“Wait. It crawls?” I am fascinated with everything about this story, and also intrigued with Lola’s animated face, turning pinker and pinker, and then the spirals of sparkles distracting me by going off behind her head.
“You know how they do,” she says. “How a man will just snake his hand along the back of the seat, thinking he’s being so innocent, but clearly he’s intending to put his arm around you. To pull you in! And he gets this shy, sort of sly look on his face. It’s awful. Just awful. I’m embarrassed for him really.”
I burst out laughing. “Lola, really? Snakes? And his crawling hand? Do you hear yourself? It sounds to me like it might be lovely, talking to somebody who knew you from before. He’s safe. He knows you. He likes you.” She is glaring at me, so I say, “But if you don’t want him, then why are we spending so much time talking about him?”
“Because I saw you looking the other day when he came to pick me up, and I know you’re like Blix, and I want you to stop thinking everything you’re thinking about William and me. Just stop it. Blix thinks everybody should be like her and Houndy. If you’ve lost your partner, get another one. As if everybody’s replaceable.”
“Huh,” I say.
She looks at me. “I was happily married for forty-two years and that chapter of my life is over. Who needs it? Who needs the bother of it? I’ve got my television programs and my bridge club ladies and the neighbors who come by, and the people at church—and do I really need to take a chance on some other man? Right now I’ve got everything just the way I like it. I told Blix I don’t need another man. Somebody with opinions I’d have to pay attention to.”
“Soooo . . . I take it this didn’t sit too well with her?”
She shakes her finger at me, and there’s an explosion of sparks all around her. “Let me tell you something about Blix. Blix the adventurer! I’m quite sure she still thinks that someday she and Houndy and this man, William Sullivan, and I are going to be frolicking around together in the afterlife—and we are so not, because when I’m in the afterlife, I’m going to be over in Walter’s corner, sipping tea with him and not having to explain to him that I have a second husband who happens to be his old friend.”
For a moment my mind is boggled with this view of the afterlife, in which we’re all traipsing around between little bistro tables where our old friends and lovers are drinking their tea and noticing who we’re talking to more than them. It sounds so much like eighth grade.
“That can’t be what it’s like!” I say. “And don’t you really think that if it is, both Walter and William Sullivan will be evolved enough to want to know that you can sit with both of them at the same table in the afterlife—you and everybody else they ever loved? I think that’s what the afterlife is going to be all about—that’s when we’re finally going to understand all the love stuff that confuses us now. It’s going to be magnificent, all the Walters and Williams and Lolas and Blixes and Houndys all together!”
I look over at her: all the color has left her face, and in a low, panicky voice, she says, “Marnie. Oh, no! I can’t breathe so well, and my heart is . . .”
And then, almost in slow motion, she falls right over.
Patrick takes one look at her and says she has to go to the hospital.
By the time he gets upstairs, of course, she’s come to, and is even arguing about things. She wants to go home and get in bed.
But he’s not having it.
She needs to go to the hospital, he says. Find out what’s going on.
“What could it be?” she says in a wavery voice. She looks so nervous, it’s like she’s a little child dressed in a grandma costume, perhaps to be in a play.
“Well,” he says, “it could be nothing, or it could be you drank too much coffee, or it could be . . . something they’ll want to help you with.” He’s already calling 911.
Our eyes meet, and he smiles at me. She makes little murmuring sounds of distress.
“Marnie, are you going with her to the hospital, do you think?”
“Of course,” I say. I know that Patrick can’t go. He’d have a meltdown in a medical place, among strangers. He mouths the words “Thank you” and then he’s talking to the dispatcher.
While he’s on the phone, she gives me specific directions for what items she needs, and I go next door and get her pocketbook and her warm jacket, both of which just happen to be in her bedroom. No clothing because she won’t be staying—she’s positive of that.
I love how her house is dark and cool and filled with large pieces of old-people upholstered furniture, grandparent furniture. It’s like a cave in here, with the shades all pulled down. There are tons of pictures of her and Walter and their two boys set out on every surface and hanging on the walls—Lola with red, fluffy hair cut in layers like petals, and Walter a slim, handsome man with laughing eyes. The boys look just like boys of any era: crew-cutted and freckled, wearing striped T-shirts, grinning at the camera, and then turning into handsome teenagers and finally bridegrooms—and then there are snapshots of them with their families. Far away.
There’s a framed portrait of Walter next to her bed, and I pick it up and look at his aquiline nose, his blue eyes. “Walter,” I tell him. “You old rascal, you know as well as I do that you’ve got to give her a sign you release her, don’t you? You and I both know she needs the love and care of your old friend now.”
When I turn, I notice the little gold sparkles are back, showing up tentatively around the curtains, like little fireflies at dusk.
I’m no maga, but it does seem to be kind of a coincidence that all those sparkles showed up right when we were getting to the heart of love in the afterlife.
I come home from the hospital that evening to find a dog on the stairs—or rather, the stoop. He’s lying there at the top, and when I reach him, he stands up and wags his tail and licks my hand, like I’m his owner and he’s been told to stay there until I return, and now his whole body is vibrating and saying, AT LAST YOU ARE HERE! HOW DID I GET SO LUCKY TO FIND YOU AT LAST, YOU WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL, KIND, ELEGANT CREATURE OF LOVE AND BY THE WAY DO YOU KNOW HOW TO OPERATE A CAN OPENER?
“No,” I tell him. “I am not looking for a dog. I am moving back to Florida in another two months, and I can’t take you with me.”
He looks away and then looks back at me. I search through my purse for my keys, glancing over at Lola’s dark house. The hospital is keeping her for a few days, so tomorrow morning I’m to take her a change of clothes, a decent nightgown, and some toiletries. She’ll be fine for tonight, she told me in a quavery voice that had a distinct “not fine” undertone. Still, she is being brave. She has a room overlooking the river, and a roommate who likes the same television programs as she does. I sat in a chair next to her and didn’t leave until they made me.
The dog makes a little sound and licks my hand with his soft, pink tongue.
I stare at him helplessly. I know exactly nothing about dogs except that they are dirty and they like to eat things, particularly human shoes. This one is a medium-sized brown-and-white one with floppy ears and big brown eyes, and when I open the front door, he bounds inside like he knows where the bones are hidden.
He hasn’t been here for five minutes when some switch in his doggie brain gets activated, and suddenly he’s dashing through the rooms, racing around in circles, leaping up on the couch and off again, zooming up the stairs, then down again, zigzagging through the bedrooms, and back into the living room. I can do nothing but stand by in amazement, leaping out of his way when necessary, and then finally laughing so hard I have to run to the bathroom.