The Stone Diaries Part 16

"No, really, I don't think-"

"Whad'ya know, here's Reverend Rick now. How ya doin', Reverend? Why don'ya come on in for a minute or two. Cheer up our patient here, who's all down in the dumps."

"Please, I'm-"

"So-feeling up to a little chat, Mrs. Flett?"

"Well, I-"

"I could always come back tomorrow."

"Well-"

"I'll just stay a minute. Sure wouldn't want to tire you out."

"Oh, no."

"Pardon? What's that you say, Mrs. Flett?"

"Please sit down. Make yourself-"

"Afraid I didn't quite hear-"

"Make yourself, make yourself"-here Grandma Flett comes to a halt, pushes her tongue across the ridge of her lower teeth, panics briefly, and then, thank goodness, finds the right word-"comfortable."

"I'll just pull up a chair, Mrs. Flett, if that's okay with you."

"So good of you to come."

G.o.d, the Son and the Holy Ghost; suddenly they're here in Grandma Flett's hospital room, ranged along the wall, a trio of paintings on velvet, dark, gilt-edged, their tender mouths unsmiling, but ready to speak of abiding love. Not a sparrow shall fall but they-what is it they do, these three? What do they actually do? I used to know, but now at the age of eighty I've forgotten. It seems too late, somehow, to ask, and it doesn't seem likely that young Reverend Rick will put forth an explanation. The cleansing of sins, redemption. And somewhere, a long way back, the blood of a lamb.

Something barbarous. A wooded hillside. Spoiled.

"Afraid I didn't quite catch what you said, Mrs. Flett."

"I said, it's so good of you to come."

Is Mrs. Flett shouting?

No, it only seems that way; she's really whispering, poor thing.

From her trough of sheets. From her pain and bewilderment. Her tubes and wires. Her constricted eighty-year-old throat. The drugs. The dreams. Her feet, so chilly and damp, so exposed, ignored, and doomed. The pastel scenery outside her expensive window, the car doors slamming in the parking lot, Jesus and G.o.d and the Holy Ghost peering down on her in their clubby, mannish way, knowing everything, seeing all, but not caring one way or the other, when you come right down to it, about the hurts and alarms of her body-at this time in her life. Now. This minute. Go away, please just go away.

"It's so good of you to come."

Did you hear that, the exquisite manners this elderly person possesses? You don't encounter that kind of old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy often these days. And when you think it's only two weeks since her bypa.s.s, six days since a kidney was seized from her body. And her knees, her poor smashed knees. Amazing, considering all this, that she can remember the appropriate phrase, amazing and also chilling, the persevering strictures of social discourse.

Never mind, it means nothing; it's only Mrs. Flett going through the motions of being Mrs. Flett.

Grandma Flett's room is filled with cards and flowers. The juice girl-it seems her name is Jubilee-makes a raucous joke of this abundance, shrieking disbelief, pretending horror-"Not anoth-ah bouquet! I swear, Mrs. Flett! Now, you tell me, how'm I supposed to find room to set down another bouquet in this here jungle you got?"

Mrs. Flett's son, Warren, and his new wife, Peggy, have sent an inflatable giraffe, five feet tall, with curling vinyl eyelashes and a mouthful of soft teeth-it stands by the window, and wobbles slightly whenever a breeze pa.s.ses through. A conversation piece, Mrs. Flett thinks, a little puzzled, wondering if giraffes hold special significance for the elderly, the infirm-or does it gesture toward some forgotten family joke? Her Oregon granddaughters-Rain, Beth, Lissa, and Jilly-have pooled their babysitting money and sent Grandma Flett a complicated battery-operated game called Self-Bridge. The thought of their generosity, their sacrifice, brings tears into her throat, though, in fact, she never once takes the mechanism from its box, never collects quite enough energy to read the tightly printed directions.

And at five o'clock every afternoon Grandma Flett receives an overseas phone call from her daughter, Alice, in Hampstead, England (ten p.m., Greenwich time). Alice used to joke that her mother, when the time came, would lift a hand gaily on her way out, rather like Queen Elizabeth in a motorcade, hatted, gloved, bidding farewell to everything, to life-this mystery, this little enterprise. But now she understands her picture will have to be reordered. Her mother is sick, helpless, and Alice, speaking on the transatlantic line, adopts a clear, quiet, unrushed voice, as though she were phoning from across the street, as though she were someone in a television drama.

"I've spoken to the doctor, Mother. He says you're doing wonderfully well. He says you have the most remarkable strength, and if you only had, you know, just a little more patience. At the rate you're going you'll be able to go home in a couple of weeks, but why push it when you're getting such wonderful care and attention, and luckily Blue Cross covers almost everything."

Alice also phones her sister Joan in Portland, Oregon, and says, plunging right in: "She can't possibly go home, the doctor says it's impossible. How would she manage? She's helpless."

To her brother Warren in New York she says, the telephone wires taut: "I've talked to the orthopedic surgeon and he says she'll never be able to walk again, not without a walker, and maybe not even that. I mean, Christ, we have to face it, this is the beginning of the end."

All three of Mrs. Flett's children feel guilty that they are not at their mother's bedside. Alice is planning to fly over at the end of her teaching term, another month. Warren's new wife has recently given birth to a Down's syndrome child-christened Emma-and he feels, rightly, that he can't possibly abandon his family at a time like this, not even for a few days. Joan has actually made one quick trip-Portland, Chicago, Tampa, and back-but she has, after all, four teenaged daughters to look after and a husband who is p.r.o.ne to extra-marital involvements. Mrs. Flett's niece, Victoria, writes a witty little note every second day, but for the moment her professional responsibilities, as well as her husband, Lewis, and the twins, keep her in Toronto. When Grandma Flett thinks of her scattered family, her children, her grandchildren, her grandniece, she is unable to form images in her mind of their separate and particular faces. The young girl, Jubilee, is more real to her now. And Dr. Aaronfeld and Dr. Scott on their daily rounds, their jokes, their loud, hearty, hospital laughter. And, in his way, Reverend Rick. And faithful Marian McHenry who has not missed a single evening's visit, never mind that all she can talk about are her relations back in Cleveland. And the Flowers! Where would she be without the Flowers, who come by cab every two or three days, and what a time they all have then!

Even when Mrs. Flett still had the drainage tube in her nose, when she could scarcely lift her head from the pillow, the Flowers arrived for a round of bridge by her bedside. Just a couple of hands that first day, then gradually increasing. You'd hardly think it possible that Grandma Flett could concentrate on hearts and spades, points and tricks, trumps and cross-trumps at a time like this, but she can, she does; they all do. Lily, Myrtle, and Glad are their names; Glad, of course, is really Gladys, not Gladiola, but she considers herself a full-fledged Flower nevertheless. The four of them live on various floors of Bayside Towers, where Mrs. Flett has had her condo all these years, and it was here, in the bas.e.m.e.nt card room, that the foursome first got together. (This would be in the late seventies, after Mrs. Flett lost her two dearest friends, Beans dying so suddenly, Fraidy Hoyt going senile; a terrible time.) The Flowers get on like a house afire, like Gangbusters. Other people at the Bayside envy their relaxed good nature, their shrugging conviviality, and each of the Flowers is acutely aware of this envy, and, in their old age, surprised and gratified by it. At last: a kind of schoolgirl popularity. Unearned, but then, isn't that the way with popularity? The four Flowers are fortunate in their mutual attachment and they recognize their luck. Lily's from Georgia, Glad from New Hamps.h.i.+re, the breezy-talking Myrtle from Michigan-different worlds, you might say, and yet their lives chime a similar tune. Just look at them: four old white women. Like Mrs. Daisy Flett, they are widows; they are, all of them, comfortably well off; they have aspired to no profession other than motherhood, wifehood; they love a good laugh; there is something filigreed and droll about the way they're always on the cusp of laughter. On Sundays they go to church services at First Presbyterian and, from there, to an all-you-can-eat brunch at The Sh.e.l.lseekers (a sign over the cash register says "Help Stomp Out Home Cooking"); and every single afternoon, Monday to Sat.u.r.day between the hours of two and four-thirty, they play bridge in the card room at Bayside Towers, invariably occupying the round corner table which is positioned well away from the noisy blast and chill of the air conditioner. This is the Flowers' table and no one else's. "How're the Flowers blooming today?" other Bayside residents call out by way of greetings.

"My husband used to say that girls with flower names fade fast."

It was Myrtle who said this one day, out of the blue, and for some reason it made them all go weak with laughter. Now, when asked how the Flowers are blooming, one of them will be sure to call back, cheerfully: "Fading fast," and one of the others will add, with a calypso bounce, "but holding firm." It's part of their ritual, one of many. They have a joke, for instance, about a beige cardigan Glad's been knitting for the last ten years. And another joke about Mr. Jellicoe on the sixth floor who cradles his crotch when he thinks no one's looking. And about Mrs. Bolt who looks after the library corner and h.o.a.rds the new large-print books for herself.

And Marian McHenry and her everlasting nieces and nephews up in Cleveland. And about the inevitability and sinfulness of the pecan pie at The Sh.e.l.lseekers. They celebrate each other's birthdays-with a bakery cake and a gla.s.s of California wine-and on these occasions one or other of the Flowers will be sure to say: "Well, here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground."

This, to tell the truth, is the joke they relish above all others, a joke that shocks their visiting families, but that rolls off their own tongues with invigorating freshness, with a fine trill of mockery-a joke, when you come right down to it, about their own deaths.

Their laughter at these moments wizens into a cackle. It's already been decided that when one of them "hangs up her hat" or "kicks the bucket" or "goes over the wall" or "trades in her ashes" or "hops the twig" or "joins the choir invisible"-that then, given a decent week or two for mourning, the surviving three will invite the unspeakable Iris Jackman (third floor, west wing) to fill in at the round table, even though Iris has the worst case of B.O. in captivity and is so dumb she can't tell a one-club hand from a grand slam.

A secret rises up in Grandma Flett's body, gathering neatly at her wrist bone where the light strikes the white plastic of the hospital bracelet, which reads: Daisy Goodwill.

That's all-just Daisy Goodwill. Someone in Admissions bungled, abbreviating her name, cutting off the Flett and leaving the old name-her maiden name-hanging in s.p.a.ce, naked as a tulip.

Fortunately this error does not appear on her hospital chart and has so far gone undiscovered by the staff and by Mrs. Flett's many visitors. A secret known only to her.

She cherishes it. More and more she thinks of it as the outward sign of her soul.

Not that she's ever paid much attention to her soul; in her long life she's been far too preoccupied for metaphysics-her husband, her children, the many things a woman has to do-and shyly embarra.s.sed about the carpenter from Nazareth, unwilling to look him in the eye or call him by his first name, knowing she would be powerless to draw him into an interesting conversation, worrying how in two minutes flat he would be on to the cramping poverty of her mind. Mrs. Flett, who attended Sunday School as a child and later church, has never been able to shake the notion that these activities are a kind of children's slide show, wholesome and uplifting, but not to be taken seriously-though you did have to put on a hat and fix your face in a serious gaze for the required hour or so as you drifted off into little reveries about whether or not you had enough leftover roast beef to make a nice hash for supper, which you could serve with that chili sauce you'd made last fall, there were still two or three jars left on the pantry shelf, at least there were last time you looked. Committees and bazaars, weddings and baptisms, yes, yes, but never for Mrs. Flett the queasy hills and valleys of guilt and salvation. The literal-minded Mrs. Flett has never thought deeply about such matters, and why should she? The Czechoslovakian creche she sets up at Christmas does not for her represent the Holy Family, it is the Holy Family-miniature wooden figures, nicely carved in a stiff folkloric way and brightly painted, though the baby in the manger is little more than a polished clothes peg. Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. It was all rather baffling, but not in the least troubling.

Do people speak of such things? She isn't sure.

But then Reverend Rick commenced his visits in the early days after her surgery and began to mention, cautiously at first, then with amplified feeling, the existence of her soul, the state of her soul, the radiance of her soul, et cetera, et cetera, and now, in her eighty-first year, the rebirth of her soul through the grace of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. Needless to say, Mrs. Flett doesn't mention to Reverend Rick the fact that her soul's compacted essence is embraced by those two words on her hospital bracelet: Daisy Goodwill.

And behind that name, but closely attached to it, lies something else, something nameless. Something whose form she sees only when she turns her head quickly to the side or perceives in the rhythm of her outgoing breath. These glimpses arrive usually in the early morning hours, taking her by surprise. She has almost forgotten the small primal piece of herself that came unshaped into the world, innocent of the least thought, on whose surface, in fact, no thought had ever shone. Nevertheless (it can't be helped) whatever comes later, even the richest of our experiences, we put before the judgment of that little squeaking bit of original matter.

Or maybe it's not matter at all, but something else. Something holy. Torn from G.o.d's great forehead.

"I'm still in here," she thinks, rocking herself to consciousness in the lonely, air-conditioned, rubber-smelling discomfort of the hospital, "still here."

"She's a real honey," Jubilee says to anyone who happens to be around. "Not like some on this floor I could mention."

"A fighter," Mrs. Dorre, the head nurse says. "A fighter, but not a complainer, thank G.o.d."

"A sweetheart, a pet," says Dr. Scott.

"A real lady," says the physiotherapist, Russell Latterby, "of the old-fas.h.i.+oned school."

Which is why Mrs. Flett forgets about the existence of Daisy Goodwill from moment to moment, even from day to day, and about that even earlier tuber-like state that preceded Daisy Goodwill; she's kept so busy during her hospital stay being an old sweetie-pie, a fighter, a real lady, a non-complainer, brave about the urinary infections that beset her, stoic on the telephone with her children, taking an interest in young Jubilee's love affairs, going coquettish with Mr. Latterby, and being endlessly, valiantly protective of Reverend Rick's sensibilities, which, to tell the truth, are disturbingly ambivalent. "She's a wonder," says her daughter, Alice, arriving from England in time to help her mother move out of Sarasota Memorial and into the Canary Palms Convalescent Home, "she's a real inspiration."

Inspiration, Alice says, but she doesn't mean it. She means more like the opposite of inspiration.

Alice is a strong, handsome woman in her mid-forties who has thought very little about life's diminution-not until a moment ago, in fact, when she happened to look into the drawer of her mother's bedside table at Canary Palms and saw, jumbled there, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a notebook, a ring of keys, some hand cream, a box of Kleenex, a small velvet jewelry box-all Mrs.

Barker Flett's possessions accommodated now by the modest dimensions of a little steel drawer. That three-story house in Ottawa has been emptied out, and so has the commodious Florida condo.

How is it possible, so much shrinkage? Alice feels her heart squeeze at the thought and gives an involuntary cry.

"What is it, Alice?"

"Nothing, Mother, nothing."

"I thought I heard-"

"Shhhhh. Try to get a little rest."

"All I've been doing is resting."

"That's what convalescence is-rest. Isn't that what the doctor said?"

"Him!"

"He's very highly thought of. Dr. Scott says he's the best there is."

"Did you tell the nurse about the apple juice?"

"I told her you thought it had gone off, but she said it was fine.

It's just a different brand than the hospital uses."

"It tastes like concentrate."

"It probably is concentrate."

"It's not even cold. It's been left out."

"I'll talk to her again."

"And the gravy."

"What about the gravy."

"There isn't any, that's what's the matter. The meat comes dry on the plate."

"People don't make gravy any more, Mother. Gravy was over in 1974."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Just a joke."

" 'Yolk, yolk,' you used to say. You and Joanie, clucking like chickens."

"Did we?"

"There's nothing to see from this window."

"Those trees? That lovely garden?"

"I liked the hospital better."

"I know."

"I miss Jubilee."

"Oh, G.o.d, yes."

"And the Flowers. Glad, Lily-"

"It's so far for them to come."

"I'm not myself here."

"You will be. You'll adjust in a few days."

"I'm not myself."

"You and me both."

"What's that? I can't hear with all that racket in the hall, that woman screaming."

"I said, I'm not myself either."

Alice has officially adopted her mother's maiden name; it appears now on her pa.s.sport: Alice Goodwill. Her ex-husband's name, Downing, was buried some years ago in a solicitor's office in London, although their three grown children, Benjamin, Judy, and Rachel, retain it. And for Alice the name Flett was symbolically buried two years ago with the publication of her fifth book which received unfavorable reviews everywhere: "Alice Flett's first novel should be a warning to all academics who aspire toward literary creativity." "Posturing." "Donnish." "Didactic." "Cold porridge on a paper plate."

What was she to do? What could she do? She went to court and changed her name. Even as a girl Alice had complained about the name Flett, which suffered, she felt, from severe brevity; Flett was a dust mote, a speck on the wall, standing for nothing, while Goodwill rang rhythmically on the ear and sent out agreeable metaphoric waves, though her mother swears she has never thought of the name as being allusive. Alice is discouraged at the moment (that d.a.m.ned novel), but hopeful about the future. Or she was until she arrived in Florida and saw how changed her mother was. Thin, pale. Crumpled.

On the plane coming over she had invented rich, thrilling dialogues for the two of them.

"Have you been happy in your life?" she'd planned to ask her mother. She pictured herself seated by the bedside, the sheet folded back in a neat fan, her mother's hand in hers, the light from the window dim, churchy. "Have you found fulfillment?"-whatever the h.e.l.l fulfillment is. "Have you had moments of genuine ecstasy? Has it been worth it? Have you ever looked at, say, a picture or a great building or read a paragraph in a book and felt the world suddenly expand and, at the same instant, contract and harden into a kernel of perfect purity? Do you know what I mean?

Everything suddenly fits, everything's in its place. Like in our Ottawa garden, that kind of thing. Has it been enough, your life, I mean? Are you ready for-? Are you frightened? Are you in there?

What can I do?"