dark again. Helen returned before four.
“The dog needs a walk,” her mother said.
“It’s so icy out, Mom, he’ll cut the pads of his feet.”
“He needs to go out!” her mother screamed. She wore a little lipstick and sat in a chair wringing her hands.
Helen found the leash and coaxed the dog to the door. He looked out uneasily into the wet cold blackness. They moved out into it a few yards to a bush he had killed long before and he dribbled a few drops of urine onto it. They walked a little farther, across the dully shining yard toward the street. It was still, windless. The air made a hissing sound. “Come on,” Helen said, “don’t you want to do something?” The dog walked stoically along. Helen’s eyes began to water with the cold. Her mother had said, “I want Verdi played at the service, Scriabin, no hymns.” Helen had sent away for some recordings. How else could it be accomplished, the Verdi, the Scriabin … Once she had called her father and said, “What should we do for Mom?”
“Where have you been!” her mother said when they got back. “My God, I thought you’d been hit by a truck.”
They ate supper, macaroni and cheese, something one of the women had prepared. Lenore ate without speaking and then looked at the empty plate.
“Do you want some more, Mom?” Helen asked.
“One of those girls that comes, she says she’ll take the dog,” Lenore said.
Helen swallowed. “I think it would be good,” she said.
“That’s it then. She’ll take him tomorrow.”
“Is she just going to see how it works out or what?”
“No, she wants him. She lives in an iffy neighborhood and the dog, you know, can be impressive when he wants. I think better now than later. He’s only five, five next month.” She knew the dog’s birthday. She laughed at this.
The next day, when Helen came home from school the dog was gone. His bowls were gone from the corner near the sink.
“At least I have my slipper back,” Lenore said. She had it in her hand, the red slipper.
Helen was doing her homework. She was a funny kid, Lenore thought, there she was doing her homework.
“It’s almost over for me,” Lenore said. “I’m at the end of my life.”
Helen looked up. “Mom,” she said.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I’m a nihilist,” Helen said. “That’s what I’m going to be.”
“You can’t think you’re going to be a nihilist,” her mother said. “Are you laughing at me? Don’t you dare laugh at me. I’m still your mother.” She shook her fist.
“Mom, Mom,” Helen said, “I’m not laughing.” She began to cry.
“Don’t cry,” Lenore said dully.
Helen looked down at her textbook. She had underlined everything on one page. Everything! Stupid … She’d be stupid in Florida too, she thought. She could think about Florida only by being here with her mother. Otherwise Florida didn’t really exist.
Lenore said, “God is nothing. OK? That’s Meister Eckehart. But whatever is not God is nothing and ought to be accounted as nothing. OK? That’s someone else.”
Helen didn’t speak.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” her mother said. “That’s why I know these things. I wasn’t even born last night.” She laughed. It was snowing again. It had been snowing freshly for hours. First sleet, then colder, then this snow.
“Helen,” her mother said, “would you get me a snowball? Go out and make me one and bring it back.”
Helen got up and went outside as though hypnotized. Sometimes she behaved like this, as though she were an unwilling yet efficient instrument. She could have thoughts and not think them. She was protected, at the same time she was helping her mother do her job, the job being this peculiar business.
The snow was damp and lovely. Huge flakes softly struck her face and felt like living things. She went past the bush the dog had liked, pushed her hands deeply into the snow and made a snowball for her mother, perfect as an orange.
Lenore studied
“The dog needs a walk,” her mother said.
“It’s so icy out, Mom, he’ll cut the pads of his feet.”
“He needs to go out!” her mother screamed. She wore a little lipstick and sat in a chair wringing her hands.
Helen found the leash and coaxed the dog to the door. He looked out uneasily into the wet cold blackness. They moved out into it a few yards to a bush he had killed long before and he dribbled a few drops of urine onto it. They walked a little farther, across the dully shining yard toward the street. It was still, windless. The air made a hissing sound. “Come on,” Helen said, “don’t you want to do something?” The dog walked stoically along. Helen’s eyes began to water with the cold. Her mother had said, “I want Verdi played at the service, Scriabin, no hymns.” Helen had sent away for some recordings. How else could it be accomplished, the Verdi, the Scriabin … Once she had called her father and said, “What should we do for Mom?”
“Where have you been!” her mother said when they got back. “My God, I thought you’d been hit by a truck.”
They ate supper, macaroni and cheese, something one of the women had prepared. Lenore ate without speaking and then looked at the empty plate.
“Do you want some more, Mom?” Helen asked.
“One of those girls that comes, she says she’ll take the dog,” Lenore said.
Helen swallowed. “I think it would be good,” she said.
“That’s it then. She’ll take him tomorrow.”
“Is she just going to see how it works out or what?”
“No, she wants him. She lives in an iffy neighborhood and the dog, you know, can be impressive when he wants. I think better now than later. He’s only five, five next month.” She knew the dog’s birthday. She laughed at this.
The next day, when Helen came home from school the dog was gone. His bowls were gone from the corner near the sink.
“At least I have my slipper back,” Lenore said. She had it in her hand, the red slipper.
Helen was doing her homework. She was a funny kid, Lenore thought, there she was doing her homework.
“It’s almost over for me,” Lenore said. “I’m at the end of my life.”
Helen looked up. “Mom,” she said.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I’m a nihilist,” Helen said. “That’s what I’m going to be.”
“You can’t think you’re going to be a nihilist,” her mother said. “Are you laughing at me? Don’t you dare laugh at me. I’m still your mother.” She shook her fist.
“Mom, Mom,” Helen said, “I’m not laughing.” She began to cry.
“Don’t cry,” Lenore said dully.
Helen looked down at her textbook. She had underlined everything on one page. Everything! Stupid … She’d be stupid in Florida too, she thought. She could think about Florida only by being here with her mother. Otherwise Florida didn’t really exist.
Lenore said, “God is nothing. OK? That’s Meister Eckehart. But whatever is not God is nothing and ought to be accounted as nothing. OK? That’s someone else.”
Helen didn’t speak.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” her mother said. “That’s why I know these things. I wasn’t even born last night.” She laughed. It was snowing again. It had been snowing freshly for hours. First sleet, then colder, then this snow.
“Helen,” her mother said, “would you get me a snowball? Go out and make me one and bring it back.”
Helen got up and went outside as though hypnotized. Sometimes she behaved like this, as though she were an unwilling yet efficient instrument. She could have thoughts and not think them. She was protected, at the same time she was helping her mother do her job, the job being this peculiar business.
The snow was damp and lovely. Huge flakes softly struck her face and felt like living things. She went past the bush the dog had liked, pushed her hands deeply into the snow and made a snowball for her mother, perfect as an orange.
Lenore studied
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