Other People's Lives Read Free Page A

extension of their own. Their children played with Matthew, and the strange, unfinished arts-and-crafts projects that Louise had first seen strewn around the house mostly belonged to Joan Tepfer. She was always starting something new, and left what she could not finish with Maria, who usually could and did not seem to regard it as an imposition. She did not seem to regard it at all. “You’re so inventive, Maria,” Joan and Reba would say. “Isn’t she marvelous?” They meant it, and would watch, fascinated, as Maria’s hands rapidly pulled and shaped the various materials, calling out at the same time, “Matthew! You’re slamming the God-damn refrigerator!” Or, “Damn it, I also forgot about the cheese.”
    Maria worked as a dance therapist in a community rehabilitation center for drug addicts, and since there had been a cutback in staff, also did much of the arts-and-crafts work, which she had picked up from watching. Creativity was something she connected solely with Dennis.
    Louise remained standing in the hallway, listening. It meant she had to face the pictures of Dennis, but still she would not go into the kitchen: Arthur Tepfer made her nervous.
    â€œNo, Arthur, really. I am sick of that God-damn parking. I am sick of that God-damn car. I think maybe I’ll sell it. What do you think? Only I love it to drive, it’s a very good car, only it’s always breaking. I am a very good driver, Arthur. Only I don’t like the tickets.”
    Arthur Tepfer began whistling a German marching song. He said, “Who told you to get a foreign car? I told you not to, I told Dennis. If you had to have a foreign car, at least it should have been a Volkswagen—you’d feel at home in it, first of all, and as soon as you said Achtung it would have to listen.”
    â€œ One time be serious, Arthur. Just today—now—I went to the hospital again, and I found a parking place. Legal. When I came out, no car. I can’t find it. Some stupid bastard has just pushed it! It could have rolled down the hill, I don’t know. Also, I don’t even like the East Side. It’s not in my mentality.”
    Joan said, “Oh, Maria. How is Dennis?” She said it in a very reverential voice, the same way all the people in the building always said it.
    â€œHow is Dennis? How is Dennis? How do I know how is Dennis? Dennis doesn’t know who is Dennis. I am sick of the God-damn parking, it’s a terrible hospital. Only parking for doctors.”
    â€œAre they giving him any new drugs? Is he still getting radiation?”
    If Maria answered this, Louise did not hear it. She yelled out, “Matthew, please! Clean up the cat shit, we’re having dinner. And afterwards, baby, angel, no television until after all the homework. Please.”
    â€œWhy do you push him about homework, Maria?” Joan said. “If the material was interesting intrinsically— you know —alive, he would do it. It would be like play.”
    â€œPlay!” Maria said. “Exactly! He’s a good boy, Matthew, really. But that’s what he does—play.”
    Louise already knew exactly how Matthew played: he sat over a large chessboard by himself and moved both sets of pieces, exclaiming to himself and crinkling his small, fair, freckled face in absorption and a kind of gleeful, separate happiness. It struck Louise as being strange, but all Maria ever said was, “Oh, chess. I don’t know how it goes, the pieces. Dennis taught him, he was very little.”
    Matthew’s other way of playing was drawing. He made very colorful, elaborate pictures and sang songs to go with them. Often they were about space and space ships—a topic in which Louise had no interest. She tried to follow the melody line as he sang, but had trouble; in fact, had trouble with Matthew altogether. No matter how much Louise tried to talk to him or play with him, Matthew