the door ajar, she stood inside the foyer, just stood there, as if she had no idea how she’d come to be where she was.

Vee and Delph, on the other hand, reacted as if they’d been expecting her. They were both awake despite the hour, and in the kitchen, Vee in a ruby-red Gap T-shirt and cutoffs, Delph in a calico granny dress, both in bare feet.

“Hey,” Vee said. “There you are.”

Delph was leaning against the fridge, eating a peanut-butter-on-pumpernickel sandwich. “Want some?” she said, advancing toward Lady, holding the sandwich out. “I’m eating it, but I’m not even hungry.”

“No thanks, and don’t get peanut butter in my hair.”

That this is what came out of her mouth surprised Lady as much as any of the other surprising things she’d done that weekend. Concern for her hair, her terrible wiry hair. Although the truth was that Lady had made a bit of an effort with her hair that night. She was hoping to look halfway decent when she was discovered. There’d be the broken neck, the Basenji-blue tongue, the bulging eyeballs, maybe (she was sorry to say) a horrid mess on the floor beneath her, but at least she’d be wearing a nice dress and her hair would look attended to, restrained with one of her leather barrettes, her turquoise earrings gently undulating back and forth.

By way of apology she said to Delph, “That is one very brown sandwich.”

Delph smiled. “It’s really dry too.” She took another bite as she closed the front door with her ass.

Lady dropped her purse on the hall chair. She stepped into the living room. “Is that my album you’re playing?” she asked.

“You’re the one who left it behind,” Vee said. “That old saw about possession being nine-tenths of the law? It turns out to be true.”

“I don’t want it back,” Lady said. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m happy you like it. Mi shit es su shit.” She looked around. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Exhausted. Asleep.”

“I’m going to make you a sandwich of your own,” Delph said. “With jelly. I think you’ve lost weight. You look terrible.”

“Especially the way she has her hair pulled back,” Vee said. “So tight. She looks like Olive Oyl.”

“Well, she’s not that skinny,” Delph said.

We ate in the living room, Delph transporting two sandwiches, two glasses, and a bottle of Southern Comfort, managing everything at once, though this meant she had to carry her sandwich in her teeth and wedge the bottle under her armpit.

“Since when Southern Comfort?” Lady said.

Vee shrugged. “We’re listening to Buffy and drinking like Janis.” And when we were situated, the sandwich-eaters on the couch, Vee on the floor, she said, “Delph’s right, Lady. You do look like crap.”

“I got it. I didn’t think the Olive Oyl comparison was a compliment.”

“Look at your eyes. It’s like you’ve been crying.”

“When have you known me to cry?”

“Well, you don’t cook, so I know you weren’t peeling onions.”

“I cook,” Lady said.

“Spaghetti’s not cooking.”

“I cook things requiring peeled onions all the time.”

“So you were peeling onions?”

“No.” The record had ended. We listened to the sound of the needle lifting, returning to the first track, same side. “They’re painting the halls outside my apartment,” Lady said when the music began again, the song about the sexy woman who was pursued by every man in town. The three of us used to sing it together in Lady’s room, wiggling our hips, using roll-on deodorant bottles as microphones. “What’s hoochy koochy mean?” Delph would ask. “What’s oversexed?”

“Really?” Vee said. “The slumlord’s painting the halls?”

“The fumes are killing me. My eyes keep watering.”

“So stay the night here,” Vee said.

“Maybe I will.”

“Stay two nights. Stay forever. Come home. Nobody understands why you don’t.”

Lady looked down the hall to the master bedroom’s ever-shut door. We’ve long called that bedroom the Dead and Dying Room. Our grandmother Karin died in it after many years suffering with an unnamed illness we assume was cancer—cancer back in the day when no one said the word out loud. And a couple of weeks after she died there, our grandfather Richard died there too—although technically speaking he didn’t die in there, but from there: he’d opened the window, hoisted himself up on the sill, wobbled for a moment, then propelled himself forward. Our mother had been in her bedroom across the hall doing math homework when she heard the screams from neighbors as his body passed each floor.

Like her father, our mother hadn’t literally died inside the Dead and Dying Room, but it had been her bedroom when she drowned herself across the street.

“I don’t know,” Lady said. “Sometimes I do think about moving back. But it’s a little haunted house-ish here.”

Delph nodded. “Tell me about it,” she said.

As botched as Lady’s attempt ended up, that’s how promising it had seemed at roughly four in the morning when she left her old bed where she’d been lying in her dress. She stepped into her flip-flops, patted her hair back in place, and headed to the front door. She stopped before she opened it, took a moment to look into the living room, where her half-eaten peanut butter sandwich remained on the coffee table, where the empty bottle of Southern Comfort lay on its side on the carpet. She could hear Vee and Eddie and Delph snuffle and snort in their sleep. She gazed out the window and saw the park and the Hudson and, when she looked uptown, the George Washington Bridge, its necklace lights ablaze for the holiday after two years of energy-saving darkness.

But once she was downstairs in the laundry room, she didn’t dawdle. She headed straight to the rusted shelving units where tenants kept cardboard boxes of detergent with their apartment numbers marked on the sides and where the super kept old wooden soda boxes filled with hammers and nails, electrical cords and rags, things like that. A few Phillips-head screwdrivers. Lady recognized them now.

The box that interested her was the one containing a few old clotheslines. She chose a waxy white rope that seemed cleaner and stronger and less likely to burn her fingers or abrade her neck than the ones of brown hemp. She was also drawn to the obsessive tidiness with which it, of all the clotheslines, had been stored. It had been curled around and around itself until it lay in a flattened circle, a pretty coiling pattern like a sisal placemat.

Her head began singing. A pretty coil is like a melody. She questioned the lyric. Was melody right? Or was it memory? A pretty girl is like a memory? She was feeling a memory coming at her now, she was recalling Joe Hopper during their happier years, which had lasted from her freshman year of college right up to her weak-kneed decision to marry him spring semester of her junior year. She was remembering the way he used to cheese down the docking line of the small sailboats they’d sometimes rent on City Island. Cheese down. It meant to coil the tail of the line to give a neat appearance. He’d taught her the phrase, couldn’t believe she knew so little about sailing. “New Yorkers think they’re so sophisticated,” he’d said, “but the truth is, you’re all rubes in your own way.”

She thought he hadn’t minded that she was an unsophisticated New Yorker. She knew he liked educating her. “You’re probably wondering why I’m going to all this trouble,” he said the first time he wound the line so it lay on the sunny pier like a hairy snake nuzzling its own tail.

She hadn’t been wondering. She’d been gazing out at the bleached horizon, trying to distinguish the migrating strips of white that were clouds from the subdued circle of white that was the sun from the broad canvas of white that was the sky. But she listened as he explained. She knew that was her job. She didn’t mind it. She liked learning new things.

“It’s a seaman’s tradition,” he’d said of the whorled rope. “A gesture of courtesy for the next sailor.”

He said this as if he’d come from a long line of seamen rather than a long line of life insurance agents. He said it as if taking out an eight-foot dinghy once or twice a summer made him John Paul Jones or Popeye. When he’d been fifteen, his parents had made him transfer from his local public school to an all-male prep school in New England, the kind with mandatory chapel and a dress code involving navy blue blazers and rep ties and an impressive record of sending its students on to the Ivies. This was where he’d learned to sail. But, as he later told Lady, he’d also found himself having sex with his roommate, which had freaked him out, and he returned the next year to the coed high school in his hometown in Connecticut, a comfortable suburb on the outskirts of a moribund mill city.

This had been the shameful secret he’d told her that night, the secret that had been so hard for him to utter that he’d bitten through his lip trying to get it out. The sex with his roommate. She and Joe had been getting high on the roof of Lehman Hall on the small Barnard campus when he’d told her. He’d taken a hit off the joint, inhaled, exhaled, posed. Then he’d come out with it. He’d never told anyone else about it, he said. He teared up a little as he told her, not only because he was ashamed, but because he was relieved. And as he confessed, his front teeth tore into his lip and the blood dribbled into his lip beard, turning a few strands a deep, sticky mahogany. She blamed those mingy tears—the tears of saline, the tears of hemoglobin—for her accepting his proposal that night.

He had draped his arm over her shoulders. He had begged her to keep his secret. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” he said.

“Of course not,” she said. “Who would I tell?”

He cut her a look. They both knew perfectly well who’d she tell.

“My sisters wouldn’t care. Don’t lots of boys experiment that way?”

“I wasn’t experimenting,” he muttered. “I was doing what I had to do.” He looked grim and resolute, as if recalling a march into battle. “It wasn’t homo sex,” he said. “It was prison sex.”

Lady took the white clothesline to the long table where tenants folded warm clothes fresh out of the dryers. Sitting on the metal folding chair that she planned to stand on in a few minutes, she began to coil the rope, this time not a flat coil but a three-dimensional coil, a cobra-rising-from-a-basket coil, and not merely a pretty coil, but a coil with a purpose, a function, a goal.

When she was done, she looked at her creation and was pleased. At the same time she couldn’t squelch the thought: no noose is good news.

Our father, the aforementioned Natan Frankl, was born in Munich to a family of scholars. Like the rest of them, he was an excessively educated man, fluent in numerous languages. He loved language the way other little boys love dogs or yo-yos. He liked to play with language, he liked to make it do amusing tricks. English, he told Lady, was the best language to play with. Next came French. Italian was good, too, especially for poetry, since all the words rhymed. The worst was his native German. In fact, he told Lady, he could no longer stand the sound of it. He blanched even when he heard someone say gesundheit.

Our point is this: we know no one likes the puns and wordplay. We’re sorry about them. But we can’t help it. They’re Natan Frankl’s fault.

He’d been a chemist, too, our father. That’s how he’d known the Alters. But while our mother’s family left Germany early, our father’s remained until there was no getting out. He’d been a scientist unable to interpret the data all around him—there was a lot of that going around—and he ended up in one of the camps. We don’t even know which one. That’s how little any of this was discussed.

We do know that after liberation he was moved to a displaced persons center, and that when he subsequently managed to get to America—not easy; America didn’t want any of the displaced persons—he looked up his old friend Richard Alter, i.e., our grandfather. But, given that our grandfather had already killed himself—that window in the Dead and Dying Room—he met only our mother.

That’s their meet-cute story.

In New York the only work he could find was among the other Jews on Seventh Avenue. He sold clothing fasteners to the trade: buttons and snaps, hooks and eyes, frogs and kilt pins. He used to bring discontinued samples home for Lady to play with. She turned them into little families. Brass peacoat buttons embossed with anchors were the fathers. Silk-covered buttons were the mothers. The tiny white buttons you find on collars were the babies, unnecessary and largely decorative, but cute.

He’d been an observant Jew before the camps; he was a cynical atheist after. On Saturday mornings he took Lady and Vee to the Central Park Zoo. Vee doesn’t remember this at all—she was still in her carriage—but Lady does, though vaguely. Lady is Vee and Delph’s sole conduit to our paterfamilias. She’s the one who remembers what he looked like: fair and blue-eyed and nothing like us. She’s the keeper of his puns. She used to do an impression of his impression of the Central Park polar bear, our father and the bear lolling their big heads this way and that. “It’s as if he’s swaying to secret bear music,” our father would say. “He can bear-ly restrain himself.” She told us how hard the two of them laughed at that. Bear-ly restrain himself. They’d thought it was the funniest thing.

In one of her dresser drawers—the same one in which she keeps the rubbery blue screwdriver—she has an old business card of his, soft and cottony from handling, and at the bottom, beneath his useless contact information, it says:

The fastener invented after the button was a snap

So when Lady says our father gave her plenty a closure, but never any closure, she can’t be scorned. When Vee says that the reason Natan Frankl left us may have been his palindromic first name (“Coming or going, it was all the same to him”) or maybe his German surname (“He probably left to find the missing e”) or that maybe the reason had nothing to do with his name at all, that maybe the reason he left was all those months he spent in that relocation camp before coming to New York (“Looks like relocating became his thing”), she must not be judged harshly.

And when each of us—Vee upon her marriage, and Lady after her separation, and Delph as soon as she came of age—ditched his surname to go by our matronymic, and Delph repeatedly described the name change as no big deal, just a slight Alter-ation, you can’t punish her for being punnish. You can’t roll your eyes when we’re speaking Frankly. It’s all that the man who left us left us. In no other way did he provide for us or, apparently, care about us. In fact, you might say that Frankl, our dad, didn’t give a damn.

All right, all right; we’ll stop. That’s our entire repertoire anyway. We have nothing more to say about him, no idea where he went. A business trip, our mother told Lady, the others too young to ask, but after a while, because even kids know that business trips end and the businessman comes home, often with presents, our mother had to admit the unsatisfying truth, or at least what she maintained was the truth: she hadn’t a clue where he’d gone. One day he never came home from work, and the next day, the same thing happened, then etcetera, etcetera, until she stopped expecting him. She called the cops—a good citizen, she did that much, or so she said—and they nosed around a bit and reported that nothing untoward had befallen him, that wherever he was, it was where he, a grown man, wished to be, and it was no longer their, or, we supposed, our, business.

Even so, over the years Lady continued to press. Soon Vee and Delph joined in. Then our mother would offer up possibilities. Maybe he sailed back to Germany. Maybe he was still living in New York, but with a different wife, tidier daughters who didn’t have to be nagged to make their beds. He might be dead, you never knew, the cops could have been wrong. It’s not like cops weren’t wrong all the time. Or he could be alive somewhere and—again, who knew?—he might decide to come home someday. When we least expected it, he might walk right back through that door.

“Which would you prefer?” she asked, as if his fate could be determined by popular vote.

We won’t deny that we grew up father-hungry. But over the years we’ve come out the other side. No one has had more therapy than the three of us, that ineffectual if gratifying institution—me! for fifty whole minutes let’s talk about me!—but really, we didn’t need therapy when it came to our father. At a certain point when we were still children, each of us cycled through the kiddie version of the five stages of grief, namely, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and crazy-ass conspiracy theories.

Leaving his office one evening, he’d fallen down the stairs and now had amnesia!

Because he spoke German, he’d been recruited as a spy for the CIA and was now skulking heroically behind the Berlin Wall!

Suffering from some terrible and highly contagious disease, he’d had no choice but to remove himself from our presence. Now he rented a room in the apartment across the side street that both our mother’s and Lady’s bedroom windows faced. Every night, through powerful infrared binoculars, he watched over us all as we slept, our mother in her bed and the three of us sardined in Lady’s.

But of all our theories, our favorite, or at least the one we kept coming back to, was that our mother had killed him. Vee had proposed this possibility one night with a wicked smile, and we all liked it. We enjoyed speculating how our mother, that little woman, that lonely and abandoned waif, would have accomplished it, and what she’d have done with the body. We eyed the hallway incinerator with suspicion and a newfound respect.

Let us be clear. Our mother did not murder our father. Even as we entertained the notion, we knew we were doing just that: entertaining ourselves. There was something cathartic in imagining our father dead and our mother a powerful killer. It was far more satisfying than the fantasy of him watching us sleep, which, to be honest, had begun to feel creepy and sometimes gave Delph bad dreams. But the idea of a woman like our mother—another short, bosomy, and luckless ugly gosling—dragging a man to the incinerator late one night was rather invigorating. Therapeutic, one might say.

One final thing about Natan Frankl, and then we won’t mention him again. It really doesn’t matter whether he went back to Germany or found himself a second, superior family or was chopped into his component parts and fed to the incinerator. All that’s relevant now is that he was years older than our mother, closer to her father’s age than her own, and if he didn’t die back then, he’s surely dead now.

So no matter which version of the Father Stories you or we like best, the ending’s the same. We may not know the details, but we promise he won’t be showing up at any point in our story. We urge you to forget all about him. We assure you, as we were assured, it’s all for the best.

So back to the basement, back to no noose is good news. Back to Lady standing on that folding chair, Lady smiling a self-consciously wry smile as if she were on a stage and wished to signal her state of mind to the audience. She imagined that audience to consist of both our parents. She saw them smiling back at her, but warmly, encouraging her. She’d often thought about—had dreams about—how willingly and quietly each had left her. Now she found herself thinking about how willingly and quietly she was leaving Vee and Delph. Although the difference was, Vee and Delph didn’t need her. Vee had Eddie. Delph had Vee and Eddie.

Perhaps each of our parents had thought the same thing. The girls don’t need me. They have each other. Or perhaps—a new thought was coming to Lady—they hadn’t meant to leave us at all. Perhaps they’d meant for us to follow them. As Lady was doing now. Perhaps she hadn’t been abandoned after all; she’d just gotten lost for a while.

DNA as a trail of bread crumbs. Suicide as salvation. She felt awash with sorrow for herself, and it was this self-pity, that most delicious of emotions, that made the tears come.

To avoid these emotions, she distracted herself by reviewing her reasons again. She was alone. She was lonely. This was her daily dilemma: she wanted no one in her life; she couldn’t bear to live life alone. Also, she was tangled up with a dentist who seemed not to like her, and she was engaging in behavior that would cause the dentist’s wife pain—Patty, the woman’s name was Patty—were she to find out about it. To punish herself for hurting Patty—that was reason enough to do what she was about to do.

Not to mention the fact that she’d bloodied a Holocaust survivor’s nose with a screwdriver.

And then there was the rest of it. She was fundamentally incapable of taking care of herself or even, it seemed, of answering a phone or crossing a busy intersection or buying a simple hand tool. Her apartment had roaches and a switch plate as suicidal as she was. Also, it was definitely possible that she was an alcoholic, which would mean she should give up drinking, and why would she want to live like that?

But though the reasons were endless, the reasons were also meaningless. She was back to that again. There was something else driving her, something unsayable, just a feeling, just an urge, but a something that was so very strong. It was a something that Joe and the dentist and the dentist’s wife and the hardware store owner hadn’t a thing to do with.

She regretted this. She wished it were grief or guilt propelling her. She wished she were about to commit an act of heartfelt atonement. But that wasn’t what she was doing, not really. It was something else.

We’ve all struggled with this: how to explain the desire to do something most people find pathological at best, selfish at worst, incomprehensible always. We sometimes describe it as a chit we were each handed at birth, a card to get out of jail free, if one thinks of her life as jail.

Or we talk about the horizontal light, which is how we refer to the light that sometimes replaces sunlight, the light we see for a brief moment virtually every day, the light that isn’t golden, but is as silver as the nacre inside a seashell, and comes not down from the heavens but from beyond the skyline, oozing and seeping until it lies over the day like an opalescent blanket inviting us to slide beneath it. There’s no telling when we’ll see the horizontal light; it appears at a different time every day, and most days we overlook it—it tends to come and go in an instant—and on other days we see it and it lingers, but we manage to ignore it, or at least, after a while, to look away from it.

But then there are the days we can’t look away. “Man, the horizontal light was really strong today,” one of us will say, and the other two will say, “But you resisted,” and the first one will say, “Yeah, well, today I resisted. Who knows about tomorrow?” and we all say, “Who ever knows about tomorrow?” and we refresh our drinks.

Lady kicked off her flip-flops, stood on the chair. She looped one end of the rope around a ceiling pipe the way you’d loop an identification tag around your bag’s handle before a trip. She looped the other end around her neck. Her legs were shaking, but she was doing well. True, she was still crying, but she wasn’t sobbing; the only reason she knew she was crying was by the feel of her tears, silky yet itchy. No noose is good news would be her last pun, and this would be her final pleasurable experience: the warmth of big fat tears sliding down her cheeks, tippling off her chin.

Her feet were bare and sweating. She knew that by now they must be stuck to the chair’s metal seat and that it would require some effort to break the suction when she stepped forward. She would have to add this to her calculation when she made her move.

This must be the way an Olympic diver felt. Observing the conditions of board, of pool, of body. Perfectly poised, needing only to achieve the perfect mind-set, the Zen focus, the courage of one’s convictions. And then, the ability to say one-two-three-now.

She stood for what seemed like hours, sometimes getting to the one, sometimes getting to the two, but never getting to the three, never getting to the now. All she was getting was dizzy, so dizzy she began to worry she’d die of something else, something heart-related—a stroke or an aneurism. She didn’t want to die like that. She wanted her place on the chart.

It was that thought—fierce pride, family loyalty—that got her to the three, to the now, that got her to inch her feet off the chair, first just her right foot, then the left. When her toes felt nothing but air beneath them, her heel kicked the chair away.

This was when she remembered Beef.

She’d meant to return the framed photograph of the dog to the dentist’s office. She’d forgotten entirely. It was still in her purse, and her purse was upstairs in our foyer.

In the fascinating slowing of time that occurred as the chair skittered away, right before her second heel felt nothing beneath it, she realized she needed to stop what she was doing. She needed to deal with that photo, put it back on the shelf. Posthumous humiliation was not what she was after. The dentist going through life citing the purloined photo as incontrovertible proof that she’d died for want of him—this was not her goal.

She reached out, trying to grab hold of something to prevent her body from dropping any farther, but there was nothing to grab, no solid surface to stand on. There was nothing for her to do, no way out, no means of saving herself. She was going to die. And in that briefest, yet longest moment of her life, before she began to flail and kick, she understood she’d been wrong, that this wasn’t her time after all, but it was a realization that made no difference whatsoever. She dropped completely, the rope taut and intransigent.

She hadn’t counted on the building management’s years of neglect. She hadn’t realized that the pipe to which she tied the rope was hardly a pipe, was pretty much nothing but rust in the shape of a pipe. It snapped in two as soon as it felt her full weight. She fell hard, not to her death but to the concrete floor, where she landed awkwardly, heard the snap of a bone in her left calf, screamed from the shock and the physical pain. At the same time a downpour of cold water fell onto her from the broken ends of the so-called pipe, a continuous brutal waterfall.

To get to the elevator she had to drag herself through what was quickly becoming a shallow but numbingly icy lake populated not with fish but with clumps of multicolored dryer lint and sodden stray socks. In the elevator she had to reach up, grab the rail, and exert all of what little upper arm strength she possessed to pull herself to one foot and push the button to our floor.

When Delph, half asleep, responded to the pounding on the door, she found Lady prone on the old welcome mat, drenched, shivering, writhing, large flakes of rust in her sopping hair and a noose encircling her neck, its white tail running along the floor like some sort of soggy leash. Delph felt herself begin to shake. She was as unnerved as she’d ever been, though less unnerved than she would be in a few hours, five in the morning, when she took a taxi to Riverdale and, consulting the scrap of paper on which Lady had written an address and alarm code, broke into a dentist’s office to return a photograph of a dog. Delph trembled uncontrollably during the decommissioning of her sister’s crime, certain the dentist, wanting an early start to the day following his first-ever vacation, would suddenly show up. But he hadn’t, and she’d gotten away with it. She got back into the waiting cab, directed the driver to St. Luke’s Hospital.

“I did it,” she told Lady, who lay on a gurney in a hallway while waiting for a room to free up. Vee and Eddie sat on the floor by the gurney’s wheels, Vee’s head on Eddie’s shoulder, the two of them snoozing.

Woozy from painkillers, her neck chafed red, her leg in a cast, Lady looked up at Delph. She managed despite everything to speak.

“Someday this will be funny,” she said.