Talk Before Sleep Read Free Page B

the stubbornness and the strength of hope. Every day that I am with her lately, I learn another staggering lesson. Everything about her is too much to bear: the delicacy of her wrist, the arrangement of her living-room furniture, the notices to renew magazine subscriptions that she gets in the mail. And yet we do bear it. She does, especially.

W e had gone to the late showing of
Sophie’s Choice
. Ruth wanted to go when there weren’t so many people. There were far fewer than at the seven-fifteen show, but she still insisted we sit in the back row. “I
hate
hearing people talking behind me,” she said. “Don’t you?”
    I shrugged.
    “I’m very particular about movies,” she said. “You’ll have to get used to it. You don’t talk in movies, do you?”
    “Just during the commercials.”
    “You don’t mean the previews, do you?” She was nervous.
    “No,” I said. “I mean the commercials. Like when they tell you you can rent the place for parties. I don’t talk during the previews. They’re little movies.”
    “Exactly,” she said, and settled in against her seat. Then she sat up again. “You don’t chew gum or eat anything either, do you?”
    “What do you take me for?” I asked.
    “Forties talk,” she said. “I love it.” Then, as the lights came down, “Okay. Shhh.” She reached into her purse, handed me two flowered handkerchiefs. “My grandmother’s,” she whispered. “You’ll need them.”
    I held them up to my nose, to practice. They were softer than Kleenex, and smelled like lilacs and time. I couldn’t wait to cry.
    When the movie was over, before the lights hadfinished coming up, an usher came and stood directly behind Ruth and me. “Please exit to your LEFT,” he shouted. “And remember to deposit your GARBAGE in the clearly marked CANS on your WAY OUT!”
    Ruth was right—the movie had left me feeling beat up; I was overwhelmed with sorrow. I was embarrassed for anyone to see me; two hankies hadn’t been nearly enough. I saw that Ruth’s eyes were swollen and red, and her face was splotchy with grief. But she was not embarrassed; she was furious. She walked quickly over to the usher, a sulky teenager who was leaning against the wall now, idly watching the stricken audience pass out of the theater and tonguing off one of his back teeth. “What is wrong with you?” she asked.
    He blinked at her, stood up straight. His arms hung too long out of his uniform.
    “Why do you have to scream about such inconsequential things?” she asked. “Why can’t you just let us all have a moment of silence after a movie like this?”
    The usher smiled nervously, started to answer.
    “No,” she said. “Have you seen this movie?”
    He nodded yes.
    “Well then, for Christ’s sake!”
    I touched her arm. “Maybe you have to be a mother to understand,” I said.
    She stared at me, wild-eyed. For a moment I thought she was going to start in on me, too. But all she said was, “Well, do you want to go get a drink?”
    “Yes,” I said, “but let’s take a walk first.” She went out ahead of me. I turned to the usher, who was making minute, spasmodic movements with his neck and shoulders, throwing off his embarrassment.“Maybe you should wait just a minute to make your announcement,” I said. “This movie is kind of … affecting.”
    “Well, I
guess,”
he said, and started down the aisle, patrolling for the garbage left beside the seats despite his post-film command. Of course this was to be expected. Give an order to someone in pain and they might easily rebel, just for the relief of something feeling good again.

W e walked to a nearby bar and sat at a table by the window. We ordered martinis. There was a polite moment of silence, each of us waiting for the other to initiate conversation. Then Ruth said, “Obviously, what I need is to get laid.”
    “Well,” I said.
    “That kid was just doing his stupid job. I know that. Jesus. He had bad acne, did you see? He’s got